The Outcast

 Book 2 of the Time Master Trilogy

 by Louise Cooper

 Version 1.0

  

 Chapter 1

  

 'I'm telling you, you won't find better foodstuffs any-

 where in Shu, or Prospect or Han for that matter!' The

 market trader thrust a handful of dark pinkish-purple

 roots under his customer's nose and brandished them

 almost threateningly. 'And I've better things to do on a

 market day than waste my time with an outland slut who

 probably hasn't even got a coin to her name - so make

 your mind up now, before I set my dog on you!'

  

 The mangy cross-breed hound that was sprawled inel-

 egantly under the rickety stall glowered jaundicedly at

 his master, and the girl the trader had addressed stared

 back coldly, unimpressed. She was too experienced a

 haggler these days to pay any attention to threats or

 insults; she had judged the quality of the fruit and veg-

 etables on offer and made her own decision as to their

 worth. She thrust a dirty hand into her belt-pouch and

 pulled out a tarnished brass coin.

  

 'I said a quarter-gravine and I meant a quarter. Take it

 or leave it.'

  

 For a moment the man glared at her, resenting her

 manner, the fact that she refused to be intimidated, the

 ignominy of having to barter with a woman - and a low-

 class of woman - in the first place. But it was obvious she

 didn't intend to give way, and a sale was a sale . . .

 Winter business was slack at the best of times.

  

 He snatched the money ungraciously and dumped the

 roots into the hemp bag she held out.

  

 'And the fruit,' she said.

  

 Resentfully he threw six shrivelled pears in after the

 vegetables, then spat on the ground at her feet. 'There!

 And may cats eat your carcass!'

  

 Quickly, reflexively, the girl made a gesture before

 her own face intended to ward off curses and negate the

 evil eye, and for a moment the look in her peculiar

 amber eyes made the trader feel distinctly uncomfort-

 able. Something about her had raised his hackles; she

 was a coastal Easterner to judge by her accent, and they

 weren't noted for feyness . . . but as she made that sign

 he'd felt as if the venom in his own words was being

 palpably turned back on him.

  

 Ah, damn the woman. Nothing but a peasant girl in

 handed-down men's clothes ... he had her money in

 his pocket, and that was what counted. Nonetheless, he

 watched her surreptitiously as she walked away, and the

 unease only left him when she had finally merged with

 the crowd and vanished from sight.

  

 Cyllan Anassan swallowed her anger as she headed back

 through the market square towards her uncle's pitch on

 the outskirts of the clusters of stalls. She should be

 accustomed, by now, to the attitude of such men,

 especially here in the more affluent South - they

 expected a girl of her age and lowly status to be at best a

 simpleton; and when they failed to palm her off with the

 dregs of their produce at extortionate prices, they

 resorted to abuse. Admittedly Shu-Nhadek - province

 capital of Shu - was an improvement on many towns she

 had visited, but the cavalier treatment still rankled. And

 when all was said and done, she had come away with

 substandard foodstuffs that would take twice the cook-

 ing to make them palatable.

  

 She would have liked to linger at the better end of the

 market and choose from the succulent vegetables on sale

 there - and, she admitted to herself, have had the secret

 pleasure of mingling with the high-clan folk who graced

 those stalls with their custom - but the thought of her

 uncle's rage at such profligacy had deterred her. If he

 was sober she'd feel the buckle of his belt across her

 back; if he was drunk he would probably kick her from

 one end of the square to the other.

  

 Unconsciously goaded by that thought, she quickened

  

 her steps, muttering an apology as she bumped against a

 group of well-dressed women who were gossiping beside

 a stand selling sweetmeats and wine, and tried to make

 haste through the crowd. But now that she had left the

 cheaper and less well-patronised section of the market

 behind, haste was impossible; the press of people had

 simply become too great. And the temptation to dawdle

 was irresistible; this was her first visit to Shu-Nhadek,

 and there was so much to see and take in. All around her

 the huge market square was filled with colour and move-

 ment; in the distance the jumbled rooftops and pastel-

 washed walls of the tall old buildings rose to frame the

 picture, and further away still, if she craned her neck to

 look, the slender masts of ships riding at anchor in the

 harbour were just visible. Shu-Nhadek was the largest

 and oldest sea-port in the entire land; sheltered in the

 South-facing Bay of Illusions and served by the kindly

 currents of the Summerisle Straits, it was a perfect year-

 round haven for traders and travellers alike. Most of the

 major drove-roads terminated at the town, and its prox-

 imity to the Summer Isle, home of the High Margrave

 himself, lent it a status no other province capital could

 hope to match. People from every walk of life imagin-

 able could be found here; wealthy merchants, crafts-

 men, farmers, drovers like her uncle's band, white-

 robed Sisters of Aeoris, even men and women from the

 Summer Isle taking a respite from the formalities of

 court life. And on the two days of the monthly market,

 the town's population increased fivefold. Cyllan could

 have simply stood by and watched the bustle from dawn

 to dusk without ever growing bored.

  

 At last though, she was forced to stop altogether to

 allow a groom with several Southern blood-horses to

 lead his charges across her path. Waiting, Cyllan stared

 enviously at the tall, elegant animals - a far cry from the

 stocky and evil-tempered little pony she herself rode

 when she travelled with Kand Brialen and his drovers -

 and abruptly, unbidden, the colour and bustle and sheer

 exuberant life of the market brought back a memory

 that she had been trying for months to quell. A memory

  

 of another place, another festive occasion . . . and one

 beside which the grand market of Shu-Nhadek suddenly

 shrank to a pale echo. A spectacle that probably

 wouldn't be repeated in her lifetime - the inaugural

 celebrations for the new High Initiate, at the Castle of

 the Star Peninsula on its remote stack far away in the

 North. It had been late Summer then, even the Northern

 climate kindly, and images of the ceremony and pan-

 oply, the unimaginably ancient Castle decorated with

 streamers and pennants, the long processions of

 nobility, the bonfires, the music, the dancing flashed

 through her inner vision as clearly as though she were

 seeing them again with her physical senses. She had even

 glimpsed the new High Initiate himself, Keridil Toln,

 young, assured and resplendent in his ceremonial robes,

 when his procession emerged through the Castle gates to

 give Aeoris's blessing to the vast crowd.

  

 It had been an unforgettable experience . . . but the

 memory which had caused her both joy and pain over

 the last months stood apart from the glory of the celebra-

 tions. A man; tall, black-haired, pale-skinned, with a

 haunted disquiet in his green eyes; a sorcerer and high

 Adept of the Circle. They had met once before, by

 chance, and against all likelihood he had remembered

 her. She had been drinking some vile brew which she

 had bought with her last coin from a wine stall; he had

 tipped the cup's contents on to the grass, given the stall-

 holder a tongue-lashing and replaced the wine with a high

 quality vintage. And Cyllan, overcome by shyness and

 by an acute sense of her own lowliness, had made a

 feeble excuse and run away as soon as she prudently

 could. Since then she had regretted her cowardice a

 thousand times; yearned for another chance . . . but the

 chance hadn't come her way. And later that same night,

 her psychic senses had told her that her dreams could

 have borne no fruit when she had conjured a vision of

 him in his private rooms, with a graceful, patrician girl,

 and had known that she was already forgotten . . .

  

 The horses had cleared the square now and the crowd

 moved forward again. Passing a stall that sold ornaments

  

 of fashioned metal and enamel, Cyllan paused suddenly as

 something, half hidden among the piled wares, caught

 her eye. She moved closer, peering, then looked guiltily

 towards the stallholder, expecting to be driven away.

 This trader, however, knew from experience that good

 customers often appeared in the most unlikely guises,

 and courteously nodded for her to continue. Encour-

 aged, Cyllan took out the object which had intrigued her

 and held it up. It was a necklace; a finely wrought chain

 of copper from which depended three beaten copper

 discs. On the centremost and largest, a skilled craftsman

 had worked a filigree design in silver and blue enamel - a

 lightning-flash bisected by a single eye.

  

 The lightning-flash . . . symbol of an Adept . . .

 Cyllan bit her lip as memory surged again, and won-

 dered how much the necklace might cost. She wouldn't

 dare to haggle at a stall of this nature; and besides, she

 knew nothing of metal values. But she had a little money

 - a very little; one or two gravines she had managed to

 scrimp for herself over the months. And it would be so

 gratifying to own just one beautiful thing; one artefact to

 remind her . . .

  

 'Derret Morsyth's one of the finest craftsmen in the

 province,' the stallholder said suddenly. Cyllan started,

 then looked up at the man's face. He had moved to stand

 opposite her, and there was no hostility in his eyes.

  

 'It's . . . beautiful,' she said.

  

 'Certainly. Mind you, he tends only to work with the

 lesser metals, and there's some who'll dismiss him

 because he doesn't bedeck his pieces with gold and

 gems. But to my way of thinking, there can be as much

 beauty in a piece of copper or pewter as in any number of

 emeralds. It's the hand and the eye that count, not the

 materials.'

  

 Cyllan nodded emphatically, and the man gestured to

 the necklace. 'Try it on.'

  

 'No, I - I couldn't . . . '

  

 He laughed. 'You don't know the price yet, girl!

 Derret Morsyth doesn't overcharge, and neither do I.

 Try it - the copper almost matches your pretty eyes!'

  

 Cheeks reddened by the unaccustomed compliment,

 Cyllan hesitantly held the necklace up to her throat. The

 metal felt cool and heavy against her skin; it had a

 substantial feel to it... Half turning, she was about to

 let the stallholder fasten it for her when she glimpsed her

 own reflection in a polished bronze mirror, and what she

 saw destroyed her eagerness instantly.

  

 Pretty eyes, the stallholder had said . . . gods, she

 wasn't pretty! Face plain, too tight and pinched, mouth

 too wide, and her amber eyes weren't beautiful, merely

 peculiar. Her hair - so pale that it was almost white -

 hung in tatty strands round her shoulders; she'd made an

 effort this morning, for practicality's sake, to tie it into a

 bunch at the nape of her neck, but now half of it had

 worked free and she looked like a scarecrow. Dirty old

 shirt, jerkin and trousers, handed on from a man in her

 uncle's droving crew. And there on her breast hung the

 necklace she had coveted. It had been fashioned for a

 lady, not a down-at-heel urchin, and on her it became a

 grotesque parody.

  

 Quickly she looked away from the awful revelation,

 and put up a hand to stop the trader who was about to

 fasten the necklace's clasp.

  

 'No. I - I'm sorry, but I can't. Thank you, but I don't

 want to buy it.'

  

 He was nonplussed. 'It's not expensive, girl. And any

 young woman surely deserves -'

  

 The attempt at kind persuasion was like a knife-thrust

 to Cyllan, and she shook her head violently. 'No, please!

 I - haven't got any money anyway. Not even a half-

 gravine. I'm sorry to have wasted your time . . . thank

 you.' And before he could say another word she almost

 ran from the stall.

  

 The baffled trader stared after her until a new voice

 drew his attention back to his business. 'Trader Rishak?'

  

 Collecting himself, Rishak looked at his customer, and

 recognised the eldest son of Shu's Provincial Margrave.

  

 'Oh-forgive me, sir! I didn't see you-I had my mind

 on that young woman there. An odd one if you please!'

  

 Drachea Rannak raised his eyebrows enquiringly. 'Odd!'

  

 Rishak snorted, wryly amused. 'First she shows great

 interest in one of Morsyth's pieces - on the verge of

 buying it, mind you - then suddenly she's changed her

 mind and bolted before I can say a word!'

  

 The young man smiled. They say it's a woman's

 privilege to be contrary.'

  

 'So they do ... ah well, if I was a married man maybe

 I'd understand 'em better. Now, sir; what can I show you

 today?'

  

 'I'm looking for a gift for my mother. It's her birth-

 anniversary in three days, and I'd like something special

 . . . and a little personal.'

  

  'For the Lady Margravine? Well, please give her my

 most respectful congratulations for the day! And I think

 I have just the thing for her good taste right here . . . '

  

 Only when she was well clear of the trinkets stall did

 Cyllan finally stop and get her breath. She was furious

 with herself, both for her initial vanity and for her

 foolish behaviour when she realised her mistake. What

 use would a necklace have been to her? Something to

 wear at her next social occasion, perhaps on her next

 visit to the Castle of the Star Peninsula? She almost

 laughed aloud. Something to get in her way when she

 was trying to stew her third-rate vegetables into edi-

 bility, more like! Or for her uncle to find and sell, and

 pocket the proceeds . . .

  

 Her heart was still thumping painfully with the igno-

 miny of the experience, and she had an illogical convic-

 tion that everyone around her knew of her humiliation

 and was secretly laughing at her. She had finally halted

 near the door of a tavern at the square's edge, and in a

 desultory attempt to cheer herself she pushed through

 the crowd and bought a mug of herb beer and a chunk of

 bread spread with milk-cheese. The tavern room was

 stiflingly overcrowded, so she found a quiet bench out-

 side and watched the market shoppers go by while she

 slowly ate and drank.

  

 After a little while, a steadily droning voice from a

 booth next to the tavern caught her attention. The

  

 boothman was a fortune-teller, and was regaling his

 current customer with a long tale of great fortune and

 fame. Intrigued despite her mood, Cyllan edged closer

 until she could peer across and observe the proceedings

 - and her pulse quickened.

  

 The fortune-teller had cast six stones on to his table,

 and was apparently reading his client's future from the

 pattern they formed. Geomancy was one of the most

 ancient techniques known in Cyllan's Eastern home-

 land, and quickly she looked at the clairvoyant's face,

 searching for the pale skin and distinctive features of a

 Flatlands native. But whatever else the man might be,

 he was no Easterner. And the stones . . . there should

 have been many of them, not merely six. And sand on

 which to cast them. And the pattern they formed was

 nothing but meaningless gibberish . , .

  

 Inwardly, Cyllan seethed. The fortune-teller was a

 charlatan, trading on superstition and on a psychic skill

 that was long dead but for a few secret practitioners. In

 the Great Eastern Flatlands, anyone with the fey touch

 was little better than a pariah now; she herself had

 learned at an early age to keep her innate and develop-

 ing skills a secret from all but the old woman who had

 quietly tutored her in reading the stones, and even her

 uncle knew nothing of the precious collection of

 pebbles, worn smooth by the sea, which lodged in her

 belt-pouch. An apprentice drover, lowliest of the low,

 would never broadcast such a talent if she knew what

 was good for her . . . But Cyllan's talent was real, unlike

 the trumpery lies of this trickster, playing on his client's

 mixture of fear and gullible fascination.

  

 She should have been in a Sisterhood Cot. Suddenly

 she heard the words in her head as clearly as if the tall,

 dark Adept had been standing before her and speaking

 them aloud once more. He had recognised her skill, and

 he had paid her that compliment. She should have been

 admitted to that august body of women, servants of the

 gods, and her talents fostered and nurtured . . . But the

 Sisterhood had no time for the likes of a peasant drover.

 She had no money, no sponsor . . . and so, instead of

  

 wearing the white robe, she sat on a tavern bench and

 listened to a charlatan prostituting a seer's skills, and

 had no authority to intervene.

  

 The fortune-teller's monologue finished and his client

 rose to leave, flushed and thanking him profusely.

 Cyllan saw a five-gravine piece change hands, and was

 disgusted, but if the fake seer felt anything of her fury he

 didn't show it. He was counting his afternoon's takings

 when a slight, brown-haired young man paused by his

 booth. The newcomer's gaze flicked from the fortune-

 teller to Cyllan and lingered a moment as though in

 recognition; then, glancing surreptitiously over his

 shoulder, he slid into the empty chair opposite the

 boothman.

  

 The charlatan made a great show of welcoming his

 visitor; so much so that Cyllan realised he must be the

 favoured son of an out-of-the-ordinary - and wealthy -

 local clan. But whatever his status, the young man was

 clearly no less gullible or superstitious than any peasant.

 His manner, the way he sat attentively forward, his

 whispered questions, all betrayed a naive eagerness

 which the fortune-teller was quick to exploit. Cyllan

 watched as the six stones were produced and meaning-

 less signs and passes made over them, before the fake

 seer began his monologue.

  

 'I see great good fortune for you, young sir. Good

 fortune indeed; for within the year you will wed. A love

 match, if I may venture to say so - a lady whose beauty

 will be unequalled among her peers - and many fine

 children. And I see, too . . . ' Here he paused dramati-

 cally, as though waiting for divine inspiration to touch

 his tongue, while the young man stared fixedly at the

 stones, ' . . . yes! High office, young sir; great power

 and renown. I see you standing in a great hall, a resplen-

 dent hall, dispensing justice and judgement. A long life,

 sir; a good life and a happy one.'

  

 The young man's eyes were alight. Breathless, and

 completely enamoured of the charlatan's pronouncement,

 he murmured a question which Cyllan didn't catch, and

 suddenly, watching him, she found herself

  

 unconsciously adjusting her vision so that the two figures

 at the cloth-covered table faded out of focus. On rare

 occasions, she had discovered, she could make predic-

 tions in a small way, or divine a stranger's character or

 background, without the need for her stones. It was a

 sporadic talent, unpredictable at the best of times; but

 now she felt that her psychic touch was sure . . . Closing

 her eyes she concentrated harder and a vague mental

 impression began to form, growing clearer until at last,

 satisfied, she opened her eyes again.

  

 The fortune-teller had done, and the young man was

 getting up to leave. Coins changed hands, thanks were

 given and obsequious bows received in exchange; then

 the boothman dodged behind his curtain and out of sight.

  

 The young man was about to pass by Cyllan's bench,

 and she knew suddenly that she couldn't keep silent.

 Little good it might do her, but her sense of justice

 rebelled at the thought of letting such chicanery go

 unremarked. As the young man reached her she stood

 up.

  

 'Excuse me, sir . . . '

  

 He started, turned, then frowned, clearly unused to

 being so directly addressed by a low-class stranger.

 Anxious that he shouldn't think she was importuning

 him, Cyllan spoke quickly and softly.

  

 'The fortune-teller is a charlatan, sir. I thought you

 should know.'

  

 He was surprised. A fresh, smooth face, she thought;

 he'd never known hardship, never wanted for anything -

 and probably that explained his naivety in the face of the

 seer's blandishments. Now, collecting himself, he

 strolled closer to where she sat.

  

 'A charlatan?' His smile was faintly patronising.

 'What makes you so sure?'

  

 Obviously he suspected her of harbouring some personal

 motive for attempting to discredit the man. Cyllan met

 his gaze steadily. 'I was born and brought up in the Great

 Eastern Flatlands. Reading the stones is an ancient skill

 there . . . and therefore I know a faker when I see one.'

  

 The young man clasped his hands together and stared

  

 thoughtfully at an expensive ring on one finger. 'He is a

 stranger to Shu-Nhadek - as, it seems, are you - and yet

 he divined a good deal about my position. Doesn't that

 speak in his favour?'

  

 Cyllan decided to gamble that her flash of clair-

 voyance had been accurate, and smiled. 'It takes small

 seer's skills, sir, to recognise and acknowledge the son

 and heir to the Margrave of Shu Province.'

  

 She had been right ... he raised his eyebrows and

 stared at her with a newly dawning interest. 'You are a

 seer?'

  

 'A stone-reader, and of small talent,' Cyllan said,

 ignoring the insult - no doubt unintentional - that his

 surprise implied. 'I don't ply my skill, nor do I seek to

 profit from it; I'm not trying to steal the boothman's

 trade. But it offends me to see tricksters preying on

 innocent victims.'

  

 The idea that he was one such innocent victim clearly

 didn't appeal to the Margrave's son and for a moment

 she wondered if she had been too blunt, and affronted

 him. But after a brief hesitation he nodded curtly.

  

 'Then I'm indebted to you. I'll have the charlatan run

 out of the province before the day's over!' His eyes

 narrowed suddenly and he studied her face more

 closely. 'And if you are what you say you are, I shall be

 interested to see if you can succeed where the charlatan

 failed!'

  

 He wanted her to read the stones for him, and Cyllan

 was alarmed. Her uncle, who like most of his peers was

 deeply superstitious and regarded psychic talents as the

 rightful province only of the privileged - and officially

 sanctioned - few, would kill her if he ever found out that

 she had been using her skills. And to read for the son of

 the Province Margrave . . . she couldn't do it - she

 didn't dare.

  

 'I'm sorry,' she said indistinctly, 'I can't.'

  

 'Can't?' He was suddenly angry. 'What d'you mean,

 can't? You say you're a seer - I ask you to prove

 it!'

  

 'I mean, sir, that I daren't.' She could do nothing

  

 other than be honest. 'I'm apprenticed to my uncle, and

 he disapproves strongly of such things. If he were ever to

 find out - '

  

 'What is your uncle's name?'

  

 'He is - ' She looked at the young man's face, swal-

 lowed. 'Kand Brialen. A drover.'

  

 'A drover who doesn't exploit a profitable enterprise

 right under his nose? I find that hard to believe!'

  

 'Please!' Cyllan entreated him anxiously. 'If he were

 ever to know -'

  

 'Oh, by the gods I've got better things to do with my

 time than run tattling tales to peasants!' the young man

 retorted petulantly. 'And if you won't read for me, you

 won't But I'll remember the name. Kand Brialen - I'll

 remember it!' And before Cyllan could say anything

 more, he turned on his heel and walked away.

  

 Slowly, she sat down again. Her heart was thumping

 and she wished that she hadn't been so foolhardy as to

 interfere. Now, if the whim took him, the Margrave's

 son might find some excuse to seek out her uncle and, if

 he was sufficiently offended by her refusal, let slip

 enough about their encounter to ensure that she'd suffer

 for it. He wasn't used to having his wishes thwarted; he

 was obviously spoilt and might choose to be spiteful.

 And if-

  

 She checked the train of thought suddenly, and

 sighed. Whatever the Margrave's son did or did not do,

 she couldn't change matters. She had survived Kand

 Brialen's rage before now, and could survive it again.

 Best to finish her beer, return and face whatever had to

 be faced.

  

 The tavern potboy emerged to take her mug and ask if

 she'd like more. Cyllan shook her head and reluctantly

 rose from the bench, heading away towards the side of

 the market place where the crowds began to thin out.

 Here, stalls and booths gave way to the thatch-roofed

 livestock pens, where herds of dull-eyed animals milled

 and complained and awaited their fate. Kand Brialen

 and his drovers had pitched their tents to one side of the

 largest pen, and throughout the day trade had been

  

 brisk; they had a hundred cattle, driven in from Han, to

 sell, together with four good work-horses which Kand

 had bought for a disgracefully low sum after a good deal

 of barter in Prospect. And with Spring and the breeding

 season almost m sight they were fetching good prices.

  

 Cyllan had long ago learned not to think too often

 about her own future with Kand Brialen and his drovers.

 Four years ago, when her mother - Kand's sister - and

 father had been lost with their fishing boat in the treach-

 erous Whiteshoals Sound, her uncle had taken on

 responsibility for her, but from the beginning he'd made

 no effort to disguise his resentment of the duty. As far as

 he was concerned Cyllan was an unwanted liability; he

 had no use for women other than the occasional whore

 when the mood took him, and had made it clear that if

 his orphaned niece expected him to provide for her, she

 must repay him by working as hard as any of the men in

 his band. And so for four years Cyllan had dressed like a

 drover, worked like a drover and coped, too, with all the

 'women's work' demanded of her. Admittedly, she had

 also travelled widely and seen a good deal of the world;

 something unheard offer any girl in the Eastern Flatlands.

 But it was a life that gave her little to look forward to.

  

 Back at home - although it was becoming harder

 every season to think of anywhere as home - she would

 doubtless by now have been matched with the second or

 third son of another local fishing family in a pragmatic

 clan alliance. Hardly a great achievement, but it would

 have been better, surely, than this harsh nomadic exist-

 ence. As it was, her future stretched endlessly ahead;

 work, travel, sleep when she could snatch it, until the

 Northern winds and Southern Sun withered her before

 her time . . .

  

 She shook the unhappy thought off as she glimpsed

 her uncle's burly figure moving among the lines of horses

 tethered near the pens. He was accompanied by a tall

 and slightly stooping middle-aged man who, to judge

 from his fur-trimmed coat and Kand's obsequiousness,

 was a wealthy potential customer. Cyllan tried to make

 herself as inconspicuous as possible as she headed

  

 towards their pitch, anxious not to disturb her uncle

 while he was trading. She had almost reached the tents

 when a voice spoke softly but with satisfaction behind

 her.

  

 'Ah - so there you are!'

  

 Startled, she turned to find herself facing the Mar-

 grave's son. He was grinning conspiratorially, and ges-

 tured in the direction of the two men.

  

 'Kand Brialen -I remembered. And when I saw that

 he had good livestock for sale, I insisted that my father

 should see for himself!'

  

 So that was the Margrave of Shu . . . Cyllan realised

 suddenly that she was staring like a Moonstruck yokel,

 and hastily looked away.

  

 'You and I,' the Margrave's son said, 'have some

 unfinished business. And I think my father and your

 uncle will be quite a time in making their bargain, so

 your secret's safe enough. Come with me!'

  

 He was obviously not about to be argued with, so

 Cyllan made no attempt to protest as he took her arm

 and hurried her away from the pens. They entered a

 narrow street which led off the market square to the

 harbour, and the young man indicated an ill-kept build-

 ing with a sign over the door depicting a crudely painted

 white ship on an unnaturally blue sea.

  

 'The White Barque Tavern, he said as he led the way

 through into the dark interior. 'It's used by sailors and

 traders, mostly - we're unlikely to be seen by anyone

 who might know me.'

  

 Cyllan wryly shrugged aside the implied insult - after

 all, he was in his terms lowering himself by appearing

 publicly in her company - and tried to assess her first

 impressions of her companion. She had noted an almost

 feverish look in his eyes when he demanded that she

 should read her stones for him, and his determination to

 get his own way said far more about his personality than

 any words. She had met such people before; those who,

 preoccupied with the occult, defied the conventions

 which barred the subject to all but the Circle and the

 Sisterhood of Aeoris, and all too often their fascination

  

 bordered on obsession. Cyllan had recognised the trait

 immediately in the Margrave's son, and was wary of it; it

 was a tendency that could, if she wasn't careful, lead her

 into trouble.

  

 But otherwise, the young man seemed unremarkable

 enough. He had the typical good looks of a Shu Province

 native; abundant warm brown hair which curled about

 his head in the short style currently fashionable in the

 South, fine skin with an olive tinge that disguised a

 tendency to floridity, and expressive dark eyes with

 unusually long lashes. He was quite tall for a South-

 erner, and although in later years he would probably run

 to fat, there was no sign of it as yet.

  

 Now he pulled out a stool at an empty table in the

 corner of the tavern, and snapped his fingers to attract a

 potboy. Cyllan slid silently into the seat opposite and

 waited while he ordered wine for them both, and a slice

 of beef on black bread for himself. He didn't ask if

 Cyllan was hungry. The wine and food were brought and

 unceremoniously dumped on the table; the potboy gave

 the well-to-do customer a withering look as he stalked

 away.

  

 'Now,' said the Margrave's son, 'let's deal with first

 things first. Tell me your name.'

  

 'Cyllan Anassan. Apprentice drover, from Kennet

 Head on the Great Eastern Flatlands.' She introduced

 herself in the customary formal way by placing her hand

 palm down on the table.

  

 He laid his over it, but very briefly. 'Drachea Rannak.

 Heir Margrave of Shu Province, from Shu-Nhadek.'

 And leaning back, he added. 'So tell me, Cyllan

 Anassan, what brings you to be a drover, of all the

 unlikely occupations for a female?'

  

 Her story was brief and dreary; she told it in as few words

 as possible, and he regarded her with curious interest.

  

 'And yet you're a seer? I'd have thought the Sister-

 hood would have been of more interest to you than

 droving.'

  

 She smiled thinly. In his world, a girl who wanted to

 join the Sisterhood of Aeoris merely said so and it was

  

 done, and she doubted if he could envisage matters any

 other way.

  

 'Let's just say that the - opportunity - eluded me,' she

 replied. 'Besides, I doubt if I'm what the Sisters would

 call a seer.'

  

 Drachea pushed the slab of black bread around his plate

 with distaste. 'Maybe so - but you should have pursued

 it.' He looked up. 'As a matter of fact, were it not for my

 position here in Shu I might well have thought along similar

 lines and presented myself as a candidate for the Circle.'

  

 'The Circle . . . ?' Her response was immediate and

 her eyes narrowed. Drachea shrugged carelessly. 'As it

 is, of course, such a thing isn't possible unless I were to

 stand down in favour of my younger brother, and

 there'd be all manner of complications.' He paused,

 then: 'You've obviously travelled a great deal. Have you

 ever seen the Star Peninsula?'

  

 Cyllan was beginning to understand what lay behind

 his fascination with arcane matters. 'Yes,' she told him.

 'We were there last Summer, when the new High Initi-

 ate was inaugurated.'

  

 'You were?' Drachea leaned forward, his condescen-

 sion abruptly forgotten. 'And did you see Keridil Toln in

 person?'

  

 'From a distance only. He came out of the Castle to

 speak and give Aeoris's blessing to the crowd.'

  

 'Gods!' Drachea took a mouthful of wine, hardly

 noticing what he was doing. 'And to think that I missed

 such an event! My parents made the journey, of course,

 but I was ill with a fever and had to remain at home.' He

 licked his lips. 'So you saw it all ... and did you cross

 the causeway to the Castle itself?'

  

 'Yes ... for a short while.'

  

 'Aeoris!' Drachea made a sign before his heart to

 show that he meant no disrespect to the highest of the

 gods. 'It must have been the experience of a lifetime!

 And what of the Initiates themselves? Doubtless you

 saw some of them - but I don't imagine you actually met

 any one of their number, did you?'

  

 Cyllan's suspicions were at last confirmed. Drachea's

  

 one burning ambition was to join the ranks of the Circle,

 so that he could satisfy his craving and learn the truth

 behind the secrets which obsessed him. And she knew,

 too, why he was so determined that she should read his

 future. He wanted to believe that his ambition would be

 fulfilled, and her word as a seer would be enough to fuel

 the fire inside him.

  

 'Cyllan!' She was startled as he grasped her arm and

 shook it. 'Listen to me! I said, did you meet any of the

 Initiates?'

  

 A discomforting juxtaposition of images flickered

 through Cyllan's mind as she stared back. Drachea's

 face, young, untrammelled, filled with a sense of his own

 importance; and another face, gaunt, self-contained,

 the eyes betraying knowledge and emotions far beyond

 physical years ...

  

 She said huskily, 'I met one man ... a high Adept.'

  

 Then the Adepts don't keep themselves to them-

 selves? I'd heard - ah, but rumours grow like weeds! I

 must go there and see for myself. I would have done long

 since, but it needs so much time!' He clenched his fists

 together in frustration, then abruptly his expression

 changed. 'Have you been back to the Peninsula since

 those celebrations?'

  

 'No. We spent a month in Empty Province and since

 then have been making our way South.'

  

 'Then you won't know the truth or otherwise of these

 newest rumours that are being whispered.'

  

 'New rumours?' Cyllan was alert. 'I've heard nothing.'

  

 'No ... I doubt you would have. They began in West

 High Land and Chaun, and now they're spreading here

 as well. No one seems to know the facts, but they say,'

 and Drachea paused for emphasis, 'that there's some-

 thing wrong at the Castle. No word has been received

 from anyone there for some while now, and no one

 knows anyone who has visited the Castle from outside

 since last Moon-conjunction.'

  

 A peculiar sensation clutched at the pit of Cyllan's

 stomach. She couldn't explain the feeling or put a name

 to it; it was as if deep down within her some dormant,

  

 animal sense was stirring. Keeping a tight rein on herself

 she said again, 'I've heard nothing. What do people say

 might be amiss?'

  

 'That's just it - no one knows. There was a tale from

 West High Land recently about some dangerous wrong-

 doer apprehended at the Sisterhood Cot there, and

 there's talk of a connection with events at the Castle, but

 beyond that everything's speculation. It seems that the

 Initiates have decided to shut themselves off altogether

 from the rest of the world, but no one knows why.' He

 clasped his hands together and frowned at them. 'I've

 been looking for clues and omens, but can see nothing

 that makes any sense. The only strange thing to have

 happened here is an unusual number of Warps.'

  

 Cyllan shivered involuntarily at his mention of the

 word Warp. Every man, woman and child in the entire

 land was justly terrified of the weird supernatural storms

 that came wailing out of the North at unpredictable

 intervals. No one had ever dared to face the pulsating

 skies and demonic, shrieking voices of a Warp out in the

 open - the brave or crazed few who had ever done so had

 vanished without trace. Not even the wisest scholars

 knew where the Warps came from or what drove them;

 legend had it they were the last legacy of the forces of

 Chaos, left behind when the followers of Aeoris swept

 the Old Ones to destruction and restored the rule of

 Order.

  

 But whatever the power behind the Warps might be -

 and it was something that sensible folk preferred not to

 dwell on - Drachea was right when he said that the

 incidence of Warps had been increasing of late. Only

 five days ago, crossing the fertile plains that divided Shu

 Province from Prospect, Kand Brialen's band had heard

 the most dreaded sound in the entire world - the thin,

 high wailing far away Northward that heralded the

 approach of the storm. Cyllan had had nightmares since

 then of the full-pelt ride to the nearest storm-haven -

 one of the long, narrow sheds that had been built for the

 safety of travellers along all the main drove roads, and of

 the seemingly endless torment inside that precarious

  

 shelter, lying with her face buried in her coat, blocking

 her ears against the howling chaos outside while the

 terrified livestock milled and bawled around her. It had

 been the third such experience since they left Empty

 Province . . .

  

 Even Drachea's easy composure had been shaken by

 the topic, and, aware that the atmosphere was growing

 uncomfortable, he gestured to the flagon that stood

 between them on the table.

  

 'You haven't touched your wine.'

  

 'Oh ... oh, yes; thank you.' Cyllan wasn't con-

 centrating; she had shaken off the ugly recollection, but

 a disturbance still remained. The animal instinct was

 nagging at her again . . .

  

 'As for this mystery at the Castle,' Drachea continued,

 'it's my belief that the Initiates have their own reasons

 which others might do well not to question. Although if,

 when you read your stones, you should see an omen there

 that might tell us something . . . ?' He looked at her

 hopefully, and she shook her head with some vehemence.

  

 'No! I wouldn't dare -I wouldn't presume to try to see

 into such things. I'll read for you, Drachea - but I'll go

 no further.'

  

 He shrugged his careless shrug. 'Very well, then. Let's

 not waste any more time - show me what the charlatan

 could not!'

  

 Cyllan felt in her belt-pouch and pulled out a handful

 of small, smooth stones of varying shapes. Ideally, she

 needed sand as a base on which to cast the pebbles, but

 she had worked without it before and doubtless could do

 so again.

  

 Drachea leaned forward, staring intently at the stones

 as though trying to divine something from them without

 her help. And suddenly, as she gathered them in her

 palm ready for the first cast, Cyllan stopped. Something

 was tugging insistently at her mind, a warning, as clear as

 if it had been spoken aloud in her ear.

  

 Whatever happened, she must not read the stones for

 Drachea Rannak!

  

 'What is it?' Drachea's voice broke querulously in on

  

 her, and she started violently, staring at him as though

 she had never seen him before. 'Come now, Cyllan -

 either you're a fortune-reader, or you're not! If you've

 been wasting my time - '

  

 'I haven't!' She rose unsteadily to her feet. 'But I can't

 read for you, Drachea - I can't!'

  

 He rose too, suddenly angry. 'Why not, in the name of

 seven hells?'

  

 'Because I dare not! Oh, gods, I can't explain; it's

 a feeling, a fear - ' and suddenly the words were

 out before she could stop them. 'Because I know in

 my bones that something terrible is about to happen to

 you!'

  

 He was stunned. Very slowly, he sat down again, and

 his face was ashen. ' You - know . . . ?'

  

 She nodded. 'Please, don't ask me anything more. I

 shouldn't have spoken - doubtless I'm wrong; I have no

 real talent, and - '

  

 'No.' She had been moving away from the table and

 suddenly his hand shot out and gripped her arm pain-

 fully. 'Sit down! If there's something afoot then by all

 the gods you're going to tell me what it is!'

  

 One or two of the tavern's other customers were

 watching them by now, grinning with amusement and no

 doubt putting their own interpretation on the argument.

 Anxious not to draw further attention to herself, Cyllan

 reluctantly sat.

  

 'Now, tell me!' Drachea commanded.

  

 The stones felt like hot coals in her hand. Reflexively,

 she let them fall, and they scattered on the table in a

 disturbingly explicit pattern. Drachea stared at them

 and frowned. 'What does it mean?'

  

 Cyllan, too, was looking at the stones and her heart

 thumped. She didn't know this pattern, and yet it

 seemed to speak to her, call to her. A faint tingling

 sensation assailed the nape of her neck and she shivered.

 'I - don't know -' she began to say, then gasped as an

 image flashed across her mental vision, so quickly that

 she could barely grasp it. A star with seven points,

 radiating indescribable colours -

  

 'No!' she heard herself hiss vehemently. 'I can't do it!

 I won't!'

  

 'Damn you, you will!' Drachea countered furiously.

 'I'm not about to be made a fool of by some outland

 peasant! Tell me what you see in those stones, or I'll

 have you before my father for trying to hex me!'

  

 The threat was real enough. Cyllan looked at the

 stones once more, and suddenly their pattern crys-

 tallised in her mind. She knew, with an unerring instinct,

 what they meant - and Drachea's arguments had no

 power to sway her.

  

 Abruptly, she swept up the stones and deposited them

 back in her pouch, rising to her feet again.

  

 'You must do as you think fit,' she said quietly, and

 turned to leave.

  

 'Cyllan!' Drachea shouted after her, and when she

 didn't hesitate she heard the scrape of wood on stone

 and his footsteps coming after her. He caught up with

 her just before she reached the door. 'Cyllan, what do

 you think you're doing? I won't have this! You promised

 to read for me, and - '

  

 'Let me go!' She twisted free as he tried to catch her

 arm and pull her back, but as she made for the tavern

 entrance she collided with a tall, burly merchant-sailor

 who was hastening in with his three companions.

  

 'Look what you're doing!' the man snapped, pushing

 her aside. She mumbled an apology and hurried on,

 Drachea following, but the sailor called out again. 'Hey

 - you two! Where in the name of all the devils of

 darkness d'you think you're going?'

  

 They stared uncomprehendingly at him, and he

 jerked a thumb towards the door, where more people

 were hurrying in. 'Haven't you got a quarter-gravine of

 sense between you? There's a Warp coming! Whole

 place is in an uproar - market day, and a whore-

 spawned Warp decides to descend on us! As if storms in

 Summerisle Straits weren't enough -' He stamped

 irritably towards the counter, shouting for a drink.

  

 Cyllan's face had drained to a grey pallor. At the

 sailor's mention of the Warp she felt as if her stomach

  

 had turned to ice inside her. A terrible fear had taken

 hold of her reason and was growing with every moment

 - she was safe in the tavern, but she didn't feel safe. And

 if she had interpreted the stones' portent rightly -

  

 Drachea, meanwhile, had moved to the door and was

 looking out. Everywhere people were running for shel-

 ter; somewhere a child wailed in fright. Beyond the

 crowding roofs of the houses in this narrow street the sky

 was no more than a thin band of brilliance, but already

 the brilliance was clouding, tarnished with sickly

 shadows that marched across the blue. And over the

 noise of rushing feet and shouting voices came an eerie,

 thin wailing, like a chorus of hellhound souls in torment.

  

 'Gods!' Drachea stared at the fast-changing sky with a

 morbid fascination. 'Cyllan, look! Look at it!'

  

 Their quarrel was forgotten, and Cyllan was suddenly

 afraid for his safety. 'Drachea, don't! she pleaded.

 'Come in! It's dangerous!'

  

 'Not yet, it isn't. We've a few minutes more before it'll

 be on us. Look - ' and then in an instant his expression

 changed and his voice with it, rising in incredulous hor-

 ror. 'Oh, by Aeoris, look at that!'

  

 He had caught hold of her, and dragged her forward

 so that she faced the door. Outside the street was des-

 erted and shutters were being slammed at all the win-

 dows. Drachea was pointing down the length of the alley

 to where it ran out into Shu-Nhadek harbour, and his

 hand shook violently.

  

 'Look!'

  

 Cyllan looked, and blind terror overcame all reason.

 At the end of the street a solitary figure stood like a

 statue. Some shroud-like garment hid its frame, but the

 cruel, fine-boned face was clear enough, and the halo of

 gold hair, shot through with coruscating light. A dark,

 misty aura shimmered around it, and even as she

 watched it raised one long-fingered hand, and

 beckoned.

  

 She had seen that nightmare image before . . . Cyllan

 tried to step back, away from the hypnotic figure and its

 commanding hand, but couldn't move. Her will was

  

 weakening; she was overcome by an insane desire to

 step through the tavern door, out into the street, to obey

 the summons. Beside her she heard Drachea whisper

 'what is it?' in the voice of a terrified child, and she shook

 her head, unable even to grope for an answer.

  

 The figure beckoned again, and it was as if invisible

 strings pulled at Cyllan's limbs. She fought the compul-

 sion with all her strength, but her left foot slid forward,

 propelling her . . .

  

 'Cyllan, what are you doing?' Drachea cried out.

 'Come back!'

  

 She couldn't go back. The call was too strong, swamp-

 ing fear and self-preservation. And from the grim appa-

 rition's heart a ghastly light flickered to life and grew,

 flowering into a harshly brilliant star that blotted out all

 but the slowly beckoning hand.

  

 'Cyllan!' Drachea's voice was a scream of protest as

 she suddenly broke free and plunged forward, out of the

 tavern. Not stopping to think, he raced after her - and

 the shimmering apparition vanished.

  

 Cyllan gave an animal shriek that echoed the length of

 the alley, and skidded to a halt so that Drachea can-

 noned into her. He shook her as though she was a rag

 doll, yelling to make her understand.

  

 'Cyllan, the Warp! It's coming! In the name of all

 that's holy, move!' As he shouted the final words he spun

 her round, meaning to drag her if necessary back to the

 safety of the tavern before it was too late. He turned -

  

 The wall of darkness hit them full on as it swept the

 length of the street with the speed and ferocity of a tidal

 wave. Drachea heard the voice of the Warp rise to a

 howling crescendo of triumph, and glimpsed a

 maelstrom of twisted forms and shapes that hurtled at

 him out of nowhere. For an instant he felt Cyllan's hand

 gripped in his own; then a hammer blow of agony

 seemed to smash every bone in his body - and with it

 came searing, white-hot oblivion.

  

 Chapter 2

  

 The shock of swallowing something that burned her

 throat and lungs brought Cyllan violently back to con-

 sciousness. She tried to scream, but choked as her

 mouth and nose filled again with the burning stuff. For a

 nightmarish moment she thought she was dead, plunged

 into some green and black hell that roared in her ears

 and through which her body twisted and turned help-

 lessly - but then realisation struck her returning senses.

 She was drowning!

  

 With a savage self-preservation instinct she jack-

 knifed her body and struck in the one direction from

 which a faint light glimmered. If she had chosen

 wrongly, she would be dead within minutes - but sec-

 onds later her head broke clear of the water and she was

 lifted on the swell of a black wave, spluttering and

 gasping as she dragged air into her lungs.

  

 She was in the sea - and it was night! The insanity of

 the fact numbed her momentarily as she trod water,

 struggling to stay afloat. Overhead the sky was a vast

 bowl of darkness tinged with nacreous green, and around

 her restless waves humped threateningly, monstrous sil-

 houettes that tossed and carried her willy-nilly on their

 swell. There was no land, no Moons - and no Warp.

  

 Shocked and confused, she didn't see the breaker

 until it bore down on her, plunging her underwater

 again. Kicking out, she fought back to the surface. She

 must rally her mind to survival, or she'd drown like a rat

 in a bucket! But how could she survive? There was no

 shore, no direction - she had been hurled somehow

 through the Warp, thrown into this unimaginable night-

 mare -

  

 And then she heard a cry. It was faint, but not far

 away, as though someone were calling from an invisible

 safe haven. Cyllan turned, striking out in the direction

 from which the sound had come and thankful for the salt

 water which gave her buoyancy - and a moment later

 she saw him.

  

 He was clinging to a spar of wood and almost sub-

 merged by the waves that battered him relentlessly.

 Drachea! Memory of the last seconds before the Warp

 struck surged back - he had been trying to pull her

 towards the tavern; they had been hit together -

  

 'Drachea!' Her voice was weak as she tried to cry out

 to him, and he didn't hear. Saving her breath for swim-

 ming she propelled herself towards him, aided by a wave

 that rose on a cross-current and swept her almost to his

 side. She caught him under the arms, holding him

 against the pull of the sea, and instantly he panicked and

 began to struggle.

  

 'Drachea!' she screamed in his ear. 'It's Cyllan! We're

 alive, we're alive!'

  

 He took no notice, but continued to writhe in her grip,

 hitting out at her with flailing hands. She had to stop

 him, or he'd drown them both - reaching out, she

 snatched the spar to which he'd been clinging. It was

 waterlogged, but small enough for her to heft, and clum-

 sily she brought it down on his skull. He slumped, and

 Cyllan hauled with all her remaining strength as his body

 began to slip beneath the waves.

  

 Turning on to her back, she dragged Drachea's inert

 form behind her and began to kick out. The water held

 her up - but she couldn't sustain this struggle for long.

 Like all Eastern coast-dwellers Cyllan had learned in

 childhood to swim like a fish, but her strength was

 ebbing fast; the water was ice cold, already numbing her

 hands and feet, and with the added burden she could

 make only painfully slow headway.

  

 And if she found no landfall? a small voice whispered

 in her head. What then?

  

 Then she and Drachea would drown, as surely as the

 Sun would rise tomorrow. She might increase her own

  

 chances if she let him go and preserved all her energy for

 herself - but she couldn't. It would be tantamount to

 murder; she couldn't abandon him now.

  

 She took a firmer grip on her limp burden and strug-

 gled on, battling against the tide which, capriciously,

 seemed to change the direction of its pull every few

 moments, as though a dozen different currents battled

 for supremacy. The roar of the sea was a ceaseless

 dinning in her ears, wearing her down; the icy drag of the

 water seemed to grow greater with every kick and her

 limbs were slowly losing all sensation as the cold pene-

 trated to her marrow. And soon the constant surge and

 fade of the swell, as she tried to keep a rhythm to her

 swimming, became dangerously hypnotic. Strange,

 dreamlike images flowed across her inner vision, until

 she thought she saw the prow of a boat looming out of

 the darkness towards her; she raised one arm and

 shouted, then her mouth and nostrils filled with stinging

 salt water as, losing way, she slipped under. Instantly the

 shock snatched her out of the dream, but it was all she

 could do to drag Drachea's dead weight back to the

 surface. She gulped air, sobbing with terror and relief in

 equal measure, and when her streaming eyes cleared she

 realised that there had been no boat, no salvation; only

 the delusion of an exhausted mind.

  

 She was weakening. The mirage had almost killed

 her, and one more such mistake could be her last. And

 still there were no white crests on the waves to tell her

 she was nearing land; the vast, implacable ocean

 stretched endlessly around her and she visualised a sud-

 den, terrible image of herself and Drachea bobbing like

 tiny, insignificant flotsam on a gigantic expanse of

 nothing. She forced the thought away, knowing that if it

 took hold it would sap the last of her will to survive. But

 that will couldn't sustain her for much longer.

  

 Without warning, a heavy black swell borne on a

 vicious cross-current slapped her sideways, and this time

 she couldn't regain her momentum. Drachea's body was

 pulling her down, and her limbs were almost completely

 numb. In an instant of hideous clarity Cyllan faced the

  

 knowledge that she was defeated. She had tried but she

 had no more resources of strength, and even without her

 burden she'd no longer be capable of saving herself. The

 hungry sea had won, as part of her had known it must.

 She was going to die ...

  

 And then, in a dazed corner of her mind, she remem-

 bered the fanaani . . .

  

 The chance was so slender that she almost abandoned

 it. It would be better, surely it would be better, to give

 herself up to the inevitable and let the cold, surging

 depths take her now, rather than prolong the agony with

 a hope that couldn't be fulfilled. But an echo of her

 desire to survive still remained, enough to make her

 failing senses fight back in a final, desperate attempt to

 live. She struggled to focus her mind, rally her will,

 feeble though it was.

  

 Help me . . . The silent telepathic plea flowed from

 deep within her. In the name of all the gods, please help

 me ...

  

 The sea surged around her, its booming voice mock-

 ing her desperation. If her call went unheard, she'd be

 dead within minutes . . .

  

 Help me . . . please help me . . .

  

 Suddenly she felt it - the first faint stirring of another

 presence in her mind, a detached curiosity as to the

 nature of this strange creature that struggled through the

 water with its unconscious burden. Cyllan redoubled her

 efforts to call, and the presence grew stronger, closing

 in.

  

 When she heard the first bittersweet harmony of the

 fanaani's song she almost cried aloud with joy. The

 silver notes echoed against the sea's roar, rising and

 falling, calling to her, and a moment later she felt some-

 thing sleek and alive brush by her legs.

  

 The first one rose beside her, its blunt-nosed, catlike

 face only inches away from her own. The limpid brown

 eyes gazed sorrowfully into hers, and the fanaan- bigger

 than she was, brindle-furred and almost phosphorescent

 in the darkness - twitched its short whiskers and

 whiffled, blowing fishy breath into her face. Then

  

 another joined it, and from below she felt a third rising,

 taking Drachea's weight on its back and supporting him.

  

 Cyllan twisted in the water and clutched at the heavily

 muscled shoulder of the sea-mammal beside her. The

 fanaan lifted its head and called in a sweet, plaintive

 voice, and the second creature moved in so that between

 them they held her, bearing her up against the swelling

 waves. She glimpsed Drachea being carried likewise

 between two more, and her exhausted mind gave silent

 and fervent thanks. Her last desperate plea had been

 answered - these strange, rare, telepathic beings had

 answered her call and, in their enigmatic way, had

 chosen to help her. They had come from the gods alone

 knew where, to aid an alien being in distress, and the

 debt she owed was one that could never be adequately

 repaid.

  

 The first fanaan called again, and its companions

 joined in the chillingly beautiful song. Exhaustion

 washed over Cyllan as the creatures surged forward, and

 the eldritch singing of her saviours tumbled into a

 miasma of bizarre sea-dreams as she slid thankfully into

 unconsciousness.

  

 She woke, to find herself lying face-down on shingle.

 The world was still again - in the background the sea still

 beat and boomed relentlessly, but the rocking of the

 cold tide had ceased. She had been brought to shore -

 and the fanaani were gone.

  

 Slowly, Cyllan pulled herself up until she was kneeling

 on the hard shale. Water streamed from her hair and

 clothes, and her limbs shivered involuntarily with the

 saturating cold. It was still night - a white sea-mist

 permeated the darkness and made phantoms out of the

 jagged rocks that surrounded her. At her back, the

 shingle sloped away to a dully roaring tideline, strewn

 with jetsam that the sea had rejected. Before her -

  

 Before her, a black granite wall rose sheer into the

 sky, reflecting no light. The shore stretched dismally

 away to either side, offering no sanctuary, and when she

 struggled to focus her eyes upward she saw only the cliff,

  

 towering beyond the boundaries of vision. The fanaani

 had brought her to land - but a cruel, harsh land that

 bore no resemblance to anything she knew.

  

 Something moved nearby, rattling the shingle, and

 Cyllan turned in shock. Five paces away, Drachea Ran-

 nak sat with his back propped against the rock face. He

 was staring at her, but his eyes were glazed and she was

 sure he didn't recognise her. Shock . . . the ordeal had

 proved too much for him . . . but at least he, too, lived.

  

 Fighting the frozen aching in her marrow, Cyllan

 crawled towards him. 'Drachea . . . Drachea, we're

 alive . . . '

  

 He continued to stare at her, looking like a puppet

 whose strings had been abruptly cut. 'Alive . . . ' he

 repeated.

  

 'Yes, alive! The fanaani saved us - I called, and they

 came, and . . . ' She shook her head, coughing. 'We're

 alive.'

  

 There was silence for a moment but for the ceaseless

 noise of the sea. Then Drachea said dully, 'Where?'

  

 'I don't know . . . ' His reason had warped, she was

 certain. He was unable to face the reality of their peril

 and something within him had snapped, and she only

 hoped that he'd recover his wits before the cold over-

 came them both. Rallying herself, she added more vehe-

 mently, 'But wherever we are, Drachea, we're safe!

 We've survived - isn't that what matters?'

  

 'Who knows?' He smiled an oddly twisted smile with

 no humour. 'Maybe we're dead, and this is the afterlife.

 A shingle shore, an unending night, a cliff we can't

 climb. Hell, Cyllan. Isn't that what you saw in your

 stones? Isn't it?' Suddenly he lunged forward and

 grasped her shoulders, shaking her violently. For a

 moment she thought he would try to strangle her; then

 abruptly his grip loosened and he turned away, pressing

 his face against the cliff wall and curling up like a fright-

 ened and defiant child.

  

 'Go away,' he said indistinctly. 'If it wasn't for you, I'd

 be safe at home in Shu-Nhadek! Go away, and leave me

 alone!'

  

 If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead! Cyllan thought

 savagely, then quelled the thought as uncharitable and

 unworthy. Perhaps he was right - but for her, this night-

 mare would never have happened.

  

 She remembered then, for the first time, the appari-

 tion which had appeared as the Warp bore down on

 them in Shu-Nhadek. The hand, beckoning - a shudder

 racked her. That had been far more than a portent. And

 the stones . . . instinctively she put a hand to her belt-

 pouch and felt the familiar bulge of the pebbles there. So

 she hadn't lost them . . . although she was beginning to

 wonder if they were more of a curse than a blessing.

  

 Drachea was still hiding his face, and Cyllan realised

 that, if they were ever to escape from this hellish shore,

 she would have to take charge. Danger and privation

 were alien concepts to the son of the Margrave of Shu;

 she was better equipped to save them, if there was

 salvation to be found. Turning, she gazed out to sea. The

 mist had deepened, it seemed, in the few minutes since

 her rude awakening; beyond the first few lapping waves

 at the shingle's edge she could see nothing. She shivered

 with something besides cold. What lay beyond that

 mist? Familiar, known land, or ... nothing? There

 could be nowhere in the world so bleak, so barren, so

 devoid of hope . . .

  

 Nowhere, said a silent inner voice, but for one place

  

 It surely wasn't possible . . . Cyllan struggled to her

 feet as speculation threatened to flower into certainty,

 and craned to look up at the towering cliff. Vertigo made

 her feel sick; she quashed it determinedly and tried to

 see to the top of the rock face, backing away down the

 shingle slope until she was wading knee-deep in the sea.

  

 There was an end to the monstrous granite. She could

 glimpse a point where the rock abruptly cut off, and

 from here the perspective of the shore had changed

 enough for her to realise that the cliff was in fact a stack,

 rising out of the surrounding ocean.

  

 Her pulse quickened. If her suspicions were right,

 then she should be able to see the narrow arch of the

  

 causeway that connected this solitary stone pinnacle to

 the mainland. Straining her eyes through the mist-

 shrouded gloom, Cyllan stared . . .

  

 Nothing. The fog was too dense, or she was wrong and

 the nagging sense of familiarity which assailed her was a

 delusion.

  

 But whatever the truth of it, there had to be a way to

 scale that daunting face. To stay on this shore would be

 to give up, and, having survived this far, giving up was

 something Cyllan couldn't bear to consider. There must

 be a way - and perhaps with daylight to aid her, she

 could find it.

  

 Still unsure of herself, but a little heartened, she

 trudged back to where Drachea lay. He seemed to have

 fallen asleep - or lapsed back into unconsciousness -

 and his skin was disturbingly cold to the touch. Cyllan

 turned and began to look about her for something that

 would provide warmth until dawn. Seaweed - it stank

 abominably and was as wet as they were, but at least it

 might protect them from the worst of the Winter night's

 cold. Aware that her limbs were stiffening with fatigue

 and chill, she started to gather great armfuls of the stuff

 from where the sea had washed it, and soon had a pile of

 green-brown strands which she heaped over Drachea's

 still form. Then she lay down at his back, pressing close

 against him so that their remaining body heat might not

 be wasted, and, pulling some of the weed over herself,

 closed her eyes.

  

 Cyllan woke from a sleep racked with hideous night-

 mares, aware that something was wrong. The blanket of

 seaweed had done its work well enough, and some of the

 cold had eased from her bones; but when she tried to

 move, her body was so agonisingly stiff that it would

 barely obey her. And something was wrong . . .

  

 She raised her head, staring into the grey-green dark-

 ness. Mist still hung like an impenetrable curtain only a

 few paces away, and the sound of the sea seemed further

 off than before, muffled by the dense fog. The tide had

 gone out, leaving a newly washed expanse of shingle

  

 gleaming dully at the edge of the mist, which meant that

 she must have slept for some hours. Even in the

 extremes of Winter, nights weren't eternal. The Sun

 should have risen by now . . . but there was no trace of

 the dawn.

  

 An uneasy foreboding assailed Cyllan. There was no

 place in the world where the Sun didn't rise; and yet the

 night still held this shore fast. Everything felt too quiet,

 too still - as if beyond the mist there was nothing but a

 void . . .

  

 Shivering, she turned back to where Drachea lay

 beside her, and shook him. 'Drachea! Wake up!'

  

 He stirred reluctantly, and from the way he swore at

 her she realised that he believed himself in his bed at

 Shu-Nhadek and berating a servant for disturbing him.

 She shook him again.

  

 'Drachea!'

  

 Comprehension slowly dawned as Drachea opened

 his eyes. 'Cyllan?' he mumbled, then became aware of

 the damp shingle beneath him. 'Where are we?'

  

 'I wish I knew!'

  

 'What?'

  

 'Never mind.' She hadn't the energy to spare for an

 argument. 'Listen to me. I've explored as best I can, and

 it seems that we're on an island. There's no link with the

 mainland that I can find, so we have to seek a way of

 climbing the cliff.'

  

 Drachea struggled into a sitting position as clearer

 thought took over from his weariness, and pushed at the

 stinking heaps of seaweed that covered him. When he

 answered, his voice was petulant.

  

 'It's still the middle of the night! We're not going to

 die in the time between now and dawn! And when the

 Sun comes up, we'll be found! There must be people out

 looking for me now - my parents will have raised the

 alarm. So why should I waste my strength scaling a

 thrice-damned cliff to no good purpose?'

  

 Cyllan's mouth tightened angrily. Drachea, it

 seemed, had no true concept of the predicament they

 were in - accustomed to having his every wish granted,

  

 he blithely assumed that rescue was imminent. And so it

 might have been, were they still in the vicinity of Shu.

 But Cyllan knew better . . .

  

 She tried to make him understand. 'Drachea, listen to

 me! The tide has gone out - that means we've been here

 long enough for dawn to have broken, and yet it hasn't.'

  

 He frowned. 'What do you mean?'

  

 'I don't know - only that something's terribly wrong

 here. And another thing - we're not in Shu Province, or

 anywhere near it.'

  

 He tried to protest at that. 'But - '

  

 'Listen to me! Don't ask how I know - I do! I can feel

 it, Drachea, as surely as I've ever felt anything!' She

 paused, swallowing to catch her breath. 'If we're not to

 rot and die here on this shore, we must find a way to the

 top!'

  

 Drachea stared at her, unwilling to acknowledge the

 truth of her words. Then he said resentfully, 'I'm

 hungry.'

  

 Cyllan could have strangled him. He was wilfully

 refusing to face harsh reality, and although part of her

 pitied him — he had, after all, never known such straits in

 his life before - another part felt only frustrated disgust.

  

 Knowing that they could afford no more wasted time

 she rose and paced to the foot of the sheer cliff, laying

 her palms against the unyielding granite as though seek-

 ing to divine a path upwards. Luck and determination

 had brought them this far - unless the gods chose

 capriciously to abandon them now, there must be an

 answer. From behind her Drachea complained of stiff-

 ness and pain, and Cyllan lost her temper.

  

 Then move, damn you! Help me! I can't do every-

 thing alone, and you expect me to carry you as though I

 were your servant!'

  

 Drachea stared back at her in angry consternation,

 and Cyllan felt tears prick her eyes as the pent-up fear

 within her threatened to break through to the surface.

 She forced them back ferociously and took a grip on

 herself. She couldn't afford to lose self-control - to

 weaken now would bring disaster.

  

 'Wherever we are,' she said, clenching her teeth to

 stop them chattering, 'Shu Province is a world away.

 And we've no food and no shelter. If we stay here we'll

 die from cold or hunger or both.' She stared spec-

 ulatively up at the forbidding mass of the cliff wall. 'We

 have to find a way up.'

  

 Drachea hugged himself, shivering. 'If you don't

 know where we are, how can you be so sure that we

 won't be rescued?' he argued sullenly.

  

 'I can't be sure. But I'm not about to sit here and wait

 until I'm too weak to look for an alternative.' Cyllan had

 begun to trudge away from him; now she stopped and

 looked back. 'I'm going to look for a path. What you

 choose to do is your concern.'

  

 He gave her a withering, venomous glare and turned

 his back. She had walked two more paces when she

 heard him sigh and mutter an imprecation under his

 breath. Then, thrusting his pinched hands into the

 pockets of his jacket, he moved stiffly across the crunch-

 ing shingle to join her.

  

 It was Drachea who finally found the worn steps, carved

 unimaginable generations ago into the sheer rock, and

 winding up into the night. Centuries of erosion had worn

 them to a treacherous glass-like smoothness and their

 steepness was daunting, but Cyllan believed that, with

 good fortune on their side, they could make the climb

 without mishap.

  

 'It should be easier the higher we go,' she told

 Drachea, privately praying that she was right. 'Beyond

 where the sea can reach there should be less erosion and

 our passage will be safer.'

  

 He looked at the carved stairs dubiously. 'I can't

 imagine who could have carved them, or why. And they

 can't have been used in generations.'

  

 'But they have been used - that's what counts. If

 others have scaled them, so can we! And it means . . .'

 She looked up at the vast stack toppling out of the night

 towards them. 'It means that there must be something at

 the top. Sanctuary, Drachea . . . '

  

 He nodded, afraid but trying not to show it. They had

 subsided into a slightly uneasy truce, submerging their

 differences in the mutual need for survival, and now

 Drachea gestured at the worn steps. 'You go first. I'm

 more likely to catch you if you fall than you'd be to catch

 me.'

  

 The attempt at gallantry, gratifying though it was, was

 misplaced as Cyllan soon discovered. Drachea's head

 for heights was sound enough, but as they climbed the

 treacherous steps it became evident that his strength was

 rapidly deserting him. Shock, fatigue and hunger had

 taken their toll, and Cyllan- who was a good deal fitter -

 frequently had to pause to avoid leaving him far behind.

 To her, the climb was difficult but not impossibly so; she

 had taken equal risks in the past, scaling the giddying

 cliffs of the West High Land coast in the hope of glimps-

 ing the elusive fanaani, but with Drachea toiling pain-

 fully behind her she forced herself to hold back an

 instinct to climb faster, to reach the top of these terrible

 stairs before her will or her energy gave out.

  

 That, she thought, was the most daunting part of the

 climb. By now they must be at least six hundred feet

 above the sea, yet there was no sign of the vast cliff

 coming to an end. When she once dared to look up, she

 saw only the endless wall of granite rising beyond the

 limits of vision, offering no hope of reprieve.

  

 And when — if— they finally reached the summit, what

 then? As the ascent continued, Cyllan had been acutely

 aware of an unpleasant core of fear growing within her.

 That same animal instinct which had assailed her in the

 tavern at Shu, but greatly increased. Something awaited

 them at the top of the cliff . . . and she was afraid to

 discover what that something was.

  

 But there was no other choice. Hundreds of feet

 below lay a barren shore that offered no hope of rescue,

 and even a dreaded unknown held a better prospect than

 that. They must go on, and face whatever awaited them.

  

 A fit of coughing from below halted her then, and she

 looked cautiously back to see Drachea doubled over,

 clutching at a precarious handhold. Cyllan slid carefully

  

 back a pace or two and reached down to take his hand,

 helping him over a place where the granite steps had

 crumbled away. He bit his lip, holding his breath until he

 was up with her, and slowly, painfully, they continued

 on.

  

 Eventually, the climb dissolved into a mesmeric, wak-

 ing nightmare for Cyllan. Each upward step became a

 torment of fierily aching muscles, each inch of progress a

 small triumph in itself. She might have been climbing for

 the whole of her life, Drachea struggling in her wake,

 ever onward and up with no end in view. Sometimes she

 almost laughed aloud at the bizarre nature of it all - the

 unchanging rock, the unchanging sky, the unchanging,

 mourning note of the wind that froze her hands and

 threatened to prise her stiff fingers and toes away from

 their insecure holds. How long had they been climbing?

 Minutes? Hours? Days? The sky gave her no clue; still

 the night hung over them with neither Moon tracking

 across its arc to mark the passing of time. If this was

 insanity, it was like nothing she had ever imagined

 before ...

  

 'Aeoris!'

  

 The oath was out before she could stop it as, with no

 warning, the cliff-face ended and she sprawled on to

 soft, yielding turf. She had time for the shocking image

 of what confronted her to register in her brain before,

 remembering Drachea, she had turned and was reaching

 down to help him scramble the last few steps to safety.

 They lay gasping on the ground, the world seeming to

 swing giddily around them as both struggled for breath,

 and Cyllan thought she heard Drachea murmuring what

 sounded like a fervent prayer of thanksgiving through

 dry lips. At last, when she had strength enough, she

 roused him by taking his arm, and pointed, unable to

 speak.

  

 No more than a hundred paces away, the castle rose

 out of the ground as though it had grown from the living

 rock. Blacker than anything Cyllan could imagine, it

 towered into the night, dominated by four titanic spires

 which reached skyward like accusing fingers, and it

  

 seemed to absorb what little light fell on it, swallowing

 and crushing it. Above the sharply defined battlements,

 a crimson glow tinged the air as though within the

 castle's precincts some vast fire burned sullenly but

 steadily. And although the monstrous structure seemed

 changed beyond recognition, Cyllan knew it ...

  

 Drachea's hands clawed reflexively at the turf. 'What

 ... is that place?' he whispered.

  

 Cyllan felt her pulse pounding suffocatingly in her

 throat, so that speaking was a great effort.

  

 'You said that you wanted to visit the stronghold of

 the Circle,' she whispered harshly. 'Your wish has been

 granted, Drachea. That is the Castle of the Star

 Peninsula!'

  

 Drachea didn't reply. He was staring at the Castle,

 seemingly unable to credit the sight that confronted him.

 At last he managed to form words.

  

 'I didn't imagine . . . none of the stories said . . .

 that it would be like this!'

  

 A shiver racked Cyllan, and the fear redoubled. 'It

 isn't,' she murmured. 'Or at least ... it wasn't when I

 saw it. Something's wrong . . . '

  

 'The rumours - ' Drachea began.

  

 'Yes ... if the Initiates have shut themselves away -

 then how is it that we've broken through the barrier?'

  

 Unsteadily, Drachea rose to his feet. He still watched

 the distant Castle, as though fearing that if he dared to

 look away for a moment it would vanish. 'We must find

 out,' he said.

  

 She didn't want to go near it ... she was suddenly

 desperately afraid. But Drachea's reasoning couldn't be

 argued with. If they crossed the causeway, there was

 nothing but the Northern mountains for leagues. Two

 exhausted and hungry souls couldn't hope to survive the

 road through the pass in Winter. And even when she

 looked to where the causeway should have been, Cyllan

 could see nothing. Only the mist, hanging like a curtain,

 as though to mark an impassable barrier between

 the real world and this world of nightmare and

 illusion.

  

 She got to her feet, disturbed by the thought, and

 moved closer to Drachea. He glanced at her and

 attempted to smile. 'We go forward., or we stay here,' he

 said. 'Which is it to be?'

  

 'Forward . . . ' The word formed on her lips almost

 without her realising it.

  

 Slowly they began to walk towards the Castle that

 towered to meet them. Here even the wind was stilled,

 and the silence was eerie. As they approached the mas-

 sive entrance, Cyllan realised that there was no sign of

 life in the Castle. The great gates were shut, and the dull

 crimson radiance from within remained unchanging.

 The place seemed deserted . . .

  

 And how, she asked herself again, had they penetrated

 the barrier that held the Castle aloof? How had they

 broken through the Maze?

  

 'Drachea - ' She clutched his arm and pulled, abruptly

 attacked by an unhealthy doubt. 'Drachea, something's

 terribly amiss . . . '

  

 It was a feeble repetition of her old fear, but she could

 find no clearer way to give voice to her misgivings.

 Drachea, however, was not to be daunted. He shook her

 off irritably and began to walk faster, almost running

 down the final slope of the sward that brought him to the

 Castle entrance. Cyllan followed, and caught up with

 him as he pushed vainly at the huge gates.

  

 'Locked!' Drachea swung breathlessly round, leaning

 his back against the gates and pushing, but to no avail.

 'Damn them! I've not come through so much to be

 thwarted now!'

  

 'Drachea, no!' Cyllan protested, but it was too late.

 He had turned to face the entrance once more, and

 hammered ferociously with clenched fists on the wood of

 the gates, shouting in near-hysterical fury.

  

 'Open! Open, damn you all! Let us in!'

  

 For a moment nothing happened. Then - as much to

 Drachea's astonishment as Cyllan's - the massive gates

 creaked. Something clicked with a hollow, echoing

 sound . . . and slowly, slowly, the huge wooden

 structures swung slowly inward, silently and smoothly,

  

 spilling out a gloomy blood-red radiance that stained the

 sward.

  

 'Gods!' Drachea stepped back, staring with a mixture

 of awe and chagrin at the sight which the slowly swinging

 gates had revealed. Before them, framed by a dense

 black arch, lay the Castle courtyard, and they both took

 in the scene with disturbed amazement.

  

 The great courtyard was empty, and as silent as the

 grave. In the centre, reflecting the desolation, stood a

 derelict and dry fountain, its carved statues leering

 frozenly at them. The nightmarish crimson light which

 had shone above the black walls was greatly magnified

 here, but seemed to have no source; it simply existed,

 with no visible origin, and when Cyllan glanced uneasily

 at Drachea she saw that his skin was tinged a bloody hue

 by the glow.

  

 Softly, he whistled between his teeth, and Cyllan

 shivered. 'It feels - dead. Empty. As if there was no

 living soul here . . . '

  

 'Yes . . . ' Cautiously, Drachea stepped forward,

 moving under the silent black arch until he emerged into

 the courtyard with Cyllan at his heels. He breathed

 in deeply. 'There can be no doubt? This is the

 Castle . . . ?'

  

 'Oh, yes. There can be no doubt of it.'

  

 He nodded. 'Then the Initiates must be here. And

 whatever their purpose in sealing themselves off from

 the rest of the world, they surely can't deny us sanctuary

 now!' Eagerly he started across the deserted courtyard,

 but not before Cyllan had seen the flash of almost fever-

 ish anticipation in his eyes. Drachea had forgotten the

 Warp, the sea, the grim shore at the foot of the Castle

 stack- all that mattered to him now was the fact that fate

 had brought him to the stronghold of the Circle. Why

 and how he had come meant nothing- the old, obsessive

 ambition to be a part of that revered and select few had

 eclipsed all other considerations.

  

 He had already outpaced Cyllan, heading towards a

 flight of wide, shallow steps that led to an open set of

 double doors. She hastened after him, afraid of being

  

 left alone in this grim and disturbing place, and came up

 with him as he began to climb the flight.

  

 'Drachea, please wait!' she pleaded. 'We can't simply

 walk in; there may be reasons - '

  

 He interrupted her, dismissing her doubts impa-

 tiently. 'What would you prefer- that we should stay out

 here in the courtyard until someone finds us? Don't be a

 fool - there's nothing to be afraid of!'

  

 But there is, an inner voice protested. Still she couldn't

 shake off the foreboding - it was growing by the minute

 and she had to fight down a desire to turn and run back

 towards the gates and the seeming safety of the cliff-top.

 Quickly she looked over her shoulder - and with a

 sinking sensation realised that any attempt at flight

 would avail her nothing.

  

 Whatever silent, secret force had opened the gates to

 admit them to the Castle had now closed them again.

 They were trapped, like flies in a spider's web . .

  

 Cyllan felt sick. She didn't want to venture through

 the doorway into the Castle, but Drachea wouldn't lis-

 ten to her. He meant to investigate further whether she

 willed it or no - she could follow him, or remain here

 with only the dead, grinning gargoyles of the stilled

 fountain for company . . .

  

 Turning back, she saw that Drachea had already

 crossed the threshold of the doorway, and was standing

 in a corridor. The crimson light permeated even here,

 like a distant hellfire, and its glow made him look un-

 human. He glanced back, and snapped, 'Are you

 coming? Or must I seek out the Initiates alone?'

  

 Cyllan didn't answer, but with a pounding heart

 hastened to join him, feeling as though she were choos-

 ing the lesser of two tangible evils. Slowly they advanced

 into the Castle, their footfalls echoing eerily in the pro-

 found silence. Still nothing moved, no one emerged to

 welcome or castigate them . . . and then Drachea

 stopped at another heavy door which stood partly open.

  

 'A hall, or some such . . .' He touched the door and it

 swung back easily to admit them to a huge and lofty hall.

 Long, scrubbed tables stretched the length of the great

  

 room, and at the far end a vast, empty hearth gaped,

 polished copper fire-irons gleaming bloodily in the

 strange light. Above the massive mantel was a

 balustraded gallery, all but invisible in shadow, with

 heavy curtains hanging motionless to either side. The

 place was as empty and lifeless as the courtyard had

 been.

  

 This must be where the Adepts dine . . . ' Drachea

 said softly, and Cyllan echoed his following, unspoken

 thought.

  

 'But there's no one here ...'

  

 A sound, so faint it might have been imagination,

 flickered at the borders of awareness and was gone. A

 woman's distant laughter . . . Drachea paled. 'Did you

 hear - '

  

 'Yes, I heard. But there's no one here!'

  

 'There must be - the Castle of the Star Peninsula,

 abandoned and empty? It isn't possible!'

  

 Cyllan shook her head, trying to quell the nagging

 little inner voice which still assailed her, and which

 now asked, do you believe in ghosts . . . ? Drachea's

 steps seemed obscenely loud as he approached the near-

 est of the tables and laid his hands on it. This is real

 enough,' he said quietly. 'Unless I'm dreaming, or dead,

 I-'

  

 And he stopped as they both heard the unmistakable

 sound of a footfall in the gallery.

  

 For a moment they stared transfixed at the shadowed

 platform above the empty hearth. The curtains didn't

 move, and as the small sound died there was no further

 sign of life. But Drachea's face was suddenly

 triumphant.

  

 'You see!' he hissed. 'We're not alone - and I'm not

 dreaming! The Initiates are here, and they're aware of

 our presence!' He drew himself up, placing one palm to

 the opposite shoulder in a formal gesture, and called out

 loudly, 'Greetings to you! I am Drachea Rannak, Heir

 Margrave of Shu Province! Kindly show yourself!'

  

 Silence answered him. No further footfall, no move-

 ment. Cyllan's skin began to crawl and she moved to

  

 Drachea's side. The young man was frowning, non-

 plussed, and cleared his throat.

  

 'I said, kindly reveal yourself! We are wet and

 exhausted, and we demand the hospitality due to any

 tired traveller! Damn it, is this the Castle of the Star

 Peninsula, or - '

  

 'Drachea!' Cyllan cut in, clutching at him.

  

 He saw it a moment after her quicker senses had

 discerned the first movement. A shadow, which

 detached itself from the deeper darkness in the

 gallery, moved swiftly to the head of the staircase that

 spiralled down into the dining-hall, and began to

 descend.

  

 Drachea stepped back, bravado deserting him in the

 face of such a manifestation. The figure - for now it was

 discernible as human - reached the hall floor and stop-

 ped. Cyllan was horribly aware of its cold, impassive

 scrutiny, but it was still too deeply immersed in shadow

 for any feature to be visible. But whoever- whatever- it

 was, its appearance conjured an uneasy sense of

 recognition.

  

 A hand, white and thin, flicked impatiently at the

 darkness surrounding the apparition, and something

 black shifted and rippled. Cyllan realised that the figure

 was wearing a dark, high-collared cloak which swept the

 ground at its feet. Then a voice, with an edge to it that

 made her shiver, snapped harshly,

  

 'How in the name of the Seven Hells did you break

 through the barrier?'

  

 Drachea backed away, shocked by the venom in the

 figure's tone. But Cyllan stood rooted by a memory that

 crowded back into her mind, a memory which she had

 been striving to blot out. Her eyes widened as the tall,

 dark man moved and for the first time the crimson glow

 fell on him, illuminating his features.

  

 He had changed - gods, how he had changed! The

 flesh of his face was cadaverous, the bone-structure

 jagged and skeletal. But the unruly black hair that cas-

 caded over his shoulders was the same, and the dark-

 lashed green eyes still held their haunted intensity -

  

 though now they glittered with a cruel understanding

 that was far beyond her comprehension. He seemed

 more of a demon incarnate than a living man . . . but

 she knew him. And the momentary spark of recognition

 that flared in his look confirmed her certainty.

 Cyllan said unsteadily, 'Tarod ...'

  

 Chapter 3

  

 Tarod stared at the two bedraggled creatures who stood

 before him, the first human beings he had seen in - he

 mentally checked himself, distantly amused by the fact

 that a part of his mind still insisted on thinking in terms

 of time. That girl - memory stirred at the sight of her

 pale hair and the odd amber eyes, and a name came to

 his mind. He had forgotten her - but against all pos-

 sibility she was here in the Castle, where no foot save his

 own had walked since Keridil Toln's attempt to destroy

 him.

  

 The shock had caught him off guard, but now he was

 rallying his composure - although it took considerable

 effort in the face of what had happened. No human

 being should be capable of breaking through the barrier

 which held this Castle frozen in a Timeless limbo. His

 own power, great as it was, couldn't penetrate the form-

 less, dimensionless yet appallingly real warp of time and

 space that had trapped him here in his last, desperate

 effort to save his life and his soul; and whatever her

 psychic talents, Cyllan was no true sorceress. Yet she

 was here, as real as he was . . .

  

 He stepped forward, the movement implying a threat

 that made Drachea back away, and his cold stare flicked

 from one to the other. 'How did you break the barrier?'

 he demanded again. 'How did you reach the Castle?'

  

 Drachea, his confidence sapped, swallowed and made

 an attempt at a formal bow. 'Sir, I am Drachea Rannak,

 Heir Margrave of Shu Province,' he said, trying to wield

 the rank as a defensive weapon. 'We have been the

 victims of a bizarre accident which - '

  

 'I'm not interested in your name, your title or your

  

 circumstances!' Tarod snapped. 'Answer my question -

 how did you get here?'

  

 Stunned by the fact that any man, whatever his rank,

 should dare to treat a Margrave's son with such open

 contempt, Drachea opened his mouth to make a furious

 retort. But before he could speak, Cyllan said quickly,

 'We came from the sea.'

  

 Tarod turned to stare at her and she looked back, not

 flinching. She was afraid of him, bewildered by the

 shocking changes which he seemed to have undergone,

 and aware that to anger him could be dangerous; but she

 wouldn't give ground. And abruptly some of the pecu-

 liar light faded from Tarod's eyes.

  

 'From the sea?' he repeated with a gentler curiosity.

  

 Cyllan nodded. 'It was the Warp - we were in Shu-

 Nhadek . . . ' She faltered, realising how impossible the

 story must sound even to an Initiate, and before she

 could stumble on Tarod forestalled her by reaching out

 and taking a strand of her hair. He squeezed it between

 his fingers; it felt stiff and sticky with salt, and the strands

 refused to separate.

  

 'You're barely dried.' A small spark of charity was

 fighting its way through the mixture of shock, suspicion

 and the glimmerings of an uneasy understanding in his

 mind. A Warp . . . his own horrific experience as a

 child, which had brought him into the Castle's embrace

 in the first place, came sharply to memory. He, too, had

 survived a Warp, only to find that it had transported him

 halfway across the world. It was possible, surely it was

 possible, that if the Warps could transcend space they

 could also transcend time?

  

 Suddenly, he demanded, 'What season is it?'

  

 'Season . . . ?' Cyllan was nonplussed. 'Why- almost

 Spring. The Quarter-Day is in fifteen days from now.'

  

 Winter had yet to take full hold when the changes had

 taken place here . . . had years passed beyond the time-

 barrier, or merely weeks? Tarod had no chance to spec-

 ulate, for Drachea abruptly spoke up.

  

 'Sir, I must protest! We've arrived here through no

 fault of our own; we are exhausted; damn it, we're lucky

  

 to be alive! We ask the simple courtesies due to anyone

 in distress, and you seem to consider it more important

 to establish the season! Surely the weather beyond these

 walls is quite sufficient to -

  

 He stopped as Tarod looked at him with con-

 temptuous hostility. Whatever he might be - Initiate or

 no - the man was insane; there could be no other expla-

 nation. And the thought of what an insane Adept might

 be capable of was daunting. Drachea swallowed and

 went on, trying to sound calm but uncomfortably aware

 of the tremor in his voice. 'I mean no offence - but if I

 might be granted an interview with the High Initiate - '

  

 Tarod's answering smile was faintly ironic. 'I'm afraid

 that's impossible. The High Initiate isn't here.'

  

 Then whoever is in charge in his stead - ' Drachea

 persisted.

  

 Tarod had taken an immediate dislike to the self-

 important youth, and the prospect of trying to explain

 the truth to him was one he didn't relish. Even Cyllan,

 with her broader perceptions, would find the facts hard

 to accept.

  

 'There is no one "in charge", as you put it,' he told

 Drachea. 'And this isn't the moment for explanations.

 You've both suffered an ordeal, and your needs have

 been neglected - as you took pains to point out. Before

 anything else is considered, you should bath and rest.'

  

 'Well. . .' Drachea was mollified. 'I'd be grateful for

 that! If there are servants to spare - '

  

 Tarod shook his head. 'There are no servants, not

 now. I'm afraid you must make do with what I can offer.'

 And, seeing that the young man still didn't comprehend,

 he added, 'There is no one else in the Castle.'

  

 Drachea was stunned. 'But - '

  

 'You'll have the answers you want soon enough,'

 Tarod said in a voice that brooked no argument. He

 waited until Drachea subsided, then gestured towards

 the far end of the hall. 'The Castle's facilities are this

 way. Follow me.'

  

 Cyllan tried to catch his eye as he led them across the

 room, but failed. She fell into step beside Drachea, her

  

 thoughts whirling. From two brief meetings she could

 hardly say that she knew the black-haired Adept well,

 but an unerring intuition told her that he had changed in

 far more ways than mere physical appearance indicated

 - and that was to say nothing of the changes which had

 apparently taken place at the Castle itself.

  

 Where were the Circle Initiates? What had happened to

 this community? Questions crowded her brain, and even

 her wildest flights of imagination provided no answers

 that made any sense. She glanced at Drachea, saw his

 tense, troubled expression, and surreptitiously tucked

 her hand into his. It was something she would never

 have had the temerity to do under normal circum-

 stances, but these circumstances were very far from

 normal. Drachea, rather than being offended, seemed

 to take comfort from the small contact, and squeezed

 her fingers in an attempt at reassurance.

  

 Tarod led them through silent corridors that echoed

 hollowly to the sound of their feet. The Castle's North

 wing was largely devoted to both private and communal

 living accommodation, but there wasn't the smallest sign

 of life in any of the passages or rooms. No voices carried

 on the still air, no one emerged from a doorway to hurry

 by on some errand. The entire Castle was eerily, fright-

 eningly dead.

  

 At last their route took them down a flight of steep

 stairs that descended into the Castle's foundations. A

 pale glimmer showed from below, and they emerged

 suddenly on to a broad shelf overlooking a network of

 artificial pools. Cubicles had been constructed to

 provide privacy, and the entire chamber was faintly lit

 by softly shimmering reflections from the water.

  

 Tarod turned to them and smiled slightly. 'Not as

 sophisticated as the baths of Shu Province, I'll grant, but

 you'll find the water warm and refreshing. When you've

 done, I will be in the dining-hall.'

  

 Drachea glanced swiftly at Cyllan, then gave Tarod a

 curt nod and hastened away along the shelf towards one of

 the further cubicles, as though anxious to put as great a

 distance between himself and his host as possible.

  

 Cyllan gazed at the glass-smooth surface of the water,

 only now fully aware of how exhausted she was in the

 wake of her ordeal. The thought of being clean, of being

 able to sleep on something other than shingle or granite,

 made her want to pinch herself to be sure she wasn't

 dreaming. She made to strip off her wet and dirty

 clothes, then stopped as she realised that Tarod hadn't

 moved, but was still standing behind her.

  

 Slowly she turned to face him. Drachea was by now

 out of earshot, and there were a hundred questions she

 wanted to ask. But her nerve failed her, for although the

 tall Adept was watching her she had the discomfiting

 feeling that his thoughts were an unimaginable distance

 away. She shivered, and the movement caught his atten-

 tion, seeming to bring him back to reality. He said:

  

 'I'm sorry, Cyllan - I delay you.'

  

 'You remember my name . . . ' She was surprised,

 and irrationally gratified; it was the first time he had

 addressed her personally.

  

 He smiled. 'My memory hasn't failed me yet. And you

 - you recognised me. I was flattered.'

  

 She flushed, sensing irony and not wanting to guess at

 the reason for it. 'I'm sorry.'

  

 'Sorry? For what?'

  

 'For intervening in something that isn't our concern. I

 realise we're not welcome here; that our arrival has been

 . . . inopportune. We won't impose on you longer than

 necessary.'

  

 'Your friend Drachea might not be so obliging.'

  

 She looked up quickly, almost angrily. 'He's not my

 friend.'

  

 'A Margrave's son doesn't associate with a drover-girl

 from choice, is that it?' He saw her face cloud, and

 realised with faint surprise that she was stung by his

 words. The slight had been intended against Drachea,

 and to take the edge from the remark he added, 'Then

 he must be even more of a fool than he seems.'

  

 Some of the hurt faded, but Cyllan was still defensive.

 'We'll go as soon as we can,' she said. 'When we've

 rested.'

  

 'Ah. As to that ...' Tarod sighed. 'I can't explain

 fully, Cyllan; not here and now.' His mouth twisted

 briefly as if his own words had reminded him of some

 private and none too pleasant joke. 'But there's one fact

 that in all conscience I can't keep from you.' In all

 conscience? He had almost forgotten what conscience

 meant . . . 'Now that you have come here,' he con-

 tinued, 'you can't leave.'

  

 She stared at him, not comprehending. 'Can't? But -'

  

 'I mean that it isn't possible. You are, effectively,

 trapped here, and even I haven't the power to change

 matters. I'm sorry.' The last words were chilly, and

 Cyllan felt herself turn cold inside as the animal forebod-

 ing she had felt before awoke yet again. Something

 wrong ... so hideously wrong that it was beyond her

 understanding . . .

  

 Mustering all her courage, she spoke with slow delib-

 eration. 'Tarod - if what you're saying is true, then

 something terrible must have happened here.' Intuition

 made the nape of her neck tingle, and she knew that, as

 happened on rare occasions, it was guiding her surely.

 'Something has happened to you,' she stated.

  

 Tarod knew that she implied far more than she was

 saying. For an instant his gaze filled with such venom

 that she recoiled. Then he took a grip on himself, and

 shook his head. 'You're too perceptive for your own

 good, girl. But if you're wise, you'll make no more

 presumptions. Whatever answers you think you've

 found, they're less than the truth!' Abruptly he turned

 away, and with that movement an invisible but tangible

 barrier seemed to descend between them.

  

 'You'll find robes on a rack at the end of the shelf,' he

 said coldly. 'Make use of anything you please.'

  

 She tried to call after him as he walked away, but the

 words died on her tongue. His footsteps echoed from the

 cavern roof, and the last she saw of him was a black

 shadow that moments later was swallowed by the dark-

 ness on the stairs.

  

 She didn't understand. For a few brief moments

 the impassive mask had relaxed a little; then he had

  

 deliberately and almost contemptuously withdrawn,

 shutting her off as though she were beneath his

 notice.

  

 Which perhaps she was . . . slowly, Cyllan peeled off

 her salt-stiffened shirt and trousers, and sat down on the

 edge of the shelf to let her legs dangle in the water. It was

 surprisingly warm, bringing a stinging, fiery ache to her

 bruised and lacerated feet, and she let herself gently

 down into the quiet depths until she was immersed to her

 shoulders. Her own face, pinched and pale, stared sol-

 emnly back from the mirror-like surface of the pool, and

 not so much as a single ripple spread out to break the

 calm.

  

 She had to forget, as best she could, the confusion and

 fear that were trying to eat at her. She was too tired for

 coherent thought; Tarod's strangeness and the mystery

 surrounding the Castle were too much for her exhausted

 mind. She craved sleep, craved the relative sanity of a

 new day. Then, and only then, could she begin to take

 stock of the predicament she was in, and try as best she

 could to find the answers to her questions.

  

 The water was a soothing balm to aching muscles.

 Cyllan took a breath, then ducked under the smooth

 surface, letting the warmth of the pool suffuse through

 flesh and bone to bring its own form of comfort.

  

 She was lying not on familiar hard ground, but in a bed.

 Her head was cradled by pillows, softer than anything

 she'd ever experienced . . . Cyllan emerged from a

 chasm of sleep, and at first thought she must be dream-

 ing one of the hurtful and unfulfillable dreams of

 another, better life which often plagued her in her tent.

 Then, gradually, memory returned . . .

  

 She had found the rack of bathing-robes when she

 emerged from the pool, and had found Drachea, who

 was waiting for her, wrapped in a similar garment sev-

 eral sizes too large for him. His eyes were haunted and

 he had tried to launch into a flood of questions, protests,

 arguments; but sheer fatigue had the better of them

 both, and they lapsed into silence.

  

 Ascending the stairs seemed more arduous than the

 long toil up the face of the stack. Twice Drachea faltered

 and might have slumped and slept where he stood, but

 for Cyllan's hand which gripped his and urged him on.

 She herself felt sick and feverish with exhaustion, and

 her perceptions sank into a nightmarish miasma, cloud-

 ing awareness. She vaguely remembered seeing Tarod

 again - in her confusion he seemed to have taken on the

 air of some dusty and foreboding spirit rather than a

 living man - and she recalled pleading to be allowed to

 sleep. A hand had touched her forehead - Tarod's or

 Drachea's, she didn't know - then there were blurred

 recollections of more stairs, a long corridor, a door

 which seemed to open without a hand to touch it, and a

 high-ceilinged room furnished with dark draperies. She

 felt a surface that yielded beneath her, then sweet obliv-

 ion claimed her consciousness.

  

 Now though, the tiredness had washed away, and as

 she opened her amber eyes she was instantly alert. The

 bed in which she lay occupied one corner of the room,

 and the gory light from the courtyard, filtering

 through the one window, cast a dim, blood-red sheen

 over the shadowed furnishings. The room's grim un-

 familiarity put Cyllan on guard in spite of her physical

 comfort - that, and an instinct which told her she wasn't

 alone . . .

  

 Very cautiously she turned her head - then uttered a

 sigh of relief as she saw Drachea, half hidden by shadow,

 sitting on the window-ledge.

  

 'Cyllan . . . ?' He rose and came hesitantly towards

 her, and she saw that he had exchanged the robe for a

 shirt, jacket and trousers which weren't his own. 'I've

 been waiting for you to wake.'

  

 She sat up, shaking off the last remnants of sleep, and

 looked quickly around, fearing that other presences

 stood silent and invisible in the bedchamber. Her senses

 discerned nothing untoward . . .

  

 'Here,' Drachea said, dropping a shapeless bundle on

 the bed. 'I found a chest with all manner of garments in

 it. I brought these for you.'

  

 'Thank you . . .' Wondering at his disregard for what

 was, after all, a theft of someone else's property, she

 none the less shook the clothes out and fingered the

 material. Wool - and fine wool at that; a world away

 from the rough fabrics she was used to. But they had still

 been designed for a man . . .

  

 Cyllan pushed down a small and foolish sense of

 insult, and looked at Drachea again. 'How long have I

 slept?' she asked, not quite knowing why she felt the

 need to whisper.

  

 Drachea scowled. 'As well ask the High Margrave as

 ask me - I can barely remember anything since I emer-

 ged from those damned baths! I woke some while ago

 and came to find you. I couldn't make you stir, so I

 waited.' He glanced over his shoulder towards the heav-

 ily curtained window, and shivered. 'And the gods alone

 know how long I've been sitting here. We must have

 slept for hours, but - I looked outside just now. There's

 still not the smallest glimmer of light in the sky. Just as

 before; no sign of the dawn. It's as though the whole

 world has stopped.'

  

 Cyllan looked in the direction of the window again.

 The peculiar crimson hellfire still hung beyond the glass,

 but there was no paler hint of daylight to redeem it.

  

 Drachea shivered, and helped himself to one of the

 blankets from Cyllan's bed. The room wasn't cold, but

 he felt the need of it to stave off an inner chill. 'And as

 for our host, or whatever he chooses to style himself - '

 Suddenly his voice sharpened. 'You recognised him,

 didn't you? And he knew your name. Who is he?'

  

 His tone verged on the accusing, and Cyllan won-

 dered if, in a dark recess of his imagination, Drachea

 suspected her of being involved in some complex plot of

 which he was the victim.

  

 'His name is Tarod,' she said. 'He's the Initiate I met

 . . . when I was here before.'

  

 'An Initiate . . . What's his status?'

  

 'I don't know. I hardly know him, Drachea! All I

 remember is that he's a high Adept; seventh rank, I

 believe.'

  

 Drachea was taken aback. 'That's the highest of all!'

 Chagrined, he remembered his own attempt to treat the

 Adept with disdain, and the memory made him break

 out into a cold sweat. If the half of what he had heard

 about the Circle was true, the man could have destroyed

 him with little more than a look. 'But - where are the

 rest of the Circle?' he demanded. 'All the other Castle

 inhabitants?'

  

 'I don't know, any more than you! Gods, Drachea, all

 I do know - sense - is that something's terribly wrong! I

 felt it when we arrived, I tried to tell you then, but you

 were so intent on gaining entrance to the Castle - '

  

 'And what would you have preferred to do? Sit out-

 side on the stack like some importunate beggar, and wait

 for the wind to strip the skin from your bones? Damn

 you, if- ' And Drachea abruptly took a grip on himself,

 realising that he had been leaning over her as though

 about to strike out in angry frustration. His face

 coloured. 'I'm sorry,' he said with an effort. 'We shoul-

 dn't quarrel. It only makes matters worse.' He sat down

 on the end of the bed. 'Besides, our circumstances

 hardly give us cause for alarm. We're safe from the sea,

 sheltered, rested. There's sure to be an explanation for

 the Castle's desertion - and it can be no great distance to

 the nearest village. From there I can despatch a mes-

 senger to Shu-Nhadek - ' The smile that had spread

 across his face abruptly died as he saw Cyllan's stricken

 expression. 'What is it?' he demanded. 'What's wrong?'

  

 Tarod told me - ' She couldn't finish.

  

 Suspicion filled Drachea's eyes, and behind it lay a

 dawning premonition. 'What did he tell you?'

  

 She couldn't hide it from him. If she didn't tell him

 now, Tarod soon would. 'We can't leave the Castle,' she

 said quietly.

  

 'What?'

  

 Afraid that this time he would be unable to control his

 temper, she went on hastily. 'Drachea, please don't ask

 me to explain, because I can't. I know only what Tarod

 told me - that it's impossible for us to leave. He said . . .

 we are trapped.'

  

 Silence hung as sharp as a knife blade in the room,

 until Drachea explosively broke it.

  

 'Damn him!' He hurled himself off the bed, paced the

 floor like a caged cat. This is insane! The Castle of the Star

 Peninsula - the Circle's own stronghold - empty; one

 Adept who claims that we're prisoners here - it's insane!'

  

 Cyllan was on the verge of tears; a state that had been

 rare throughout her harsh life. She could understand

 Drachea's fury, but the instinct which had guided her

 with such alarming clarity thus far told her that no

 amount of ranting and raving would alter their predica-

 ment. And although she couldn't begin to comprehend

 the truth behind Tarod's cold revelation, she didn't

 doubt for a moment that it was true.

  

 Drachea came to rest at last with his hands pressed flat

 against the door. He was breathing heavily, trying to

 control his anger.

  

 'Where is he?' he said through clenched teeth. 'Adept

 or no, I'll have this out, and now! He can't treat an Heir

 Margrave in this careless fashion - there must be

 searchers looking for me, my parents will be wild with

 distress! He can't do it!' He thumped his fists impotently

 against the unyielding wood, then a little of the rage

 drained from him and he turned to look searingly at

 Cyllan.

  

 'Come with me or stay as you please - I'm going to

 find your Initiate friend and remind him of his

 responsibilities!'

  

 Despair flooded Cyllan. Drachea was reacting like a

 thwarted child, and in his current mood she shuddered

 at the thought of the conflict that might ensue. But,

 remembering Tarod's distant coldness, she reminded

 herself that, petulant or no, the Margrave's son was her

 only sure ally.

  

 She slid from the bed, reached for the clothes Drachea

 had brought her, and hastily began to dress.

  

 Finding Tarod proved to be less easy than they had

 anticipated. Drachea strode through the empty, echoing

 corridors of the Castle, stopping to fling open doors,

  

 twice shouting furiously in his frustration, but there was

 no answering footstep, no sign of movement. Cyllan

 caught up and followed him, trying to ignore the leaden

 weight that seemed to have settled in her stomach. Her

 unease was increasing with each moment, and she was

 torn between hoping that Tarod would choose to show

 himself before Drachea's frail hold on his temper finally

 snapped, and dreading what might happen once the two

 met face to face.

  

 And last they found themselves at the double doors

 which led down the wide, sweeping steps into the court-

 yard. Cyllan stared at the dead scene before them, the

 relentless black walls tinged with a gory crimson cast

 from the unnatural glow that permeated everywhere -

 then a flicker of motion at the edge of vision alerted her.

  

 Tarod's tall figure emerged from a doorway set into

 the foot of the Castle's Northernmost spire. Instinctively

 Cyllan looked up to where the gargantuan tower loomed

 into the night sky, and immediately had to fight back an

 attack of vertigo. Far, far above, at the spire's summit, a

 faint glow burned in a tiny window . . .

  

 'Adept Tarod!' Drachea's voice brought her back to

 earth and she turned her head to see him swaggering

 down the steps to intercept Tarod's path. 'I've been

 looking for you!'

  

 Tarod stopped and regarded the younger man dispas-

 sionately. 'Indeed,' he said.

  

 This time, Drachea's anger was enough to overcome

 awe. He halted three steps from the bottom, so that their

 eyes met on an equal level, and said angrily, 'Yes,

 indeed! And I think that an explanation is long overdue!

 I have just been told that I am, effectively, a prisoner

 here - and I demand to know what you mean by such an

 impertinence!'

  

 Tarod glanced briefly at Cyllan, who flushed. Then he

 folded his arms and regarded Drachea as though he were

 some unknown species.

  

 'I told Cyllan nothing but the truth,' he said with cool

 disinterest. 'And as your uninvited presence here is

 none of my doing, so the fact that you must stay is

  

 something I can't influence. Believe me, you don't

 regret it any more than I do!'

  

 Drachea was far from satisfied. 'This is outrageous!

 I'd remind you that I'm not some peasant whose absence

 counts for nothing! My clan will be searching for me, the

 militia will have been alerted - if I'm not found, then I

 warn you, there will be severe consequences!'

  

 Tarod pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb

 and forefinger, and sighed with irritation. 'Very well. If

 you wish to leave - if you believe you can do so - then

 go. I'm not your jailer, and the gates aren't locked.'

  

 Drachea had been on the verge of a fresh tirade, but

 now he stopped, nonplussed. He looked at Cyllan and

 frowned.

  

 'Well?' he said, gesturing towards the Castle gates.

  

 'No, Drachea. It's pointless.' She shook her head,

 knowing in her bones what would happen; knowing,

 too, that there was nothing to gain from trying to con-

 vince Drachea. He had to find out for himself.

  

 He gave her a scathing glare, and strode across the

 courtyard. Cyllan hoped that Tarod might turn to her,

 say something to dismantle the icy wall that he seemed

 to have built around himself, but he didn't move.

 Drachea reached the gates and began to wrestle with

 them; they swung easily enough on vast, well-kept

 hinges, and he started out -

  

 And stopped. Even at this distance Cyllan could share

 the appalled fear that swamped him as he stared out

 beyond the Castle, at nothing.

  

 She could see it for herself as the great gate swung

 noiselessly back. Not fog, not even darkness, but a void,

 so unutterably empty that it made her feel sick just to

 look at it. Drachea uttered a single, inarticulate cry and

 stumbled back. As he released his hold on the gate it

 closed once more, of its own volition, and slammed into

 place with a dull boom that made Cyllan jump.

  

 The Heir Margrave returned slowly to where they

 stood waiting. His face was the colour of putty, and his

 hands shook as though he had a fever. At last he stop-

 ped, at a safe distance from Tarod.

  

 'What is it?' he grated through grey lips.

  

 Tarod smiled with more than a trace of malice. 'Didn't

 you feel the inclination to step through and find out?'

  

 'Damn you, there's nothing out there! It's like - it's

 like the darkness of all the Seven Hells! Not even the

 stack to be seen! Cyllan -' he appealed to her. 'When we

 came here - there was a world beyond! The beach, the

 rock - it wasn't illusion?'

  

 'No . . . ' Yet there had been the mist; and the terrible

 feeling that the real world lay somewhere out of reach. . .

  

 Drachea turned again to Tarod and almost pleaded.

 'What does this mean?'

  

 Unmoved, Tarod regarded him coldly. 'I've told you

 that you can't leave the Castle. Do you now believe me?'

  

 'Yes

  

 'And will you, then, believe that I can't change

 matters?'

  

 'I - ' Drachea hesitated, then burst out, 'But you're a

 High Adept of the Circle!'

  

 Tarod's eyes narrowed. 'I was.'

  

 'Was? Then have you lost your power?' The words

 were a fear-driven challenge. Tarod didn't answer, but

 instead his left hand moved slightly. Cyllan was just able

 to glimpse something on his index finger before his form

 was blurred by a dark aura that seemed to flow out from

 within him, swallowing even the grim red light. The air

 turned bitterly cold as Tarod raised his hand higher,

 holding it, palm upward, towards Drachea.

  

 What Drachea saw, Cyllan would never know and

 preferred not to speculate. But his eyes stared, starting

 almost from their sockets, and his jaw dropped in a

 rictus of sick terror. He tried to speak, but could only

 utter a tormented moan - then he sank to his knees on

 the steps, doubled over and retching with blind, helpless

 fear.

  

 'Stand up.' Tarod's voice rang harshly, and the dark

 aura winked out of existence. Cyllan stared at the tall

 Adept, horrified by the sheer inhumanity of what he had

 done - and by the magnitude of the power he had

 commanded with such careless ease. Now, the only hint

  

 of what had gone before was an echo of something

 unholy in Tarod's green eyes . . . but she wouldn't

 forget it easily.

  

 Drachea staggered to his feet and turned his head

 away. 'Damn you - '

  

 Tarod interrupted him, speaking very softly. 'You

 see, I have power, Drachea. But even my skills aren't

 sufficient to break down the barrier and allow you your

 freedom. Now do you begin to understand?'

  

 Drachea could only nod, and Tarod inclined his head

 in acknowledgement. 'Very well. Then you shall have

 your explanation.' He turned to look at Cyllan. 'He'll

 need help to reach the dining-hall. And perhaps you can

 make him understand that I had no desire to harm him.

 He simply had to be shown.'

  

 Was he trying to justify himself, Cyllan wondered? If

 he regretted his behaviour towards Drachea, his voice

 showed no sign of it. She licked dry lips, nodded, then

 tried to take Drachea's arm. He shook her off angrily

 and turned his back, walking with rigid dignity ahead of

 them towards the double doors.

  

 The remote, dusty shadows of the Castle's great dining-

 hall were beginning to grow unpleasantly familiar to

 Cyllan. Entering, she had to suppress an instinctive

 shiver at the sight of the long, empty tables, the gaping

 fireplace, the heavy curtains that hung without a trace of

 a draught to stir them. The Castle seemed to mock the

 life which had once filled it.

  

 Tarod moved to the fireplace, while Drachea stopped

 at one of the tables, staring down at the wood and

 seeming to find something in the grain to absorb his

 interest. His face was still an unhealthy grey in the wake

 of Tarod's unpleasant demonstration in the courtyard,

 and his eyes smouldered with hatred. Cyllan realised

 that the shock of that experience had gone deep, and she

 wondered how much more he could withstand. With so

 much damage already done, any further strain could

 send him over the thin dividing line between sanity and

 madness.

  

 Tarod's voice cut across her thoughts. 'Sit down,

 Drachea. Your pride is commendable, but it seems

 pointless now.' Their eyes met, clashed, then Tarod

 added, 'Perhaps my demonstration was precipitate . . .

 if so, I'm sorry.'

  

 Drachea stared back with wordless fury before

 abruptly subsiding on to a bench. It was on the tip of

 Cyllan's tongue to ask Tarod point-blank why he had

 chosen to demonstrate his powers with such callous

 disregard for the consequences; but she couldn't sum-

 mon the courage. The respect and admiration which he

 had originally inspired in her were badly shaken by the

 incident in the courtyard; she was being forced to reas-

 sess the impressions of those two previous meetings, and

 they seemed a world away. Silently, she moved to sit

 beside Drachea. Under Tarod's steady, impassive gaze

 she had the discomfiting feeling that he and they were

 adversaries facing each other across a battle-line.

  

 Tarod regarded them, reluctant as yet to speak. He

 needed to learn the details of whatever inexplicable

 twist of Fate had brought them through the barrier

 between Time and no-Time, in the hope that it might

 provide him with a desperately needed clue to his own

 dilemma; but in return he was bound to explain the truth

 of that dilemma to them. Or at least, as much of the truth

 as would suit his own purposes . . .

  

 It all hinged on a question of trust. Tarod had learned,

 through bitter experience, that to trust even those who

 professed to be closest to him was a dangerous and self-

 destructive game. And if Cyllan and Drachea were to

 discover the full facts behind his story, he could rely on

 their enmity but on little else. Already the seeds were

 sown - his angry reaction to Drachea's challenge in the

 courtyard had been no more than a catalyst that trig-

 gered the young man's already unstable emotions, but it

 had spawned a fear that was fast growing into deep

 hatred. Drachea's good opinion was of no interest

 to Tarod; but it would be as well to alienate him no

 further.

  

 Cyllan was another matter. Her thoughts were a

  

 closed book to him, yet his feelings towards her were

 kinder. She had a rare inner strength that he could

 acknowledge and appreciate . . . but even she, if faced

 with the full truth, was unlikely to prove a willing ally.

 And impinging on the detached disinterest with which

 he viewed her opinion or her eventual fate was a worm

 of reluctance to take any steps which might do her harm.

 The old debt, which he had never repaid, seemed to call

 to a sense of honour and conscience that he had all but

 forgotten, and the sensation was uncomfortably alien.

  

 The safest course, he felt, was to compromise - to tell

 them as much of the truth as they needed to know in

 order to be of use to him, whilst side-stepping the full

 story. It would be easy enough - even the arrogant

 young Heir Margrave would be unlikely to dare ques-

 tion the Circle's ways.

  

 He spoke, so abruptly that Drachea jumped. 'I prom-

 ised you an explanation, and I don't break my word. But

 first, I must know how you came to the Castle.'

  

 'Must?' Drachea echoed. 'I think you're in no position

 to make demands of us! When I consider the cavalier

 treatment I have received since - ' And he stopped as

 Cyllan, who had seen the flash of irritation in Tarod's

 eyes, ground her heel hard against his instep.

  

 'Drachea, I believe we owe it to Tarod to tell our story

 first,' she said, praying that he wouldn't be so foolish as

 to lose his temper. 'After all, we are the intruders here.'

  

 Tarod glanced at her, apparently amused. 'I appreci-

 ate your consideration, Cyllan, but it's not a question of

 courtesy,' he said. 'Some accident brought you to the

 Castle, and you want to leave. I believe, as I've told you,

 that that's impossible - but it may be that something in

 your story will prove me wrong.' He looked at Drachea

 again. 'Does that satisfy the Heir Margrave?'

  

 Drachea shrugged irritably. 'Very well; it's reason

 enough. And as Cyllan is so anxious to please you, she

 might as well speak for us both!'

  

 Cyllan glanced at Tarod, who nodded encourage-

 ment. And so she began to tell of the Warp and its

 aftermath in as much detail as she could recall. But

  

 trying to describe the apparition that had appeared in

 the street outside the White Barque Tavern, she fal-

 tered, and Tarod frowned.

  

 'A human figure? Did you recognise it?'

  

 'I . . . ' She looked up at him, her eyes troubled. 'I

 thought I did, but . . . now I don't know, and I can't

 visualise it. It's as if the memory has been - blotted out,

 somehow.' She looked to Drachea for help, but he only

 shook his head.

  

 Frustrated, Tarod gestured for her to continue, listen-

 ing carefully as she explained how they had survived the

 Warp only to find themselves in the middle of the North-

 ern sea, with the day turned shockingly to night.

  

 'I thought we'd both drown before we could reach

 land,' Cyllan said, 'and so I called to the fanaani for

 help.' She swallowed. 'If they hadn't answered, we

 would have died then.' She looked up again, and Tarod

 knew that she was remembering a Summer day in West

 High Land, when she had led him down a treacherous

 cliff-face to show him where the Spindrift Root could be

 found. They had seen the fanaani then, heard their

 bittersweet singing ... he pushed the memory aside; it

 no longer interested him.

  

 'Go on with your story,' he said.

  

 She bit her lip, and without any further show of emotion

 recounted the rest of the tale, to the moment when she and

 Drachea had finally reached the top of the stack and found

 themselves facing the Castle of the Star Peninsula.

  

 There's no more to tell,' she said finally. 'We entered

 the Castle, and we thought it deserted . . . until we met

 you.'

  

 Tarod said nothing. He seemed to be lost in thought,

 and finally Drachea couldn't stand the ensuing silence.

 He twisted around on the bench and brought one fist

 down on the table-top.

  

 The Castle of the Star Peninsula, deserted!' he said

 savagely. 'No Circle, no High Initiate - only one Adept

 who tells us that the outside world is beyond our reach,

 and gives no answers to our questions that make any

 sense! A seemingly endless night, with no sign of the

  

 dawn - it's insanity? He stood up. Now that the first

 words were out, they had opened a floodgate. 'I'm not

 dreaming,' he went on, his voice growing harsher, 'and

 I'm not dead - my heart still beats, and even the Seven

 Hells can't be like this place! Besides,' he pointed at

 Cyllan, 'she knew you - she recognised you. You live -

 therefore we must be alive also.'

  

 'Oh, yes; I live.' Tarod stared at his own left hand.

 'After a fashion.'

  

 Drachea tensed. 'What d'you mean, after a fashion?'

  

 'I mean that I'm as alive as anything can be, in a world

 where Time doesn't exist.'

  

 Drachea had been pacing alongside the table, but

 stopped in his tracks. 'What?'

  

 Tarod gestured towards one of the tall windows. 'As

 you so astutely remarked, dawn hasn't broken. Nor will

 it break. Tell me; are you hungry?'

  

 Nonplussed by the apparently irrelevant remark,

 Drachea shook his head angrily. 'No, damn it! I've got

 more important matters on my mind than - '

  

 'When did you last eat?' Tarod interrupted.

  

 Drachea suddenly understood the implication, and

 his face paled. 'In Shu-Nhadek . . . '

  

 'Yet you feel no hunger. Hunger needs Time to

 develop, and there is no Time here. No hours, no change

 from day to night; nothing.'

  

 Very slowly, as though doubting his ability to co-ordi-

 nate his movements, Drachea sat down. Now his com-

 plexion was ashen and he found his voice only with great

 difficulty.

  

 'You're telling me . . . seriously telling me . . . that

 Time itself has ceased to exist?'

  

 'In this Castle, yes. We are in limbo. The world out-

 side continues, but here . . . ' He shrugged. 'You've

 seen it for yourself.'

  

 'But . . . how did it happen?' Drachea was torn

 between disbelief and a terrible fascination with a mys-

 tery beyond his understanding. After the initial outburst

 he had himself under control, only a faint tremor in his

 voice betraying any emotion.

  

 Tarod studied his left hand again. 'Time was

 banished.'

  

 'Banished? You mean that someone - but who, in the

 name of the gods? Who could have done such a thing?'

  

 'I did.'

  

 There was silence. Drachea, wide-eyed, was trying to

 assimilate the idea of a power so titanic that it could halt

 Time - and the concept that a single man, however

 skilled, could wield it. Tarod watched him, outwardly

 impassive but inwardly apprehensive, waiting to see

 how he would finally respond - until the tension was

 broken by Cyllan.

  

 She said, simply, 'Why, Tarod?'

  

 He turned to look at her, and had the discomfiting

 feeling that, against his private predictions, she was

 prepared to believe him. Suddenly he laughed, coldly.

  

 'You accept the word of an Initiate for something

 that, to any right-minded citizen, should surely seem

 impossible,' he said. 'Does the Circle really have so

 much influence?' Cyllan flushed, and the laughter faded

 to a humourless smile. 'I meant no slight. But I hadn't

 anticipated such unquestioning belief.'

  

 A bench grated against the floor as Drachea moved to

 sit beside Cyllan once more. His gaze didn't leave

 Tarod's face, and his expression was an odd mixture of

 uncertainty, wariness and curiosity. When he spoke, his

 voice was steadier than it had been.

  

 'Let us say, Adept Tarod, that we do accept the truth

 of your story - so far as it goes. I don't claim knowledge

 of the Circle's capabilities, and maybe an Initiate can

 wield a power that's capable of stopping Time. But

 you've not answered Cyllan's question. And besides - if

 you could banish Time, for whatever purpose, why can

 you not recall it again?'

  

 Tarod sighed. 'There is a stone; a gem,' he said

 quietly. 'I used it as a focus to summon the necessary

 power for my work. When Time ceased to exist, I lost

 the stone . . . and without it I can't alter this

 predicament.'

  

 'Where is the stone now?' Cyllan asked.

  

 'In another part of the Castle - a chamber that,

 because of certain anomalies brought about by the

 changes here, I can no longer enter.'

  

 Drachea had been fidgeting with his hands, twisting

 the fingers together. Without looking up, he said, 'This -

 work you speak of. It was a Circle matter?'

  

 Tarod hesitated briefly, then: 'Yes.'

  

 'Then where are your fellow Initiates now?'

  

 'To my knowledge, they're neither in your world nor

 in whatever dead dimension this Castle inhabits,' Tarod

 told him. If Drachea chose to misinterpret what he

 heard, he wasn't about to correct him.

  

 The young man nodded. Then this- circumstance- is

 the result of a Circle working which went wrong?'

  

 Tarod resisted the temptation to smile at Drachea's

 further unwitting irony. 'It is.'

  

 Then it seems that, like it or not, we now share your

 predicament. And unless you can retrieve this gem you

 spoke of, we have no hope of reprieve.'

  

 Tarod inclined his head, but his eyes gave away

 nothing.

  

 'Yet if we have somehow managed to break through

 this barrier - albeit unintentionally - it surely follows that

 it's possible to reverse the process?' Drachea persisted.

  

 'I wouldn't deny that. But my own efforts have thus

 far achieved nothing.' Tarod smiled a small, chilly smile.

 'Of course, it may be that your skills can succeed where

 mine have failed.'

  

 Tarod's sarcasm bit home, and Drachea gave him an

 angry glance. 'I wouldn't presume to suggest it, Adept.

 But it strikes me that we'd be better occupied in at least

 trying to solve this conundrum, if the only alternative is

 to wait apathetically for eternity!'

  

 Tarod saw the motive behind Drachea's words, and it

 confirmed his belief that the young man would prove

 troublesome. Hiding his annoyance, he said indif-

 ferently, 'Perhaps.'

  

 'Certainly it's worth further investigation.'

  

 'Indeed it is.' Tarod rose. Then maybe you'd care to

 consider the problem at your leisure.' He smiled thinly.

  

 'After all, we don't have the constraints of Time to

 hinder us.'

  

 'No . . . ' Drachea's confident mask slipped and he

 glanced uneasily around him at the empty hall.

  

 'And now, if you'll forgive me . . . ' Tarod looked at

 Cyllan, then away. 'I think there's little more we can say

 to each other at this stage.'

  

 Drachea might have argued, but Cyllan gave him a

 warning glance and he subsided, making the best of the

 dismissal. 'Come, Cyllan. We've taken up too much of

 the Adept's time - ' he checked himself. 'A slip of the

 tongue - old concepts still linger.' He bowed, not

 entirely courteously. 'We'll take our leave of you.'

  

 Tarod watched them go, and when they were out of sight

 he made a small, impatient gesture. The hall doors swung

 noiselessly shut, and he subsided on to the nearest bench.

  

 Drachea's efforts to dissemble had been clumsy and

 amateurish; but his attitude was clear enough. The

 young man's suspicions were aroused, and that could

 prove irritating. There was little he could do to upset

 Tarod's plans, embryonic as they yet were, but his intru-

 sion was an annoying complication none the less.

  

 Tarod sighed, aware that it wasn't worth the trouble

 of taking any action at this stage. If Drachea proved too

 tiresome, dealing with him could be an enjoyable if brief

 diversion . . .

  

 He rose, crossed the hall. The doors opened once

 more to allow him through, and he walked to the main

 entrance. Cyllan and Drachea were nowhere in sight,

 doubtless making their way to one of the Castle's empty

 rooms, to confer. Tarod laughed shortly and softly, and

 the sound gave back a peculiar echo that might almost

 have been another, alien voice. Then he turned out of

 the door and down the courtyard steps towards the

 Northern spire.

  

 Chapter 4

  

 Drachea stalked into Cyllan's chamber, leaving her to

 close the door behind them both. As she followed him

 into the room, he said, 'Well?'

  

 Cyllan recognised the challenge in his eyes and in his

 voice, and turned away, torn between conflicting feel-

 ings. Every instinct warned her against trusting Tarod

 without question; yet she and Drachea were uneasy

 allies at best, and, irrationally, his attitude now put her

 on the defensive.

  

 'I don't know,' she said.

  

 'You don't know?' Drachea's voice was laced with

 incredulous contempt. 'You're not telling me that

 you're prepared to take the word of that - that

 tyrant?'

  

 Cyllan's eyes flashed angrily. 'I said no such thing! But

 neither am I willing to condemn out of hand without

 more knowledge!'

  

 'Then you're more of a fool than I thought you.' He

 raked her with a searing glance in which she saw the

 echoes of the wide gulf between them. The fact that she

 was unwilling to accept his judgement as superior to her

 own infuriated him; and he paced across the room,

 tension radiating from every muscle.

  

 'First, he launches an unjustified and unprovoked

 attack on me - is that the behaviour of an Adept? And

 then he tells us a story of some Circle ritual that went

 wrong; as unlikely a tale as ever I've heard! He's lying to

 us; I'm certain of it!'

  

 Cyllan moved to the window and stared out across the

 gloomy, silent courtyard. 'There's one fact we can't

 escape, Drachea,' she said with an edge to her voice.

  

 'We're trapped here. Whatever your view of Tarod, you

 can't deny that he spoke the truth in that regard.'

  

 'Can't I?' Drachea retorted savagely. 'For all we

 know, he could have his own reasons for holding us

 prisoner. The son of a Province Margrave would do well

 as a hostage, if his captor had sufficient motive - '

  

 Cyllan swung round. 'A hostage?' she echoed,

 astonished by the conceit of the idea. 'What need would

 a high Adept have of a hostage?'

  

 'Damn it, how should I know?' Drachea shouted. 'It

 makes as much sense as anything else here! And besides

  

 - ' His expression worked into a sneer, 'I have only his

 word - and yours - that he's an Adept at all.'

  

 That's ridiculous - '

  

 'Is it? Or arc you so jealous of your claim to comrade-

 ship with such an exalted figure that you'll hear no word

 against him?'

  

 Cyllan bit back the furious retort that came to her lips

 as she realised, with chagrin, that Drachea had made a

 fair point. She was prejudiced—old memories had a hold

 on her still. And that could set a dangerous precedent

  

 Think about it,' Drachea said obsessively, starting to

 pace again. The Castle of the Star Peninsula trapped in

 some unimaginable dimension, beyond the reach of

 Time. Very well, I grant the point you made; that much

 we can perhaps believe. The Circle gone - dead, fled, in

 limbo; we don't know. One man remaining, who implies

  

 - implies, mark you; he was careful to admit nothing

 directly, but allowed me to draw my own conclusions -

 that it's all the result of some hideous accident, and that

 he has no power to right matters. And we are expected

 to believe him?' He snorted. 'I'd as soon trust a snake!'

  

 Cyllan's sense of justice protested at the sweeping

 condemnation, but she bit her tongue. 'What, then, do

 you think is the truth?' she asked.

  

 Drachea shook his head. 'Aeoris alone knows the

 answer to that!' Reflexively he made the White God's

 sign as a mark of respect, then continued, 'You remember

 my telling you of the rumours rife in Shu? No word from

  

 the Castle, and a garbled tale of some trouble or danger

 in West High Land. This is the root of those rumours; it

 must be! There's something evil afoot - I feel it - and I

 feel, too, that it's of Tarod's making.'

  

 Although deep down a part of her rebelled, Cyllan

 couldn't in all conscience argue with him. Too much of

 what he said rang uncomfortably true - and she, too,

 sensed the pervading threat of something dark and

 unholy that haunted the Castle. But if some black pur-

 pose lay behind Tarod's actions, she couldn't begin to

 imagine what that purpose might be.

  

 Involuntarily, her gaze roamed to where old, dis-

 carded clothes lay on the window-ledge. The pouch

 containing her precious pebbles was among them; and it

 was possible, even here, that the old skills might work

 and allow her to uncover some clue to the mystery. But

 immediately, an inner voice said vehemently, no! She

 couldn't do it - a primal and irresistible fear stood in her

 path. She didn't have the courage, for fear of what she

 might see . . .

  

 Drachea, unaware of her dilemma, was staring mood-

 ily out of the window, and suddenly he said, 'He spoke

 of a jewel . . . '

  

 Cyllan looked up. 'A jewel? Yes, I recall it.'

  

 'A focus for the power that halted Time, he said. And

 it's lost - or at least, wherever it is, he can't reach it. And

 he needs it.'

  

 She laughed mirthlessly. 'We need it too, Drachea, if

 we're ever to leave this place!'

  

 'Do we?' He hunched his shoulders like some bird of

 ill omen. 'Or is that, too, a lie? We don't know what that

 stone is or what it can do. If he retrieves it, with or

 without our aid, who's to say what the consequences

 might be? The return of Time, and with it freedom - or

 something else; something too hideous to imagine?' He

 faced her, eyes ablaze. 'Are you willing to take that risk?

 Because I, for one, am not!'

  

 She didn't answer him, and he crossed the room,

 brushing her out of his path. 'Damn him!' he said

 explosively. 'If he thinks that I'll sit meekly by, awaiting

  

 my fate at his hands, he's wrong! The Castle might be

 abandoned, but its occupants haven't disappeared

 entirely without trace.' He indicated his own borrowed

 clothing. 'There must be clues- documents, records, the

 gods alone know what else. And I'll find them - Aeoris

 help me, I'll find the answers to this mystery, and I'll

 thwart him!' He whirled. 'Well? Are you coming with

 me, or d'you prefer to skulk here?'

  

 His stare reflected the half-pitying, half-con-

 temptuous attitude of a high-ranking citizen towards the

 gutter-born, and Cyllan's pride rebelled against his

 arrogance. 'No,' she replied with an icy edge to her

 voice. 'I'd prefer to skulk here, as you term it!'

  

 'Do as you please.' Drachea strode to the door and

 pulled it open. On the threshold he looked back, but she

 had turned her head away, and he went out into the

 corridor, leaving the door to slam ferociously behind

 him.

  

 When Drachea had gone, Cyllan shut her eyes tightly

 against the wave of bitter resentment that threatened to

 overtake every other thought. Drachea's manner

 towards her was an insult - and she had to admit that it

 also hurt. The comradeship, the sense of fighting on the

 same side, that she might have hoped for in these straits

 was absent - instead, they seemed to be constantly at

 loggerheads. Drachea's attitude had stung her pride to

 the core, and the same pride made her want to retaliate

 in some way; show him that she was more than an

 ignorant and worthless nonentity.

  

 She opened her eyes, and looked at the pouch of

 stones. The clues Drachea was so confident of finding

 were more likely to be found through a seer's craft than

 through any haphazard physical exploration ... if she

 could summon the courage to try.

  

 Obscure fears crowded her brain, arguing violently

 against the idea; this time, Cyllan forced them firmly

 into submission. She had never been a coward; she

 wasn't hampered by the superstitious terrors of ordinary

 folk. What had she to be afraid of? Clenching her hands

  

 into determined fists, she moved towards the window-

 ledge.

  

 Her old clothes were sticky with dried salt, the leather

 pouch stiff and cracking. Cyllan shook the stones out

 into her palm and sat cross-legged on the floor. A

 familiar tingling sensation assailed the nape of her

 neck, a sure sign that her psychic senses were awaken-

 ing; and the suddenness of it took her aback. It was

 almost as though some outside power were pulling at

 her, like a strung marionette. She closed her eyes, and

 instantly a darkness clouded her inner vision, a dense

 blackness which told her that her consciousness was

 giving way to something far deeper. The pebbles burned

 like ice crystals in her cupped hands; she focused the

 darkness, concentrated, pushing back the wave of sick

 fear . . .

  

 A tattoo of small, harsh sounds broke the silence as

 the stones scattered from her hands on to the floor, and

 Cyllan rocked back with a gasp. The psychic surge had

 come quickly, and its sheer strength astounded her. The

 room seemed to dip and recede momentarily as she

 opened her eyes, then her vision righted, and she looked

 down at the pattern the stones had formed.

  

 The largest pebble of all lay in the pattern's exact

 centre. Around it, the others spiralled outwards to form

 seven uneven arms. The design was familiar - horribly

 familiar— and yet she couldn't place it, couldn't remem-ber

  

 'Cyllan.'

  

 She cried out with shock and almost bit through her

 tongue as the strange, silver-edged voice spoke her

 name from empty air. And at the same instant she felt a

 terrible premonition; the grim certainty that something

 stood behind her, in the room, watching . . .

  

 Her throat was so constricted that she could barely

 breathe. And the room's contours were changing, losing

 their solidity, growing alien and fearsome . . . Odd

 colours flickered at the borders of her perception, and

 she felt a chill which pervaded the air, sank into her

 bones . . . Savagely, struggling against the threat of

  

 blind terror, Cyllan forced her muscles to obey her and

 turned her head.

  

 The room was empty. Too empty ... as though the

 real world had winked out of existence, stranding her in

 a half dimension of trickery and phantasm. And despite

 what her eyes told her, she could still sense the presence

 of another intelligence in the chamber. It watched her;

 she felt that it laughed at her inability to see . . . and she

 sensed a cold, sharp knife-edge of evil . . .

  

 A single clap of sound, so loud that it went beyond the

 threshold of hearing, smashed into her head. Through a

 daze of pain she saw the door to her room begin to

 undulate, warping into impossible shapes. An aura

 appeared around it like some nightmarish halo, wild

 colours agitating furiously and all but blinding her.

 Something was approaching; she felt it - something that

 could crush her out of existence as a careless child might

 crush an insect underfoot.

  

 With no warning the door disintegrated, and in its

 place was black light. Cyllan fought desperately against

 the terror of what she knew must be an appallingly

 powerful hallucination, but no amount of reason could

 combat the image of the not-quite-human figure which

 was slowly forming in the heart of the light, or the long,

 thin hand which reached out slowly, compellingly

 towards her.

  

 Cyllan screamed, and knew that no sound escaped her

 lips. Every muscle in her body locked into a rictus, and a

 single, vast spasm racked her from head to foot before

 she fell helplessly, unconscious, to sprawl among her

 scattered stones on the floor.

  

 Drachea's heart was beating uncomfortably fast as he

 made his way down the wide sweep of the Castle's main

 staircase. He was excited at the prospect before him,

 pleased with his decision to take positive action rather

 than passively awaiting developments; and yet the plea-

 sure was heavily laced with apprehension which grew as

 he ventured further from the sanctuary of Cyllan's

 room.

  

 Reaching the foot of the stairs he hesitated, looking

 carefully about to make sure there was no sign of Tarod.

 Beyond the half-open doors the courtyard showed dim

 and uninviting, the blood-red glow intensified by the

 contrasting blackness of walls and flagstones, and

 Drachea's courage began to slip. He wished - though

 nothing would have induced him to admit it to her - that

 Cyllan had accompanied him. He had dismissed her

 refusal carelessly, telling himself he had no need of help,

 but here alone in the gloomy silence the Castle felt

 threatening, an enemy only waiting for the right

 moment to strike at him.

  

 He was also anxious above all to avoid another

 encounter with Tarod. No amount of bravado could

 eclipse his fundamental fear of the Adept, and he imag-

 ined that Tarod wouldn't look kindly on his attempt to

 unravel the Castle's secrets. Memory of what had hap-

 pened in the courtyard turned his stomach momentarily

 to water; with it came a resurgence of hatred, and when

 the sweating terror passed Drachea felt better, buoyed

 up by the anger which was beginning to germinate into a

 desire for revenge. Damn Cyllan - if she chose to skulk

 in that musty room, so be it! He'd find the answers he

 needed, and show her that a Margrave's son had no need

 of a peasant-drover to champion him.

  

 He stepped outside, and glanced up at the Northern

 spire, jagged against the featureless pewter sky. The

 light in the topmost slit of a window was no longer

 visible, but Drachea suspected that Tarod was up in that

 room. All well and good - his own destination lay

 elsewhere, and the thought that he was unlikely to cross

 the Adept's path bolstered his confidence.

  

 To the right of the steps which led down into the

 courtyard was a colonnaded walk, with a door at the far

 end. Odd, Drachea thought, that another way in to the

 Castle should exist so close to the main entry ... it

 suggested some ulterior purpose.

  

 With a further, quick glance towards the spire he ran

 down the steps and along the walkway to the door. It

 opened easily when he lifted the latch, and he felt

  

 disappointed - surely, if it led somewhere significant,

 greater care would have been taken to protect it?

 Expecting perhaps nothing more than a storeroom,

 Drachea peered through - and saw a long, narrow cor-

 ridor that led away, on a downward slope, seemingly

 into the bowels of the Castle. For the first twenty paces

 or so the crimson glow permeated, illuminating ancient

 stains of damp . . . then the passage was swallowed by

 darkness.

  

 The thought of venturing into the black unknown

 beyond the door was enough, at first, to sap Drachea's

 resolve. If Cyllan had been with him -

  

 No, he told himself. He had no need of her. His eyes

 would grow accustomed to the darkness soon enough,

 and if, as he suspected, this passage led him closer to

 some of the Castle's secrets, he might soon have a story

 to tell her that would open her eyes to the truth!

  

 Taking a deep breath - and disliking the old, musty

 smell that hung in the air- he stepped through the door,

 being careful to leave it wide open at his back. The floor

 of the passage was even enough, and as he advanced, his

 vision began gradually to adjust to the dark until he

 could just make out the dim contours of the walls ahead.

 They seemed to go on forever, and always downward

 ... he hesitated, then pressed on, fighting down his

 unease.

  

 The soft sound of his padding footsteps became

 almost mesmeric as he made his way further along the

 corridor. Now and again some trick of acoustics almost

 convinced him that he heard another footfall at his back,

 fractionally out of synchronisation with his own. Once

 he stopped, quickly; thought he heard the illusory steps

 shuffle to a halt behind him, and sweat broke out on his

 forehead and neck. But when he turned, there was

 nothing to be seen . . .

  

 Imagination. The mind played all manner of tricks

 under such circumstances as these. There could be no

 ghosts here . . . Drachea continued on, resisting the

 temptation to whistle aloud as a boost to his courage -

 and suddenly the passage ended at the top of a flight of

  

 steps. He paused, feeling his way cautiously on to the

 first tread, and again looked over his shoulder. Nothing

 untoward . . .

  

 The stairs wound steeply down, and Drachea sensed

 that he was nearing his goal. Then he felt a surge of

 excitement as he saw that, ahead of him, the stairs

 terminated at another door.

  

 It stood open, as though someone had walked care-

 lessly through it only moments before, and beyond it a

 trace of light faintly illuminated a large, vaulted room.

 Eagerly Drachea hastened through, and as he entered

 the vault he tripped over something lying on the floor,

 and went sprawling. He swore aloud - his voice echoed

 loudly, compounding the shock, and as he sat dazedly on

 the hard stone he realised what had brought him down.

  

 Books. Hundreds of them, scattered all over the

 flagstones. Wherever he looked, wherever he put his

 hands, there were tomes and manuscripts and rolled

 parchments, some whole, others split and separated.

 And in the faint glow that pervaded the room he could

 see shelves lining the walls, many of them broken, but a

 few still containing precariously balanced volumes

 which looked as though they might slip and crash down

 at the slightest provocation. It was as though some mad

 scholar had run riot in his own library . . .

  

 Of course - this was the Castle's library! As the rev-

 elation struck him, Drachea immediately forgot his orig-

 inal intention, stunned by the awesome fact that, by

 sheer fortuitous accident, he had literally stumbled on

 the greatest storehouse of arcane knowledge in the

 world. He reached out and picked up the nearest of the

 fallen books, wincing as several damaged leaves came

 loose and fluttered to the floor. All the Circle's secrets,

 its lore, its practices, revealed to his gaze with no one to

 forbid him ... It was more than he could ever have

 dared to dream of!

  

 Drachea opened the book at random and pored over

 it. The script was closely written and hard to make out in

 the poor light, but he deciphered enough to set his pulse

 racing. Initiation rites - the formulae were all here; the

  

 prayers, the incantations - he snatched up another vol-

 ume at random, turned the pages feverishly. This one

 was older, harder still to read ... he put it aside,

 reached for one of the scrolls. Parchment, this: the ink so

 faded that he judged it had been written centuries ago,

 before the process of pulping wood to make a finer

 medium had been invented and had replaced the use of

 animal skin . . . almost reverently, Drachea placed it with

 the first tome, then stood up, looking wildly about him.

  

 He could spend a lifetime here. He could study year

 after year, until he was grey with age, and still never

 slake his thirst for occult knowledge. Envy of the Initi-

 ates who had free run of this unbelievable place filled

 him - and then he checked himself, almost laughing at

 his own absurdity. He had the run of the library now -

 there was no Circle to stand in his way! Only one man,

 and however high an Adept he might be, there were

 ways and means to outwit him. Even if Tarod used the

 library for his own purposes, he wouldn't miss a few

 volumes from among the chaos. And in the sanctuary of

 one of the Castle's upper rooms, Drachea could absorb

 this fabulous knowledge at his leisure.

  

 Cyllan was forgotten; their predicament was forgot-

 ten. Drachea began to search through the books, gather-

 ing up those which seemed to hold the most promise,

 until he had as many as he could carry. He straightened,

 face flushed with exertion and excitement - and froze as

 he heard the sound of footsteps from beyond the vault.

  

 Several books fell from his arms to the floor, and the

 noise they made brought him out in a cold sweat. The

 footfalls were coming from the stairway beyond, slow,

 measured, echoing faintly. Tarod - it had to be!

 Drachea's triumph crumbled before the thought of what

 the Adept might do to him if he discovered his presence

 here, and frantically he looked around for a hiding

 place. At first the library seemed to hold no hope - then

 he saw a door, low and insignificant, half hidden in an

 alcove between two rows of shelves. The books forgotten,

 he ran towards it... and as he reached it the footsteps

 faded away into silence.

  

 Drachea stopped, feeling the icy crawl of gooseflesh

 on his skin. Human footfalls didn't simply die away like

 that. Someone had been approaching, had almost

 reached the bottom of the stairs - they couldn't just

 vanish!

  

 Eyes wide, he looked towards the stairs, dimly visible

 beyond the vault entrance. No shadow moved, and the

 silence was absolute. Fear began to flower into panic,

 and he found himself involuntarily backing away, until

 he collided with the small door. It sprang open, making

 him yell with shock, and he stumbled through.

  

 He was in a long, narrow passage which sloped steeply

 down before him. The faint light that filtered throughout

 the vault was stronger, as if its source lay somewhere in

 that corridor, and a violent shudder racked Drachea, a

 twisting terror that he couldn't name, but which eclipsed

 all other sensation.

  

 Something lurked at the invisible end of the passage.

 He felt it, a palpable presence . . . and it was slowly

 moving towards him. A soft sound, like an echo of not

 quite human laughter, seemed to reverberate in his head

 and he backed away, aware of bile rising in his throat

 and striving to force it back. He could see nothing, but

 he knew it was there ... a presence, a monstrously evil

 presence . . .

  

 The faintest of breaths brushed past his face, and

 Drachea's self-control snapped. Whatever might await

 him on the stairs, it was as nothing compared to the

 unknown horror beyond this door - and he ran like a

 hunted animal, hurling himself across the vault and

 through the arched doorway. On the stairs he fell,

 scrambled to his feet, raced on and upward, while blind

 panic overcame all else. Nothing stood in his way, no

 one appeared suddenly from the shadows to confront

 him, and at last he burst out into the comparative bril-

 liance of the courtyard, collapsing with a bone-jarring

 momentum that scraped the skin from his knees and

 hands.

  

 Drachea rolled over and staggered to his feet, leaning

 against one of the pillars of the colonnade for support

  

 while he fought to get his breath back. The empty court-

 yard felt bleaker and more menacing than ever; shadows

 beyond the reach of the blood-red glow seemed to his

 overworked imagination to form lurking, threatening

 shapes. He shuddered, shutting his eyes against

 unwanted images, and forced himself to gulp stale air

 into his lungs. His pulse began to slow, and eventually he

 opened his eyes again, feeling in better control.

  

 He'd made a fool of himself. There had been no one

 on the vault stairs, and nothing in the corridor beyond

 the small door. He had allowed imagination to run away

 with him, and had panicked at an illusion . . . Drachea

 looked over his shoulder to the entrance through which

 he had come. The thought of returning didn't appeal,

 despite the lure of the books; and with an angry gesture

 in the door's direction he started back to the Castle's

 main entrance. Inside, and halfway to the stairs, he

 stopped. To return to Cyllan with nothing to report

 would be to admit failure, and therefore demean himself

 - something against which he rebelled violently. He

 wouldn't return to the library, as yet (and he dismissed

 the small inner voice which suggested he was afraid to

 return there alone). The Castle must hold many more

 revelations - there were other, and doubtless better,

 places to search for the answers he wanted.

  

 With a swift, furtive glance around to ensure he was

 alone, Drachea hastened away along one of the Castle's

 seemingly endless corridors.

  

 It was sheer fortuitous coincidence which brought

 Drachea at length to the suite of rooms on the ground

 floor of the North and centremost wing. He had reached

 them by a circuitous route, doubling back time and again

 through the warren of passages that threaded

 throughout the Castle, and he was tired, frustrated and

 disheartened when he came upon the studded door with

 its highly polished surface. But as soon as he lifted the

 latch and looked in, he knew he'd stumbled on more

 than merely another empty chamber.

 The room was dominated by a large table with a

  

 carved and padded chair set tidily behind it. A pile of

 papers had been neatly stacked on the table as though

 awaiting imminent attention; an inkstand and several

 pens lay beside them. And Drachea's gaze alighted on

 something else. A seal, half hidden behind the inkstand

  

 He closed the door softly behind him and crossed to

 the table. As his hand reached out towards the seal he

 hesitated, assailed suddenly by a feeling that he was

 trespassing on strictly forbidden ground. If this room

 was what he thought it was, then merely to touch that

 seal would be little short of blasphemy. Yet he had to

 know . . .

  

 Mouth dry, Drachea steeled himself and snatched up

 the seal. The emblem on it reflected bloodily in the

 crimson glow, and he saw that it was a lightning-flash,

 bisecting a double circle.

  

 The seal of the High Initiate himself . . . Reverently,

 and a little fearfully, Drachea laid it back in its place and

 stared about him at the room, feeling suddenly awed.

 This must be - or have been - Keridil Toln's study . . .

 he shivered. He had never seen the High Initiate, but his

 half-imagined ghost seemed to hover in the room,

 watching from whatever unimaginable limbo he now

 inhabited.

  

 Slowly Drachea turned, taking in every detail of the

 shadowy chamber. Everything was perfectly in place, as

 though Keridil Toln had left his room for the last time

 with some premonition of what was to happen. The chill

 that hung in the air was more than physical . . .

  

 He turned his back abruptly to the gaping fireplace,

 which for some inexplicable reason made him doubly

 nervous, and approached the table again. Three shallow

 drawers were set beneath the polished surface on one

 side, and tentatively Drachea tried each in turn. If rec-

 ords of recent events existed, this was surely where they

 would be lodged ...

  

 The first two drawers yielded nothing but sheaves of

 everyday records - tithe lists in the main, and of little

 interest. The third drawer wouldn't yield at first, and

  

 Drachea thought it to be locked - until, abruptly, it

 came free with such force that it fell out of its housing,

 scattering its contents to the floor.

  

 Drachea snatched up one of the papers at random -

 and his heart missed a beat painfully as one word, one

 name, caught his eye. Tarod.

  

 He all but ran to the window, holding the paper up

 against the glass to make the best of what little light

 there was. The paper, he now saw, was a formal docu-

 ment, signed and sealed by the High Initiate and wit-

 nessed by six elders of the Council of Adepts.

  

 It was an execution order.

  

 Drachea put a hand to his mouth, feeling sick with a

 mingling of excitement and horror as the first echoes of

 the truth sounded in his head. His suspicions had been

 right . . .

  

 He tucked the document inside his jacket and fever-

 ishly set about gathering up the other scattered papers.

 At last he found what he had hoped and prayed for - a

 report, written in the same careful and well-formed

 hand as the execution order; and intended solely for the

 eyes of senior Councillors. With it was an opened letter,

 and he recognised the seal of the Sisterhood of Aeoris,

 intertwined with the fish symbol of West High Land

 Province.

  

 West High Land, where the rumours of trouble had

 begun . . . Drachea lowered himself into the carved

 chair, no longer caring whether it belonged to the High

 Initiate or Aeoris himself. Reading was difficult in the

 gloom, but he no longer trusted his legs to support him.

 Silently, avidly, he scanned the letter first. The Lady

 Kael Amion . . . she was Senior at West High Land, it

 seemed; the dispatch she had sent to Keridil Toln was of

 the utmost urgency, and concerned an Initiate and one

 of her own novices. Yes, it began to make sense . . . but

 he needed more; much more.

  

 Drachea's hand was unsteady as he picked up the

 report. He read it in its entirety, only the occasional

 rustle of a new page breaking the room's bleak silence.

 And when he had finished he stood up and, with a

  

 deliberation that suggested he wasn't quite in control of

 his limbs, hid the papers carefully with the first docu-

 ment inside his coat. His face was ashen as he turned to

 look again at the fireplace and the flagged floor in front

 of the hearth. A morbid fascination urged him to go

 closer, to study that part of the floor for signs that would

 prove what he had read beyond doubt; but he couldn't.

 And the High Initiate's words rang too icily true for

 there to be any shadow of disbelief.

  

 He had to show what he had found to Cyllan. He had

 to prove to her that he was right - far more right, in fact,

 that he had ever dreamed. And above all, he needed to

 share the burden of his fear.

  

 Drachea replaced the fallen drawer, straightened the

 seal so that it aligned neatly once more with the pens and

 the inkstand on the High Initiate's table. He closed the

 door of the study quietly behind him and made the sign

 of Aeoris before his heart before turning and hurrying

 back towards the main stairs.

  

 Chapter 5

  

 Tarod's acute senses were alerted by the first inkling of

 something untoward that pervaded his mind. It was as

 though a faint breath of wind had disturbed an utterly

 still day, presaging some change; and it disturbed him on

 a deeper level than he cared to admit.

  

 He rose from the battered, hide-covered chair where

 he had been sitting, and moved silently to the window

 which looked out from the spire's summit over the sick-

 ening drop to the courtyard. Nothing moved there; and

 the sky that seemed to loom so chillingly close to the

 window was still empty and dead. But, somewhere in the

 Castle, something was amiss . . .

  

 A sudden sharp sensation in his left hand surprised

 him; a once familiar feeling which he had almost forgot-

 ten. He glanced at his fingers, at the ruined base of the

 ring which once had held his soul-stone, then flexed the

 hand thoughtfully. Fear was beyond him, but whatever

 it was that had come to disturb the Castle's deathly quiet

 would have struck panic into a mortal man.

  

 Behind him on a small table, amid a clutter of books

 and manuscripts which he had idly gleaned from the

 library vault, stood a sconce containing a single, partly

 burned candle. Tarod moved his left hand over it and a

 pale, nacreous green flame sprang into being. Holding

 his fingers in the flame he coaxed it, drawing it upward

 and outward, watching it respond to his mental com-

 mand until it formed a perfect if sickly halo. The light

 reflected on his face, highlighting gaunt shadows, and

 his eyes narrowed as he looked into the elemental fire

 and beyond it, seeking the source of the disturbance.

  

 He found the source, and, again, it troubled him. At a

  

 single sharp gesture the green fire vanished, and as the

 small room sank once more into darkness Tarod turned

 towards the door. A peculiar compulsion was urging him

 to leave the spire, where he spent so much of his exist-

 ence, and seek out the root of the strange and unex-

 pected shift. He crossed the room, ignoring the jumble

 of scattered artefacts that made it chaotic, and which he

 never took the trouble to clear. He was as indifferent to

 his own comfort as to anything else; but something was

 challenging that indifference, and his curiosity was

 aroused.

  

 Beyond the door, black stone stairs spiralled down

 into crimson-tinged darkness. The door closed softly

 behind him, seemingly of its own accord; then Tarod's

 dark shape faded and merged with the shadows, leaving

 only a brief after-image.

  

 Cyllan hadn't barred her door. Tarod's hand on the latch

 met with no resistance, and he let the door swing open

 gently and slowly. For a moment he thought the room

 empty; then he saw her - and an old, dead memory

 lurched deep within him, momentarily breaking through

 his guard.

  

 Cyllan lay sprawled on the floor, her head twisted at

 an ugly angle and one arm flung crookedly out. She

 looked like a broken doll, and the image she presented

 was instantly superimposed in Tarod's mind by another

 image, another woman. Themila Gan Lin, who since

 childhood had been his dear friend and mentor, lying on

 the floor of the Council Chamber, her life bleeding away

 from the wound inflicted by Rhiman Han's sword . . .

  

 It had been pure accident, a moment of hot-headed

 confusion which had ended in tragedy. Themila hadn't

 had an enemy in the world; the small, elderly historian

 had been like a second mother to many of the younger

 Initiates, and especially so to Tarod when he came,

 clanless and injured, to the Castle. Yet she had died -

 and with her death the whole savage chain of events had

 been unleashed. Cyllan's huddled, broken attitude

 recalled the dying Themila, and Tarod was shocked to

  

 realise that the memory brought back all the pain of her

 loss, as though from a great distance his lost humanity

 was striving to reassert itself.

  

 He crossed the room, ignoring the pebbles which

 slipped and scattered under his feet, and knelt beside the

 girl. She was alive, and there was no outward sign of

 injury; but neither was there any clue as to what had

 struck her down. Tarod's immediate thought was of

 Drachea, but he dismissed the idea, sensing something

 afoot that Drachea couldn't even comprehend, let alone

 influence. The atmosphere of this room was subtly

 changed, charged . . . some power independent of his

 own had been at work, and he couldn't begin to guess at

 its source.

  

 But the motivating force was a less urgent consider-

 ation. Tarod lifted Cyllan, surprised by her lightness,

 and carried her to the bed, taking care to lay her down

 gently. She stirred, mumbled something unintelligible

 then lapsed into stillness once more, and he stood back,

 looking at her. Something had stirred briefly within him,

 conjured by the juxtaposition of Cyllan and Themila in

 his thoughts, and now, though he tried to dismiss it as

 meaningless, another, older part of him was fighting

 back. Ghosts of the past had never troubled him before;

 the past was lost and could never be regained. The

 manner in which he had thwarted Keridil and the Circle

 had seen to that when it rendered him soulless and

 immortal . . . yet something stirred, and he couldn't

 banish it.

  

 On impulse, he sat down on the edge of the bed and

 smoothed Cyllan's tangled hair away from her face. Her

 lip trembled in response, and her eyelids fluttered spas-

 modically. One hand reached up blindly and Tarod took

 hold of it, offering her a physical link with consciousness

 as she began to awake.

  

 'Drachea . . . ?' Her voice was weak and hesitant.

  

 'Not Drachea.'

  

 Her eyes snapped open and she swore aloud in shock,

 a drover's oath that Tarod had never heard uttered in

 the Castle. She pulled away from him like a cornered

  

 animal, and he released her hand, the expression on his

 face hardening into a thin, humourless smile.

  

 'You've suffered no ill effect from your ordeal, I see.'

  

 'I - I'm sorry. I didn't intend . . . ' She shut her eyes

 again, overwhelmed by confusion. She had been trying

 to read the stones - something had come, something from

 outside; and she'd been so afraid - Uneasily she forced

 herself to look at Tarod once more, her eyes hunted. She

 feared him too, but at least his was a physical presence,

 an anchor to hold her back from the edge of the

 nightmare.

  

 'I was trying to read the stones. . .' She had to find an

 outlet for the unformed terror, but her tongue couldn't

 cope with more than a simple statement.

  

 Tarod asked, more gently, 'What did you see?'

  

 'Something came through the door . . . ' she whis-

 pered. He waited, but she offered no further explana-

 tion; and the few words she had spoken disquieted him.

 Something through the door . . . Either Cyllan had

 hallucinated, or she had unwittingly tapped a force that

 shouldn't have been able to exist in the Castle, unless he

 himself had deliberately conjured it. Another, alien

 presence? It surely wasn't possible . . .

  

 Cyllan's voice intruded abruptly on his thoughts. 'I

 thought,' she said slowly, deliberately, 'that you were

 responsible.'

  

 Tarod's eyes lit angrily. 'You think I have nothing

 better to do than divert myself by frightening unde-

 fended women. I thank you for the compliment!'

  

 She was unsure of her ground, yet now that the night-

 marish memory was giving way to reason she could see

 no other answer. 'Who was responsible, then?' she

 countered. 'Drachea? I doubt it!'

  

 Her determined aggression amused Tarod. She

 wasn't afraid of him, and for some inexplicable reason

 he found that pleasing. He laughed, and Cyllan turned

 away sharply.

  

 'Mock me if it entertains you,' she said, 'but I've seen

 no other power here save yours. And you don't seem

 overly concerned how you use it!'

  

 Tarod sighed as the momentary amusement gave way

 to irritation. 'Believe what you like,' he retorted coldly.

 'I'm not interested in your opinion of me, and I assure

 you I had no hand in whatever happened to you. If I'd

 anything to gain from - ' And he stopped, suddenly

 furious as he realised what he was saying. 'Damn you,

 why should I justify myself in your eyes? If you choose to

 bring suffering on your own head by dabbling out of

 your depth, it's no concern of mine!'

  

 Cyllan didn't reply, but rolled over and hid her face in

 the pillow, her attitude radiating mute resentment.

 Exasperated, Tarod reached out and took hold of her.

 'Look at me, Cyllan.' She resisted and he gripped her

 chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. 'I said, look at me!'

  

 She stared back, angry and hurt and defiant at once,

 and he said softly, venomously, 'Don't pit yourself

 against me. I'd take no pleasure in harming you, but

 whether you prosper or perish is of no moment to me

 whatever.' He raised his free hand, the fingers curling in

 a casual, graceful gesture that nonetheless chilled Cyllan

 to the core - then abruptly lowered it again. It would be

 so simple to inspire in her a terror beside which her

 hallucination would pale to nothing; but there seemed

 no point. He could sense the fear in her now, although

 she did her best to hide it, and suddenly he was disgusted

 with himself. She was irrelevant; the idea of wasting

 energy on her was too petty to be worth contemplating-

 and yet he had been on the brink of striking at her as

 though reacting to some personal slight.

  

 He released her, and she drew back quickly, hunching

 against the wall. Irritated, Tarod rose- but before either

 of them could speak, the door of the bedchamber was

 flung open and Drachea burst in.

  

 'Cyllan! Look what-' And he stopped, eyes widening

 as he saw Tarod.

  

 Tarod bowed slightly to him, conveying devastating

 contempt in the apparently careless gesture. 'Heir Mar-

 grave - I trust your explorations have proved fruitful?'

 His gaze alit on the heavy book Drachea carried in his

 hands, then moved, amused, to the young man's face.

  

 Drachea paled, and Tarod crossed the room to lift the

 volume easily from his fingers and study the cover.

  

 'Very diverting.' He flicked a page or two, then

 graciously handed the book back. 'If you have

 difficulty understanding its content, I'm at your

 disposal.'

  

 Two spots of livid colour flamed into life on Drachea's

 cheeks and he made as if to retort angrily; but a brief

 movement of Tarod's hand triggered a force that sent

 him reeling backwards. His spine connected painfully

 with the wall; and by the time he regained breath and

 balance, the Adept had gone.

  

 Drachea stared speechless at the still-quivering door,

 then in a violent movement swung round and hurled the

 book ferociously across the room. The ancient binding

 split in half and pages scattered across the floor.

  

 'Curse him, what in the name of all the hells did he

 want here?' The question was a savage demand; Tarod

 had humiliated Drachea in Cyllan's presence, and he

 was using her as a scapegoat for his anger. Sensing the

 underlying accusation, Cyllan flared back.

  

 'I don't know what he wanted - I didn't have the

 chance to ask him! Something happened while you were

 away; something that -'

  

 He interrupted her, dismissing what she had been

 about to tell him as of no consequence. 'Never mind

 that! I've more important matters at hand.' Fumbling

 inside his jacket, he brought out the bundled papers

 from the High Initiate's study. 'Tarod might well sneer

 at a book from the Castle library, but if he knew I was in

 possession of these he'd sing to a different tune! Look -

 look at them!' He thrust the sheaf towards her chal-

 lengingly. 'I've learned the truth about your Adept

 friend, Cyllan. Go on - read for yourself!'

  

 Cyllan made no move to take the papers. The after-

 math of shock, coupled with Drachea's disinterest in

 her experience and the tension of the brush with Tarod,

 had put her on a knife-edge, and she only glared at

 him.

  

 'By all that's sacred,' Drachea snapped, 'this is no

  

 time to be childish! These documents are vital - for

 Aeoris's sake, will you read them!'

  

 Cyllan's lips whitened and she said harshly, 'And

 where do you think that I learned to read?'

  

 He stared at her nonplussed. 'You mean . . . you've

 had no schooling?'

  

 'No. I can't read, and I can't write. Is that such a

 surprise to you? My clan didn't send me to a tutor-I was

 too busy learning to gut fish and herd cattle!'

  

 She felt mortified, hating herself for having had to

 admit to her own failing. Drachea continued to stare at

 her with an expression that might have been disdain or

 pity; she couldn't tell which. Then he made a sharp,

 dismissive gesture.

  

 'Damn it, what does it matter? If you can't read them

 for yourself, I'll read the documents to you - but you

 must listen!' He snatched at her arm, pulling her with

 him across the room. 'You've got to realise what's truly

 happened here - what Tarod has done, and what he is!'

  

 The urgency in his voice made her quell her resent-

 ment. If he had discovered something vital, then any

 quarrels and tensions between them should be forgot-

 ten, and as he subsided on to the bed she sat beside him,

 peering over his shoulder at the papers.

  

 'This,' Drachea said, brandishing what she took to be

 a letter, 'was written by the Lady Kael Amion, Senior of

 the West High Land Sisterhood Cot - and I don't believe

 anyone would call her word into doubt. Listen; she says

 "My dear Keridil — I have entrusted this letter to the hand

 of my colleague, Sister Erminet Rowald. Your report

 came as a great shock to me, and I can only thank Aeoris

 that in His wisdom He has seen fit to thwart the fugitive

 Tarod, who was apprehended at my own Cot last eve-

 ning. Novice Sashka Veyyil — whose circumstances you

 are, of course, already aware of- was blessed with the

 moral courage to realise her duty, and it is because of her

 swift action that we are able to deliver this man into your

 safe keeping. It is a sad day for Circle and Sisterhood

 alike when such evil is uncovered, but with Light and

 Law to guide us we shall prevail. Charity commands that

  

 I should pray for a condemned man's soul; I would

 therefore be obliged if you will apprise me of the date set

 for Tarod's execution -"

  

 Cyllan interrupted, her voice low and incredulous.

 'Execution . . . ?'

  

 Drachea laughed sharply. 'Oh, yes! And there's

 more; far more.' He set the letter aside, picked up

 another document. 'It's here - in Keridil Toln's own

 hand! This is the High Initiate's report of the trial and

 planned execution of our good friend Tarod!'

  

 Cyllan stared at the papers, stunned. The writing was

 meaningless to her, and she railed against her own defi-

 ciency. Something within her protested that Drachea

 must be wrong; that the Circle could never have cause to

 condemn one of their own . . .

  

 'But Tarod's a high Adept,' she said uneasily. 'That

 much we know is true.'

  

 'Adept he may be. But what man is it who carries his

 soul in a gemstone?'

  

 'What?'

  

 'It's nothing less than the truth. Tarod's no ordinary

 mortal; he never has been. The High Initiate discovered

 his real identity.' Drachea paused for dramatic effect,

 then added: 'Tarod is not human!'

  

 Cyllan felt a deep-rooted shudder rack her, as though

 some inexplicable and indecipherable premonition were

 at work. 'Then . . . what is he?'

  

 Drachea looked nervously about the room, as though

 convinced that some unholy presence was watching

 them. The shadows were still and silent, and, before

 courage could fail him, he whispered, 'Chaos.'

  

 The word sent knives through Cyllan's nerves, and

 instinctively she made the sign of Aeoris before her

 face. Every instinct rebelled against the concept - it

 was an impossibility. And Tarod, one of Aeoris's own

 servants -

  

 'Chaos is dead . . . ' She barely recognised her voice.

 'It - it can't be true, Drachea. It can't!'

  

 'When I was a child,' Drachea said, 'I once heard an

 Adept speak at a Summer Quarter-Day celebration. He

  

 exhorted us always to keep faith with the cause for which

 the gods came to this world and fought the last great

 battle against the Old Ones. He warned us always to be

 vigilant, lest Chaos should one day return. And now

 ... it would seem that his exhortation was well

 founded.'

  

 'But Aeoris himself banished Chaos!' Cyllan pro-

 tested. To suggest that the dark powers might defy the

 gods - ' She shuddered. 'It smacks of blasphemy.'

  

 Then you call the High Initiate a liar?' Drachea coun-

 tered. As her eyes widened, he went on, 'Keridil Toln

 knew. He discovered what Tarod truly is, and set out to

 destroy him.' Again he glanced around the room, then

 added darkly, 'It seems that he failed.'

  

 Cyllan stood up and went to the window, staring out at

 the now disquietingly familiar vista of the hellfire-lit

 night. Unwillingly, she found her gaze drawn to the

 Northern spire. No light burned there, and she looked

 away.

  

 Chaos. She couldn't make herself believe it. All that

 time ago on the cliffs of West High Land, she had met a

 man, not a demon. And yet she remembered her terror

 when she had woken in this room to find Tarod's hand

 gripping hers. He had claimed to know nothing of the

 nightmare which had assailed her; now though, her

 doubts were swelling into a fearful certainty that only he

 could have been responsible. An insane part of her

 wanted to give Tarod the benefit of the doubt; but she

 knew that to do so could put herself and Drachea into

 unimaginable danger. She couldn't take the risk.

  

 Turning back towards the bed she said quietly, 'Read

 me the papers, Drachea. Please. I want-I want to know

 all that they say.'

  

 And so, while she sat silent beside him, Drachea read

 the High Initiate's detailed report. The story began to

 form a frighteningly cohesive picture; Tarod's near-

 death from an overdose of the Spindrift narcotic, the

 taking of the old High Initiate, Jehrek Banamen Toln's

 life; the encounter with Yandros, Lord of Chaos, and

 the revelation that the gemstone of Tarod's ring was the

  

 repository for a life-essence created by the Chaotic

 powers . . . and there was far more, as Tarod and the

 High Initiate began to clash. But finally the document

 posed its own mystery, ending merely with Keridil

 Toln's statement, undated, that 'on this night, the being

 called Tarod will die'.

  

 There was utter silence when Drachea stopped speak-

 ing. Cyllan's finger traced the wax seal at the foot of the

 execution order - he had read it to her, and its stark

 simplicity was somehow the ugliest condemnation of all.

 She felt the contours of the High Initiate's symbol, the

 double circle with its bisecting lightning-flash, and at last

 said, softly,

  

 'But he didn't die . . . '

  

 Drachea gave her a look that was impossible to inter-

 pret. 'No ... he thwarted them. By halting Time itself.

 Gods!' The thought made him shiver, then he collected

 himself and managed to summon a faint smile. 'But it

 was an empty victory, wasn't it? When the trap was

 sprung, he too was caught in its jaws, and now he can't

 escape.'

  

 Cyllan hugged herself uneasily and said, 'Unless he

 should regain the stone he spoke of, and use it to call

 back Time.'

  

 'Yes - and now we know the true nature of that gem!

 A soul, born of Chaos ... it doesn't bear thinking

 about.' He stood up, strode across the room. 'Just imag-

 ine what the consequences of his retrieving that stone

 could be! Without it, he's powerful enough - as I can

 attest. The Circle have already failed to defeat him once

 - can you envisage what he might be capable of, if that

 stone were in his possession once more?'

  

 Cyllan could, and shied away from the thought. But

 she couldn't escape the other consideration that haunted

 her, and to which she could find no answer.

  

 She said, hesitantly, 'And yet without the stone, we

 are as trapped as Tarod. We can't leave, and even he

 hasn't the power to release us.'

  

 'If he should choose to,' Drachea put in darkly.

  

 Cyllan smiled with irony as she recalled Tarod's words

  

 to her. 'Why should he not? He's not interested in us -

 and we're of no use to him.'

  

 'Aren't we?'

  

 She frowned. 'What do you mean?'

  

 'I mean that we might be able to succeed in retrieving

 that gem where he has failed. There's something - some

 power - preventing him from getting his hands on it. But

 if we're not bound by that same power, then we're

 invaluable to Tarod.' Drachea paused, thinking. 'We

 broke through the barrier that separates the Castle from

 the rest of the world. We don't know how it happened,

 and neither does he - you saw how shocked he was at our

 arrival. If we can reach that stone, he'll use us to do so.

 And then . . . ' He let the sentence hang unfinished.

  

 Cyllan looked again towards the blood-red light

 beyond the window. The thought of what might happen

 once the stone was in Tarod's possession was terrifying;

 yet without it, there could be no hope of escape. Eter-

 nity, spent in a world enclosed by four black walls,

 companioned only by Drachea and by a man who was no

 mortal man at all, but owed his origins to something

 beyond her comprehension . . . never changing, never

 ageing, denied even the release of death. Suddenly she

 smiled thinly to herself. Was that prospect so much

 worse than the life she had known? At least here there

 was no hardship, no endless toil. Here, she wanted for

 nothing. Except, perhaps -

  

 Drachea broke abruptly into her reverie. There is a

 way,' he said, 'just one way to escape this place without

 playing into Tarod's hands. We must find the stone for

 ourselves, and use it.'

  

 Cyllan turned and stared at him. 'Find and use it?' she

 echoed, incredulous. 'Drachea, this is no child's bauble!

 If what is in those papers is true, then that gem is a thing

 of Chaos! Are you or I such great adepts that we would

 dare to use it, even if we could?'

  

 'We can at least try!' Drachea insisted stubbornly.

 'Have you a better plan? No, I see you've not! Look - '

 He darted to the bed and scooped up the scattered

 documents. 'The High Initiate speaks of a chamber

  

 called the Marble Hall. It seems to be the Circle's sanc-

 tum; the place where the most sacred rites are per-

 formed and the most sacred artefacts kept.' He grinned.

 'You'll recall that Tarod chose to be cryptic on the

 subject of the gem's whereabouts. It's my belief that if

 we can find the Marble Hall, we'll find that stone, too.'

  

 'A place that for some reason Tarod can't enter . . .'

 Cyllan mused. Drachea's theory seemed plausible.

  

 'Or won't. It may be that it's the one thing of which

 he's afraid - and that can only be to our advantage.'

 Drachea was riffling through the papers. 'There must

 surely be some hint here, some idea of the Marble Hall's

 location . . .no, nothing!' He threw the papers aside in

 frustration.

  

 'You found these,' Cyllan said, indicating the scat-

 tered pages. 'There must surely be other documents;

 something that will help us.'

  

 'Yes . . . either in the High Initiate's study, or better

 still, in the library.' Suddenly Drachea's eyes lit up.

 'Gods, Cyllan, the library - it's a treasure-house of

 knowledge, the arcane wisdom of centuries! I found it by

 chance, and the thought that it's there, open to me

 whenever and however I choose - ' He stopped as he saw

 that her expression hadn't changed. 'No, well - of

 course, to you it would mean little.'

  

 'Indeed,' she said with gentle acerbity.

  

 He had the good grace to blush. 'Naturally, I'm far

 more concerned with our plight and how to resolve it

 . . . but I'll wager anything that the library will provide

 what we need to begin our search. There must be histor-

 ical records that explain the Castle's layout.' He recalled

 his previous visit to the library, and the memory unset-

 tled him. Though nothing would induce him to admit to

 fear, he was determined not to return there alone.

  

 Cyllan glanced at the broken book on the floor.

 'Tarod already knows of your first visit to the library,'

 she reminded him. 'We must take care not to arouse his

 suspicions any further.'

  

 Drachea smiled condescendingly. 'What he doesn't

 know can't trouble him. Don't concern yourself with

  

 Tarod. He's not as invincible as he seems to think - and

 before long, I intend to prove that to him!'

  

 The two figures making their way through the courtyard

 were all but hidden by the vast shadows of the Castle

 wall, but even the smallest movement amid that dark

 stillness was enough to attract attention. Tarod stood by

 the window in his unlit room at the top of the spire, his

 face expressionless as he watched them creep cautiously

 along the colonnaded walk towards the vault door,

 Drachea leading and stopping every few paces to make a

 gesture that cautioned silence. Like as not he meant to

 show Cyllan the treasures he had unearthed in the

 library; and from there it seemed logical to anticipate

 that they would, eventually, discover the entrance to the

 Marble Hall. Tarod had refused to allow himself to

 speculate on whether or not they would be able to enter

 the Hall - the force that held the Castle in limbo had,

 somehow, shifted the peculiar chamber a fraction out of

 synchronisation, and he himself was barred from it as

 surely as if it hadn't existed. But Cyllan and Drachea had

 broken through one barrier ... it was possible that

 they could reach the Hall where he had failed.

  

 And if they did? Tarod didn't know what they would

 find, but of one fact he was certain - the Marble Hall

 held the crucial key to his hope of release. It was the sole

 gateway back to the disturbing astral planes through

 which he had travelled to find and halt the Pendulum of

 Time; and, too, it was the place where the Chaos stone -

 his own soul - was trapped.

  

 He looked out of the window again, and saw that the

 two distant figures had vanished, leaving the vault door-

 way ajar behind them. Briefly, an unaccustomed yet

 distantly familiar feeling assailed him; a sense of antic-

 ipation coupled with a formless pre-echo of fear. A very

 human sensation ... he smiled to himself. Imagination

 must be getting the better of him; human feelings lay in

 the buried past. Or at least, he had believed so ...

  

 Tarod swung suddenly away from the window, dislik-

 ing the unexpected turn his thoughts had taken. Since he

  

 had left Cyllan's room, unable to control the temptation

 to swat Drachea aside in the way he might swat an

 irritating insect as he left, the encounter had been prey-

 ing on his mind. He had little else to think of, but

 nonetheless he was unused to being troubled by such

 thoughts. The old memories awakened by finding Cyllan

 lying senseless on the floor refused to be quieted; and

 they were complicated by odd, random recollections

 that flashed unbidden into his head. The lightness of the

 girl when he had lifted her; the roughness of her skin

 when he took her hand to help her back to reality; even

 the way she had sworn like some hard-bitten merchant-

 sailor at the shock of finding him at her side. Though

 afraid of him, she had refused to be intimidated, and

 her spirit struck a chord somewhere within him. He

 had found himself wondering if, in spite of the indif-

 ference he professed to feel, he could trust her . . . and

 then the thought had been abruptly curtailed as he

 remembered another life, another girl in whom he'd

 placed trust.

  

 Sashka Veyyil had been everything Cyllan was not;

 beautiful, educated, assured of her place in the world.

 Theirs had been, he'd thought, an idyllic match - until

 she had callously betrayed him to safeguard her own

 standing, and advance her own cause. Sashka now lan-

 guished in limbo with the Castle inhabitants; Tarod's

 love for her had turned to searing contempt, and

 thought of her plight gave him a malevolent satisfaction.

 But, against all reason, Cyllan's presence in the Castle

 had harked back to those old times, stirred up something

 which should have been unable to exist.

  

 He was suddenly angry, both with himself and with

 the girl. The concern that had moved him when he found

 her unconscious was ashes, and that was how it should

 remain. She was nothing to him beyond a cipher that he

 might, with fortune on his side, use to further his own

 aims; and if she suffered in the process it was of no

 moment. To put faith in her would be madness - he

 would watch and wait, assess her value to him and make

 use of her. Beyond that, she was nothing.

  

 Picking up a book he had already read twice, Tarod

 sat down, ignoring the faint and distant voice that

 accused him of self-delusion. Such human failings were a

 thing of the past. And the past was dead.

  

 *****

  

 Cyllan stared in amazement at the thousands of books

 and manuscripts that littered the vault floor and lined

 the row upon row of shelves. Starting to move forward

 she stumbled over a huge, black-bound tome and hastily

 sidestepped it, overawed and afraid of damaging any of

 the precious volumes.

  

 Drachea had no such compunction. Now that he had a

 companion to bolster his courage, he had forgotten his

 first unnerving experience here and was rummaging

 among the books, picking out those which seemed to

 offer promise. Cyllan watched him, acutely aware of her

 own shortcomings - save for making some sense of a

 map, she had no part to play in the search for clues.

 Discomforted, she wandered to the far side of the vault

 where the light seemed a little better . . . then stopped,

 noticing a small, low door set deep in an alcove and

 invisible but from close quarters. Experimentally she

 touched it; it moved, a little stiffly at first, then the

 hinges unjammed and it swung fully open.

  

 'Drachea . . . '

  

 He answered with a dismissive grunt, but she

 persisted.

  

 'Drachea - look! There's another passage . . . '

  

 His head came up and he looked round - then froze.

 He recognised the door - it was the same one he had

 unwittingly and unwillingly discovered in his moment of

 panic here alone, and he didn't like to be reminded of

 that incident.

  

 'Doubtless it's unimportant,' he said carelessly.

  

 'I don't think so . . . ' Cyllan frowned. The narrow,

 palely illuminated corridor that sloped steeply away

 downwards intrigued her; intuition told her there was

 more to it than met the eye, and she took a few steps into

  

 the passage. The light increased; faint still, but

 unmistakably growing, as though some hidden source

 lay at the end of the corridor. She wanted to explore

 further.

  

 'Drachea -I think we should investigate. Perhaps I'm

 wrong, but - I think we should.'

  

 She heard Drachea curse impatiently under his

 breath, then his footsteps sounded across the flagstones

 and he came to join her.

  

 'Look,' she said quietly, pointing. The light . . . '

  

 He saw what she meant, and his curiosity was

 aroused. There was, after all, nothing to fear here - no

 lurking horrors, no demons, no phantoms, except those

 his own mind chose to create.

  

 'Very well,' he said, brushing her aside and taking

 the lead. 'If you're set on it, we'll find out where it

 leads!'

  

 He set off, walking fast and not waiting for her to keep

 up. Cyllan hurried after him - then, barely able to stop

 herself on the steep gradient, all but collided with him

 as, without any warning, he halted abruptly with an oath

 of surprise on his lips.

  

 The door that confronted them was made of metal,

 but it was no metal that either had ever seen before. It

 gleamed sullenly, like old and tarnished silver, yet the

 glow it gave off was sufficient to light the corridor and

 filter into the vault beyond. A peculiar, sourceless

 illumination . . . something about it made Cyllan's

 hackles rise, and she arrested her hand midway to the

 door, afraid to touch it.

  

 Drachea had forgotten his scepticism and stared at the

 door with burgeoning interest. 'The Marble Hall . . . '

 he said, half to himself.

  

 Cyllan glanced quickly at him. 'Do you think it could

 be?'

  

 'I don't know. But it would seem possible . . . even

 likely.' Licking dry lips, he reached out and gave the

 door an experimental push. A tingling sensation ran

 from his fingers through his hand and arm, and the door

 didn't move.

  

 Drachea withdrew his hand and shook it. 'Whatever

 lies beyond, it must be significant. This door's either

 locked or magically protected.'

  

 There's a keyhole,' Cyllan said, indicating a small slot

 in one side of the silver surface.

  

 'Yes . . . ' Drachea crouched, squinting but being

 careful not to touch the door again, then shook his head

 and stood up. 'It's impossible to see anything.' Resent-

 ment and frustration tinged his voice. 'But it is the

 Marble Hall - I feel it in my bones!'

  

 She didn't answer, but continued to gaze at the door.

 Her spine was prickling in the way she knew so well; as

 though something that lay just beyond the borders of

 psychic consciousness were awakening and crawling

 towards the surface. Her vision distorted momentarily,

 so that she saw the silver door as if from a great distance;

 the illusion passed quickly, but when her senses righted

 themselves she thought - no, imagined, she told herself

 - that she felt a presence on the other side. It lived, it was

 aware of them; she felt it waiting and watching . . .

  

 Perhaps Drachea, too, glimpsed something of the

 same sensation, for he backed away suddenly, and his

 face had lost its colour.

  

 'The key,' he said. 'There must be a key.'

  

 'You searched the High Initiate's study,' Cyllan

 reminded him. 'Was there nothing there that you might

 have overlooked?'

  

 'I don't know . . . it's possible. Though more likely,

 I'd suspect, that if this door leads where we think it does,

 the key's in Tarod's possession.' He smiled thinly. 'After

 all, if you were in his place wouldn't you take that

 precaution against your secret being uncovered?'

  

 It made sense, and if Drachea was right Cyllan didn't

 relish the thought of attempting to retrieve the key. Yet

 she wanted to open that door and see whatever lay

 beyond. Something about this mystery caught and

 pulled at her, and it had nothing to do with the enigmatic

 jewel. Something was calling to her, summoning her;

 and the desire to answer the summons was growing out

 of all proportion.

  

 Alarmed by the strength of her own feelings she

 moved away from the door, and thought that she heard,

 so faintly that it might have been illusion, a soft sigh that

 emanated from nowhere and drifted away along the

 corridor. She looked back, saw nothing, then realised

 that Drachea was as uneasy as she.

  

 'We should go,' she said softly.

  

 He nodded, trying to disguise his relief. 'We'll return.

 We'll find the key, somehow, and we'll return.'

  

 He took hold of her hand as they turned and made

 their way back towards the library, whether to reassure

 her or himself Cyllan didn't know. Reaching the vault,

 Drachea closed the small door carefully behind them,

 then gathered up the books he had collected.

  

 'I don't know if Tarod ever comes here, but I wouldn't

 relish the prospect of meeting him face to face.' His

 smiled was forced. 'It might be prudent not to linger.'

  

 What he had sensed beyond the silver door Cyllan

 didn't know, and doubted if he would tell her. She said

 nothing, only looked back once, speculatively, as they

 left the vault and started to climb the stairs.

  

 Chapter 6

  

 Gant Ambaril Rannak was trying to control his impa-

 tience and irritation, but it was a losing battle. He stood

 staring through the long window of his drawing-room,

 his mind not registering the sight of the gradually bur-

 geoning gardens, unpleasantly aware of the sound of his

 wife sobbing quietly in the background. Today was her

 birth-anniversary, and should have been an occasion for

 celebration. Instead, they were in the midst of a night-

 mare from which there seemed to be no awakening - the

 mystery of their eldest son's disappearance.

  

 There should have been news by now. The heir to a

 Margravate didn't simply vanish without trace. Some-

 one must have seen Drachea leave the market square

 with that damned drover-girl, and yet although he had

 used all his considerable resources to the full, Gant

 could find not one single witness to his son's fate. He

 had, at first, tried to face the possibility that the Warp

 which had struck Shu-Nhadek on that day had taken

 them both, but he knew his son, and his son wasn't such

 a fool as to let himself be caught out in such a grisly way.

  

 There was, of course, the theory that the drovers'

 leader had been behind the whole thing, setting up the

 girl to lure Drachea away and hold him to some form of

 ransom. Such crimes weren't unknown, and, with the

 increase in lawlessness over the past year or so, there

 were a good few ruffians who'd consider the prize well

 worth the risk. In the first throes of fury and anguish

 Gant had had the drover imprisoned and mercilessly

 interrogated, but it soon became apparent that Kand

 Brialen knew nothing of the affair. His horror at the

 occurrence was painfully genuine, and even if it

  

 stemmed solely from his fear of losing a wealthy cus-

 tomer rather than any concern for his own niece, Gant

 had grudgingly been forced to abandon his suspicions.

  

 And so, frantic for news and frustrated at every turn,

 Gant had applied all his considerable resources to what

 had been, thus far, an utterly fruitless search. The

 province militia under his command had unearthed

 nothing; the seers of the Sisterhood had exerted their

 skills to no avail . . . and now it seemed that even his

 last hope would fail him.

  

 He turned to where the heavily built man with the

 Initiate's gold insignia on his shoulder stood conferring

 in a lowered voice with the Lady Silve Bradow, Senior of

 the province's largest Sisterhood Cot. It was by sheer

 good fortune that Hestor Tay Armeth, a fourth-rank

 Adept of the Circle, had been staying at the Cot when

 Gant's messenger arrived to seek the Sisterhood's aid,

 and Lady Silve - who was newly promoted to her office

 and had never before had to deal personally with such a

 crisis - had looked immediately to Hestor for advice.

  

 But now it appeared that the Circle's representative

 was powerless to help. Far from offering the solution

 that Gant and his family craved, Hestor had thus far

 done little but prevaricate. The Margrave had a suspi-

 cion that there was more behind his dissembling than

 met the eye, but couldn't draw him, and his patience,

 goaded by the worry that ate at every fibre of his being,

 was running out.

  

 He turned on his heel, clearing his throat loudly to

 draw their attention. The Margravine sniffed and wiped

 her eyes, looking to her husband with tearful hope.

  

 'Adept.' Gant spoke politely, but with an edge.

 'You'll pardon my speaking bluntly, but this matter

 grows more urgent with every minute that passes! My

 son, the Heir Margrave, has disappeared, and all efforts

 to find him have failed. I turn to the Circle for help, as

 anyone might surely be entitled to do in such circum-

 stances - and yet it seems you can offer me nothing! I ask

 one simple question of you - can you aid me, or can you

 not?'

  

 Hestor and Lady Silve exchanged a glance, then the

 Sister-Senior clasped her hands and stared down at the

 thickly carpeted floor as Hestor replied.

  

 'Margrave, all I have said to you is that I can make no

 promises. There are complexities involved which - '

  

 Gant interrupted him. 'As I see it, sir, the only com-

 plexity is the mysterious nature of my son's disap-

 pearance! Surely, in this case, there's reason enough to

 send word to the High Initiate?' He licked his lips. 'I

 know Keridil Toln, as I knew his father Jehrek; and I'm

 certain that he would wish to be informed and to offer

 the Circle's resources.' Gant paused, wondering if

 Hestor would react to the gently implied threat; then,

 when the man appeared unmoved, he finished, 'Of

 course, if you would prefer to take the responsibility on

 your own shoulders . . . '

  

 The Adept smiled reservedly and without warmth. 'I

 wouldn't presume, Margrave. Naturally, I'll ensure that

 a message reaches the Castle; but of course these things

 take time, and time may not be on our side.'

  

 Gant hunched his shoulders gloomily. 'Nevertheless,

 it seems to be our only hope, as all else has failed.' He

 glanced at his wife. 'I've heard tell that experiments are

 being made in using hunting birds as messengers in cases

 of emergency. If we could use such a method, we could

 send word to the High Initiate far faster than any man

 could ride.'

  

 'I've heard something of it,' Hestor said cautiously.

 'Falconers in Empty Province have been using birds,

 and the idea is also being tried in Wishet. But as to its

 reliability - '

  

 'Damn it, surely it's worth the attempt?' Gant

 exploded, then with an effort brought his temper under

 control. 'Forgive me- but surely you can understand my

 feelings? The Lady Margravine is distracted with worry

 and grief - and if the Circle can't aid us, then there's

 nothing left!'

  

 For a moment Hestor looked away, then seemed to

 steel himself and met the Margrave's gaze once more.

  

 'You're quite right, of course, Margrave - I ask your

  

 pardon if I've seemed doubtful or reluctant. I can't claim

 to know how the Circle can help you . . . but there will

 be a way. You have my assurance.'

  

 Gant grunted. 'Then you'll inform the High Initiate?'

  

 'With all possible speed.'

  

 The Margravine sighed softly and her husband moved

 across the room to pat her shoulder with stiff affection.

 'There, my dear. You heard what the Adept said. We

 have the Circle to help us. If any power in the world can

 restore Drachea to us, they can.' He glanced at Hestor

 again. 'Though the occasion won't be as festive as nor-

 mal under the circumstances, we have a small family

 gathering at dinner to mark the Margravine's birth-

 anniversary. I'd consider it a pleasure if you and the

 Lady would join us.'

  

 Hestor bowed slightly. 'Thank you, Margrave, but I

 think I'd be neglecting my duty if I didn't set the Circle's

 investigation in train without any delay. I've promised to

 escort the Lady Silve back to her Cot, and then I must be

 on my way North.'

  

 Privately, Gant was relieved by their refusal. The

 anniversary meal would be an unhappy enough affair

 without the presence of strangers to add further con-

 straint. He rang for a servant to bring the visitors' horses

 to the front Of the house, and bade them a formal

 farewell at the door. As they clattered away in the

 direction of the drove-road, he watched them, frowning

 against the low-angling Sun and wishing that he could

 identify the new sense of unease that moved in him.

 Something was wrong. The Adept's assurances had

 been too glib, and he had the unshakable impression

 that the two of them were concealing something from

 him. Whether it directly concerned his son he couldn't

 tell; but instinct told him that it boded ill.

  

 The horses and their riders were out of sight, and a

 stray cloud moved across the Sun's face, casting a grim

 shadow over the grounds. Gant unclenched his hands,

 which he had been holding unconsciously rigid, then

 turned and, stooping like an old man, went back into the

 house.

  

 'I wish I'd not been forced to lie to him.' Hestor reined in

 to allow a lumbering wagon to pass on the narrow road.

 'It sets a bad precedent.'

  

 Lady Silve shook her head. 'You had no choice,

 th-Hestor.' The odd speech impediment that marred her

 words was a quirk she had had since childhood. 'We

 dared not, after all, th-tell him the truth.'

  

 The Adept sighed through clenched teeth. 'So what

 am I to do? Send a message to the Star Peninsula that

 can't be delivered? I pity the Margrave, I feel for him -I

 have children of my own - but I've far more urgent

 matters to worry about than the disappearance of a

 feckless youth who's probably living wild with some

 whore not half a day's ride from here!'

  

 Silve narrowed her eyes. 'That's not a sentiment that

 th-becomes you, Hestor.'

  

 'No ... no; I'm sorry; it was an unworthy thought.

 Put it down to the worry ... I can't stop thinking of my

 own family at the Castle, and wondering what's become

 of them . . . what's become of them all.'

  

 'There's still been no word?' she asked.

  

 The Adept shook his head. 'Nothing. And with each

 day that passes I fear more and more that something's

 terribly wrong. I've been over it in my mind time and

 again and I can't find an answer that makes any sense.

 If Keridil had some intention of sealing the Castle

 off from the world, we'd have known of it. Even if

 he couldn't reveal the purpose, he'd have given

 warning! But this . . . ' He shook his head again,

 helplessly.

  

 'Rumours are spreading rapidly,' Lady Silve said, her

 voice sombre. 'At first the speculation was th-confined

 to the Northern provinces, but now there are stories

 abroad th-everywhere. It won't be long before they

 reach the Margrave's ears.'

  

 'And all the while we sit helplessly by and await word

 from those who returned to the Peninsula.' Hestor shiv-

 ered. 'Part of me is afraid to hear the news they might

 bring, I'll willingly admit it.'

  

 They rode on in silence for a few minutes before Silve

  

 said diffidently, 'Do you have any - personal theories,

 Hestor? As to what might have th-occurred at the

 Castle?'

  

 The Adept didn't reply at first and she wondered if

 he'd heard the question. But as she was about to repeat

 it, he suddenly said, 'No, Lady, I haven't. Or at least

 . . . none that I dare allow to take root.'

  

 She nodded, and made the Sign of Aeoris over her

 breast. 'We must pray for guidance.'

  

 'Guidance?' Hestor echoed. 'I'm not sure, Lady; I'm

 not sure. Maybe we'd do better to pray to Aeoris for

 deliverance.'

  

 *****

  

 Cyllan lay on the wide bed in her room, fighting the

 weariness that was trying to break down her defences. In

 this timeless place such concepts as hunger and thirst

 and tiredness were, she knew, illusory, but events were

 taking their toll of her energy and she wished that she

 could have simply closed her eyes and slept a dreamless,

 untroubled sleep.

  

 But in truth, she was afraid to rest. Disturbing and

 unwanted thoughts were crowding into her mind, and

 however hard she tried she couldn't banish them. On

 their return from the library vault Drachea had hurried

 away to his own chamber with his precious hoard of

 books; she'd wished he would stay, but he had either not

 understood her hints or chosen to ignore them, and had

 left her alone.

  

 Cyllan didn't want to be alone with her thoughts. She

 needed a distraction to stop them from overtaking her

 and gaining a painful, clawlike hold; she felt defenceless

 against them, and reflected unhappily that even Tarod's

 company would have been preferable to this solitude.

  

 Tarod . . . she rolled over and sat up, angry and a

 little frightened by the fact that her chain of con-

 sciousness had led inexorably back to its starting point.

 Since she had awoken to find him here beside her she

 had had no chance to analyse her thoughts and feelings,

  

 but now they demanded attention. She had accused

 Tarod of perpetrating the psychic horror that attacked

 her in this room; he had sarcastically denied it, and -

 albeit without good reason - Cyllan found herself

 believing him.

  

 Or was she a not altogether unwilling victim of self-

 delusion? Drachea had accused her of prejudice, and

 she was honest enough to admit that it would be an easy

 enough trap to fall into. For many months she had

 carefully schooled herself to the certainty that her path

 and Tarod's would never cross again; their two brief

 meetings had been meaningless coincidence, and to

 hope for more - as, she admitted, she had done - was

 childish and stupid. But now they had crossed, in cir-

 cumstances which her wildest nightmares could never

 have conjured; and all the old memories were clashing

 painfully with the grim reality of the present. Tarod's

 coldness, his sometime malevolence, the sheer power he

 could command, appalled her . . . and then had come

 Drachea's revelation.

  

 She still couldn't believe it. Even with the High Initi-

 ate's own testimony before her, the thought that Tarod

 was no man but a thing of Chaos was too terrible to face.

 Those dark and ancient powers of evil were nothing

 more than an ancestral memory to Cyllan; but the mem-

 ory was deep-rooted, and somewhere, unimaginably far

 back over the generations, were the ghosts of her clan

 forefathers who had died fighting the monstrous forces

 of the Old Ones. She had learned and believed - as

 everyone learned and believed - that Chaos was dead.

 Now she was confronted with one who, on the word of

 the High Initiate himself, was the embodiment of that

 evil, incarnated from the hell of the remote past.

  

 And, worst of all, one whom she had once thought she

 could love . . .

  

 The one fact that she had been desperately avoiding,

 shying away from at every turn, was suddenly coldly and

 harshly clear in her mind, and the thought of it made her

 freeze inwardly. If the accusations were true, then she

 had fallen under the spell of a demonic power,

  

 something so monstrous as to be almost beyond con-

 ception. If the accusations were true . . .

  

 Cyllan told herself that she dared not allow her mind

 to follow that path. To weaken now, and to doubt, was

 the way to damnation. She had to believe, or she'd be

 lost.

  

 Unhappiness and confusion were eating at her like a

 disease, and her restlessness was a constant torment.

 She rose, paced across the room and then back, not

 knowing what she wanted, what she felt, what she could

 do. To confide in Drachea would only make matters

 worse; his interest in her well-being - as was becoming

 abundantly clear - extended only so far as it affected his

 own, with a small but patronising measure of common

 humanity to mitigate. Wryly, she reflected that were it

 not for the predicament which had thrown them forcibly

 together, he would have considered her utterly beneath

 his notice. Tarod's arrogance had at least some sub-

 stance beyond accident of birth . . .

  

 Abruptly furious with herself for making such com-

 parisons, she swung round, clenching her fists in sheer

 bitter frustration. She couldn't stay in this room, like

 some fragile flower awaiting rescue by her paramour -

 the idea, when applied to herself, made her want to

 laugh aloud. Drachea might choose to study books as an

 answer to their plight; she needed more direct and active

 means. And immediately she thought of the vault, and

 the silver door with its mystery.

  

 That place had chilled her, and yet it had fascinated

 her, too. Caution had thus far made her resist the lure of

 returning, but the lure was there all the same. As if

 something called, something that lay behind the door,

 waiting . . .

  

 She shivered. She had been enticed by such feelings

 before, and wouldn't care to repeat the experiences

 they'd brought. But she had to do something . . . and

 her frustration was strong enough to overcome fear.

  

 Suddenly decisive, Cyllan slipped out of her room into

 the gloomy passage. Drachea's door was firmly shut,

 and as she passed it she paused, listening; but no sound

  

 came from within. Silent as a cat, Cyllan hurried away

 towards the stairs.

  

 Strangely, she felt none of the nervousness she had

 anticipated as she descended the long flight of stairs to

 the library vault. Rather, she had a sense of returning

 home; an inexplicable tightness that baffled her. The

 vault was dark, the small door in the alcove as they had

 left it: cautiously she pushed it open, then stepped into

 the sloping passage. Her bare feet made no sound, and

 the only thing to break the utter quiet was the soft hush

 of her own breathing.

  

 The silver door awaited her, glowing, but the glow

 seemed somehow softened. Quite why she had come to

 stand before it again Cyllan didn't know; it was locked,

 she couldn't enter the chamber beyond . . . yet it had

 seemed the right, the only, thing to do. And now her

 instinct was at work again, urging her to touch, to try, to

 dare . . .

  

 Remembering the shock Drachea had received,

 Cyllan was reluctant to touch the peculiar metal surface;

 but knew she couldn't merely stand and stare. Slowly,

 she reached out . . .

  

 There was no shock. Her palm came to rest on the

 door and it felt warm; unyielding, but almost alive. She

 drew breath, exerted a gentle strength, pushed -

  

 Her head snapped back with a stunned reflex as an

 instantaneous and blinding flash of light slammed

 against her inner vision. A star - a seven-rayed star -

 then it was gone as shockingly as it had come, and she

 stared in astonishment as the silver door began, slowly

 and silently, to swing open.

  

 There was light, an eerie, nebulous coruscation of

 mist, shifting and shimmering and deceiving the eye.

 Through it Cyllan thought she could see slender pillars

 that reached to an invisible ceiling, but they too seemed

 to move and change with the ever changing light. It was

 as though she had opened a door on to a fable-world, a

 place of miraculous strangeness and soul-tearing

 beauty; and she bit her lip hard against an irrational

  

 surge of emotion. Slowly, not knowing if she dared

 advance or if her presence would sully this silent perfec-

 tion, she moved forward a pace, then another, until the

 mists enveloped her, their light playing on her skin and

 transforming her into some denizen of their own strange

 dimension.

  

 The Marble Hall . . . This could be no other place!

 Awed, Cyllan advanced, gazing in wonderment at the

 vast chamber which seemed to have no boundaries, at

 the fascinating patterns of the jewel-hued mosaic floor.

 It was a masterpiece, surpassing anything she could have

 imagined - surely, she told herself, surely it could not

 have been created by human hands!

  

 She was so entranced by the undreamed-of beauties of

 this magical place that all else was forgotten - until,

 through the shimmering curtains of light, she saw some-

 thing that jarred with the Hall's serenity. It loomed

 black, angular and ugly out of the mist, and as she drew

 nearer she saw that it was a great block of wood, roughly

 the length and breadth of a man, that stood waist-high

 like some crude altar. Pitted, scarred, clearly very

 ancient, it was cruelly out of place among such beauty,

 and something about it made Cyllan recoil. It seemed to

 reek of decay and death and despair, and she skirted

 widely round it, not wanting to move too close lest its

 aura should touch her too.

  

 And it was in changing her direction to avoid the black

 block that she came face to face with the statues.

  

 'Aeoris!' The oath was out before she could prevent it,

 and Cyllan made the Sign before her heart in hasty

 apology for such irreverence. Her eyes widened, barely

 able to take in the sight that confronted her.

  

 There were seven of them, towering figures which

 rose out of the mist like something from a nightmare.

 They were shaped like men, but gigantic; and the decep-

 tive light playing and shifting over them gave a terrible

 illusion of movement. They might at any moment have

 stepped down from their stone plinths and advanced,

 like giants, towards her.

  

 But it was an illusion . . . they were statues, nothing

  

 more. And yet, though she couldn't see them clearly,

 Cyllan felt a deep thrill of awed recognition. Seven

 statues . . . seven gods . . . this, then, was the most

 sacred sanctum, the Circle's own temple to Aeoris . . .

  

 Fearing to commit a sacrilege by daring to look more

 closely at such holy artefacts, Cyllan was yet unable to

 resist moving nearer to the statues. Throughout the land

 she had seen many religious celebrations, bowed before

 many images of the White Lords; but never before had

 she been privileged to gaze upon the face of Aeoris in

 such an exalted place. She drew closer to the towering

 figures, staring up through the mists like a transfixed

 child, to see the carven features of the seven gods.

  

 Disappointment filled her as she saw that the statues

 had no faces. The features of each one had been thor-

 oughly and systematically hacked away until no detail

 remained, and the sight of such desecration shocked

 Cyllan to the core. But the statues were incredibly

 ancient - the black stone was worn and pitted with the

 ravages of countless centuries, and she realised suddenly

 that this sacrilege might have taken place even before

 the first Initiates made the Castle their stronghold.

 Astounded by her discovery, she peered up again at the

 towering figures -

  

 And she stumbled back with a cry of shock.

  

 Slowly, superimposed on the ruined and jagged stone,

 faces were forming, manifesting fully even as she

 looked. Those faces gazed impassively down on her,

 serene and immortal. But the serenity was shot through

 with malevolence; the features, though beautiful as only

 gods could be, sharp-etched and cruel; the eyes ice-cold

 and filled with a proud evil. These were not the faces of

 Aeoris and his holy brethren! These were the antithesis

 of Light, bringers of darkness and mayhem . . . and she

 knew them!

  

 Cyllan's heart pounded agonisingly in her breast as

 she stared at the nearest of the statues - and she remem-

 bered a moment in Shu-Nhadek, just before the Warp

 had come shrieking through the town to snatch her and

 Drachea, when she had stared in fascinated horror at the

  

 grim, gaunt figure that beckoned like a nemesis from the

 street, outlined against the insane sky. That face - she

 could never forget that face!

  

 Stunned by shock, yet unable to find the compulsion

 to turn her head, she looked at the second figure which

 stood beside the first. And what she saw made her slam a

 fist against her mouth to stop herself from crying out

 aloud. If the first face had been familiar to her, then the

 second was infinitely more so - and in one horrifying

 instant it confirmed everything the High Initiate's testi-

 mony had revealed, and swept away all possible doubt.

  

 Cyllan turned, almost losing balance in her haste, and

 ran towards the silver door, now barely visible in the

 coruscating mist. Reaching it, she flung herself through

 and raced, sobbing for breath, up the steep slope to the

 vault. The vault door crashed behind her; she didn't

 hesitate, but stumbled over the scattered books towards

 the stairs -

  

 In the gloom a dark shape moved, materialising out of

 the shadows. Powerful hands grasped her wrists, spun

 her around - and Cyllan came face to face with Tarod.

  

 'No!' The word was a full-throated scream and, with

 the strength of panic, she twisted free and plunged

 towards the door. She had almost reached it when it

 slammed shut, and she cannoned into the unyielding

 wood with tremendous force. Tarod caught her as she

 reeled back, stunned, and Cyllan knew that she couldn't

 escape him. Sick with the dizzy aftermath of her colli-

 sion, she could offer no further resistance as Tarod

 swung her to face him. Her back was pinned against the

 door now, and all she could do was turn her head aside,

 every muscle in her body rigid.

  

 'Don't touch me,' she hissed through clenched teeth.

  

 He didn't reply; neither did his grip slacken. Cyllan

 shut her eyes, not knowing what he'd do to her and

 aware that she was powerless to fight him. Fear and hate

 surged in her, but she was impotent.

  

 'Cyllan . . . ' Tarod's voice was soft with menace.

 'You will answer me, and you'll tell me the truth. Where

 have you been?'

  

 She bit her lip until a bead of blood formed, shaking

 her head violently. She expected him to hurt her, but he

 didn't. Although the pressure of his fingers increased, he

 only said, almost gently, 'Tell me, Cyllan.'

  

 Startled by the tone she looked at him - and saw the

 iron-hardness in his green eyes. He had no need to harm

 her physically. He could destroy her sanity with a flick of

 his fingers if he chose to, and they both knew it. She

 struggled with her tongue, knowing she was defeated

 but striving not to show weakness.

  

 'I - ' The words came at last. 'Through the corridor

 . . . the silver door . . . '

  

 To the Marble Hall?'

  

 'Yes

  

 'And then?'

  

 The green eyes still held hers, and she didn't dare

 lie. 'I'd thought the door was locked, but ... it

 opened.'

  

 Tarod ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip. 'Yes,'

 he said softly, almost to himself, 'I thought so . . . ' To

 Cyllan's surprise he released her arms and turned away,

 walking slowly across the vault towards the alcove.

 Watching him, she began to edge one hand towards the

 latch of the door at her back. If she could open it silently,

 she might -

  

 'The door won't open,' Tarod said, without looking at

 her. 'It will stay closed until I release it.'

  

 Her cheeks were afire with shame at her own naivety

 when he turned to face her again. For a long moment he

 regarded her with detached interest, then he said,

  

 'Why are you so afraid to answer my questions?'

  

 'I'm not afraid.' She couldn't look at him; the memory

 of the statue's carved face was too strong.

  

 'Ah, but you are. Why? Do you fear reprisal?' He

 smiled, though it wasn't a kindly smile. 'I could hurt you,

 if it suited me to do so, or perhaps if you angered me.

 But I'd prefer otherwise.'

  

 The utter certainty that he could do precisely as he

 chose with her snapped Cyllan's self-control. She knew

 what he was; knew that she had nothing to lose, and

  

 something awoke in her that made her fatalistically care-

 less. If she was damned, then let the damnation be

 complete - she could at least hold to what little pride she

 had left.

  

 Her voice suddenly stronger, she spat back defiantly,

 'Would you? I doubt that!' She took a step towards him,

 shaking. 'Why don't you destroy me, Tarod? I'm

 nothing to you - I'm of no value!' One hand went to the

 collar of the shirt she wore, and in a single, violent

 movement she tore it, exposing her throat and the slight,

 pale swell of her breasts. 'Isn't this how a sacrifice should

 be prepared? You care nothing for human life- kill me!'

  

 Tarod didn't move. Instead, the cool expression on

 his face gave way to another smile, but this time there

 was a faint trace of warmth in it. Quietly, he said,

 'You're very courageous, Cyllan. But your courage is

 misplaced. I don't intend to harm you; it would be

 pointless, and I've no desire for it. So perhaps I care a

 little more for human life than you think.' He came

 towards her, and she stood rigid as he laid a hand lightly

 on her breast where the shirt was ripped. 'I ask only one

 thing of you - that you tell me what you found in the

 Marble Hall.'

  

 His touch was cool, but physical, human . . . Cyllan

 suddenly felt confused as warring impressions clashed in

 her head. She feared his wrath if he should discover what

 she had seen - but fear of what he still might do if she

 kept silent was stronger, and she whispered, 'The stat-

 ues . . . '

  

 'Ah . . . the statues.' Tarod nodded. 'Yes. And what

 else?'

  

 'There was a block of wood - a great black slab. I - it

 was a repellent thing.' Her fear was receding now; he

 seemed unmoved by the fact that she had seen those

 sculptured monstrosities, and though his lack of reaction

 puzzled her she was grateful for it. She had the temerity

 to look up at him, and saw that his eyes were narrowed

 and his expression set, as though mention of the block

 had revived some dark thought.

  

 'Repellent,' he repeated speculatively. 'I'm a little

  

 surprised at your choice of words, but . . . they're apt

 enough. And was there anything more?'

  

 'No,' she said. 'Nothing.'

  

 A pause. 'You're certain of that?'

  

 She remembered the stone, and Drachea's theory that

 it was hidden somewhere in the Marble Hall. She'd seen

 no sign of it ...

  

 She nodded. 'Yes. I'm certain.'

  

 Tarod tilted her face up, studied it intently, then

 relaxed. 'Very well; I see you're telling me the truth.'

 For some reason which Cyllan couldn't begin to guess at,

 he seemed gratified by the fact, though it would have

 been easy enough for him to wring the answer out of her

 had she lied. He stood motionless a little longer, then his

 hand moved from her breast to the torn fabric of her

 shirt, and he folded it gently back over her.

  

 'Cover yourself,' he said. 'And I'll hear no more talk

 of sacrifice. Go back to Drachea, and tell him what

 you've discovered.'

  

 She frowned. Tell him? But - '

  

 Tarod laughed, a harsh sound that contrasted sharply

 with his previous manner. 'Then tell him or not, as you

 please - it makes no difference to me! Drachea may like

 to play his childish games, but he's no threat. If he were,

 he'd no longer be alive.'

  

 The words were casual enough, their meaning all too

 clear. Cyllan had no answer; she merely nodded and

 turned away. This time the door opened at a touch;

 beyond, the long flight of stairs led up towards the

 courtyard.

  

 'I'll see you again,' Tarod said quietly as she set her

 foot on the first step. Whether or not his words implied a

 threat Cyllan didn't know, and didn't care to speculate.

  

 When Cyllan was gone, Tarod stood staring down at the

 scattered books around his feet. He felt sure that

 Drachea had raided the library for a second time, but

 neither knew nor cared what the young man might have

 unearthed in his searches. Even the greatest rituals were

  

 of little use in the hands of an amateur; Drachea was

 irrelevant - and Tarod had other matters on his mind.

  

 He walked towards the narrow door set in its alcove,

 and quietly opened it. The comparatively brilliant light

 from the passage beyond flowed over him, giving a

 ghastly tinge to his already pale face, and though he was

 tempted to tread the familiar way to the Marble Hall

 once more, he resisted the temptation. He could gain

 nothing by it - the Hall was, as always, barred to him.

  

 Yet Cyllan had been able to enter . . .

  

 It was what Tarod had suspected and, in one sense, it

 was a hope fulfilled. Somewhere in that place - on the

 physical plane or not, he didn't know - lay the single

 clear jewel that was the focus of everything; and now he

 knew that he could use Cyllan, as he had intended, to

 find it and restore it to him. Yet the knowledge brought

 only a desolate satisfaction. With the stone, he would be

 again what Fate had made him; a being whose origins lay

 not with humanity, but with Chaos. The ancient powers

 would be restored; no man could gainsay him; and he

 could, if he chose, abandon all pretence of mortality to

 rise again to the heights which he had once, in immortal

 form, commanded.

  

 Since the moment when he had broken through the

 final astral barrier to halt the Pendulum of Time, he had

 never once questioned that desire. It had been in him

 like a banked fire, only waiting for an opportunity to

 burst into flame. But now it seemed distant and unreal.

 The goal, suddenly so close, had lost its meaning.

  

 Once, he recalled, he had renounced the Chaos stone

 with all the passion of which he had, then, been capable.

 He had pledged himself to destroy it, even if it meant his

 own destruction, and when the Circle turned against him

 he'd fought them, sublimating his loyalty as an Initiate

 to the greater loyalty he owed to Aeoris and the White

 Lords. Since losing the stone, and his humanity with it,

 he had forgotten that desperate pledge, but it was haunt-

 ing him now where by rights it should be dead and

 buried.

  

 For the first time since his final defeat of the Circle,

  

 Tarod was beginning to question himself and his

 motives. He believed he had lost his humanity . . . but

 human emotions, far in the past and, he'd thought,

 unattainable, were calling to him again. Memories clam-

 oured in his mind where there had been only cold intel-

 lect; a sensation that he recognised as pain constricted

 him. It was as though a window had opened, allowing

 him to look back on a bright, once treasured world that

 he could no longer reach, and for the first time those

 memories hurt.

  

 He closed the door again, troubled and unsure

 whether the feeling within him was anger or sorrow.

 Briefly, when she had stood defiantly before him and

 challenged him to kill her, he had wanted to trust Cyllan

 with the full truth - but the old, ingrained cynicism held

 him back as he remembered Sashka, who had so manip-

 ulated his trust for her own purposes. Cyllan wasn't

 Sashka - the drover-girl, by comparison, was as trans-

 parent as a child, and even if she should prove duplicious

 she would still be no threat; yet a deep-rooted desire not

 to make the same mistake twice had stayed his tongue.

 That, and the certain knowledge that, were she to realise

 his true nature, she would turn against him as surely and

 as violently as the Circle had done. Though he refused to

 explore his reasons, he didn't want to count Cyllan as an

 enemy.

  

 Tarod was unaccustomed to indecisiveness, but now

 he felt adrift. Feelings were moving him where pre-

 viously there had been nothing; his path no longer

 seemed clear. For the first time he doubted his own

 motivation . . . and the doubt gave birth to the first

 faint stirrings of fear.

  

 Very gently he closed the door in the alcove, shutting

 off all but a faint filtering glow of light from the Marble

 Hall that seeped under the old wood. With an effort he

 put all the unhappy thoughts out of his mind - it was a

 technique he knew well, and had used on many

 occasions. His face was a mask, as impassively unread-

 able as carved stone, but his green eyes were unquiet as

 he walked out of the library.

  

 Chapter 7

  

 'It's the final proof!' Drachea clasped Cyllan's shoulders

 and spun her round the room excitedly. 'It's all the

 evidence we need, Cyllan! Gods - to think that the

 Marble Hall should yield such a find. The stone must be

 there - it must be!'

  

 Cyllan disentangled herself from his grasp, disquieted by

 his exuberance. 'Surely it's no cause for jubilation?' she said.

 'It's proof that we're facing a power we can't hope to combat!'

  

 Drachea dismissed her doubts with a careless wave.

 Tarod's not invincible. Without that jewel, as the High

 Initiate's testimony says, he can't call the forces of

 Chaos to his aid. And if we can find the stone, and

 restore it to the Circle - '

  

 Cyllan laughed, a short, sharp bark with little humour

 in it. 'And how are we to do that?' she demanded. 'How

 are we to call back Time?'

  

 Drachea smiled. 'It's not as impossible as you might

 think. I've been studying the books I brought from the

 library, and all the Circle's rites and rituals are there, in

 incredible detail. I'm convinced that I'll find the answer

 in one of those volumes.' His eyes lit up with a fanatical

 zeal. 'Just think, Cyllan - just think what might result if

 we can restore the Circle to the world, and deliver the

 perpetrator of this evil into their hands!'

  

 His use of the word we, Cyllan knew, meant nothing-

 in his imagination Drachea saw himself as the Circle's

 sole saviour; and doubtless envisaged receiving all

 honour and glory as a result. He was a fool, she thought,

 if he believed that the path to such an achievement

 would be easy; yet he was brimming with confidence,

 already convinced that he'd succeed.

  

 'Do you know,' he said, sobering a little when she

 didn't appear to share his excitement, 'that I discovered

 in one of those tomes the rite that the Circle must have

 intended to use to destroy Tarod.' Cyllan turned, and he

 went on, 'The wooden altar you saw - it's a very ancient

 artefact, rarely used. It's an execution block.'

  

 Cyllan's stomach contracted, and she understood why

 the black wood slab had carried such an ugly aura.

 Unbidden, an image flashed through her mind of how a

 man might look, stretched out on that pitted surface,

 awaiting the final fall of the knife or sword ... or

 something worse . . . and she shuddered.

  

 'Yes - it's not a pleasant ceremony,' Drachea told her,

 with an edge of relish that she found repellent. 'And it's

 used only in the most extreme circumstances. Doubt-

 less, when Tarod is in the Circle's hands once more,

 they'll conduct that rite where they failed before.'

  

 She couldn't stop herself; the words were uttered

 before she realised it, and her voice was angry. 'And you

 find such a prospect pleasing?''

  

 'Don't you?' Drachea frowned at her. 'This isn't a

 man we're dealing with - it's a denizen of Chaos! Damn

 it, would you rather see such a monster loose in the

 world?'

  

 I'd rather not see anyone die so barbarically, Cyllan

 thought, but held her tongue. She was discomforted by

 the fact that some inner compulsion had made her come

 to Tarod's defence, but told herself it was nothing more

 than Drachea's ghoulishness which had offended her.

 Nonetheless, the thought of Tarod's fate if Drachea

 should succeed- no, if she and Drachea should succeed,

 for surely their cause was the same - chilled her to the

 marrow.

  

 If Drachea was aware of her misgivings he chose to

 ignore them, too caught up in his own plans to heed

 anything else.

  

 'We must return to the Marble Hall,' he said

 decisively, 'and find that jewel. And we'd be wise not to

 delay in what we have to do.' He stood up again, hugging

 himself. 'I still have the High Initiate's papers in my

  

 possession. If Tarod were to discover them, I don't care

 to speculate about how he might react. I think it might

 be prudent to return them as quickly as possible.' He

 glanced towards the door. Though the Gods know I'd

 feel a good deal happier if I were armed before making

 any further sorties in this place.'

  

 'There must be weapons in the Castle,' Cyllan said,

 though she privately doubted that a blade would have

 any value against the dangers that lurked here. 'At the

 Inauguration festival there were tournaments - sword-

 fighting. I saw none of them, but I heard the tales. And

 Tarod used to carry a knife . . . '

  

 Drachea gave her an odd look, faintly tinged with

 suspicion, but only said, 'Very well. Then you must find

 those weapons. Try the Castle stables - in Shu-Nhadek,

 the militia keep their arms close by their horses, and it's

 a sound enough principle. Bring me a sword, light but

 well balanced.' He paused. 'That is, if you know how to

 judge a good blade.'

  

 Cyllan's eyes narrowed. Drachea had probably car-

 ried a sword only two or three times in his life, and then

 for ceremonial purposes. She had had a knife of her

 own, once; a wicked weapon with a curved blade and

 bone hilt. She had used it to slit open the face of one of

 her uncle's hirelings who'd thought he could take advan-

 tage of his master's drunken stupor to rape his niece and

 make his escape with three prize horses, and the man's

 yells had roused the entire camp. Kand Brialen had sent

 the would-be thief on his way with a broken arm and

 three cracked ribs - 'one for each good piece of horse-

 flesh' as he'd grimly put it - and had rewarded Cyllan's

 vigilance by giving her a quarter-gravine and selling her

 knife at the next town they reached.

  

 She said, 'I can judge well enough, Drachea. And I'll

 take a dagger for myself if there's anything suitable to be

 found.'

  

 He was slightly taken aback by her tone, but collected

 himself quickly with a shrug. Then let's not delay. I'll

 return the papers to their rightful place, and we'll meet

 again here when our errands are done.'

  

 Drachea was unwilling to admit to feeling frightened as

 he headed down the long corridor that led to the High

 Initiate's rooms, but the sick pounding of his heart gave

 the lie to it. With Keridil Toln's and now Cyllan's revela-

 tions fresh in his mind, the thought of meeting Tarod

 with these incriminating documents in his possession

 was almost enough to send him bolting back to the

 sanctuary of his room. He wished he'd given his task to

 Cyllan and gone himself in search of weapons; but it was

 too late for regret. And surely, he told himself, trying to

 bolster his failing nerve, in all the vastness of the Castle

 the odds against encountering the Adept weighed

 strongly in his favour.

  

 Part of the reasoning behind Drachea's decision to

 carry out this errand himself lay in the fact that he was

 growing more mistrustful of Cyllan. To begin with, he'd

 dismissed the obvious friction between them as nothing

 more than the natural outcome of the differences in their

 station - she was, after all, so far beneath him that in

 happier circumstances he wouldn't have associated with

 her at all - but now he wasn't so sure. She had met the

 Castle's dark master before; she seemed unwilling to

 condemn him for what he was - once or twice Drachea

 had deliberately tested her, and she'd leaped to Tarod's

 defence like a watchdog. When conflict finally came, as

 it must, he wondered whether she'd be so blinded to the

 truth that she wouldn't have the sense to fight on the side

 of justice.

  

 Still, Cyllan was a minor consideration. In the final

 extreme she was expendable, and he for one wouldn't

 particularly mourn her loss. Any debt he owed her

 Drachea now considered repaid in full - had he not

 helped her, guided her and instructed her in everything

 since their unwarranted arrival here? If his plans, which

 were admittedly embryonic as yet, worked, then she'd

 do well to realise that his wisdom was superior to hers!

  

 He had almost reached the end of the corridor, and

 unease gave way to relief as the High Initiate's door

 came in view. With the documents safely restored,

 Tarod could never discover that they had been disturbed

  

 and read; and any advantage, however trivial, was valu-

 able.

  

 He lifted the door-latch -

  

 'Well, my friend. Your excursions grow bolder.'

  

 Drachea spun round, jaw dropping in horror as he saw

 Tarod standing behind him.

  

 The tall Adept stepped forward, smiling, though the

 smile didn't deceive Drachea. Tarod's green eyes were

 alight with an unholy fire, and Drachea knew that he was

 in a very dangerous mood.

  

 'Such ambition doesn't become you, Drachea,' Tarod

 continued softly. 'It hints of a willingness to step into a

 dead man's shoes before the funeral has taken place.'

  

 'I was - I merely intended - ' Drachea struggled to

 find an answer that might sound plausible, and Tarod

 watched his efforts with chilly detachment. He didn't

 know what had motivated him to seek out the young

 man for the sole purpose of tormenting him - it was a

 hollow and pointless pursuit and even his dislike of

 Drachea wasn't enough to justify it. But he had been

 brooding; the brooding had led to anger, and the anger

 desired an outlet. It was Drachea's ill fortune that he was

 to hand and that Tarod had no compunction about using

 him as a scapegoat.

  

 But it seemed that Tarod's black mood had proved

 fortuitous - for he suddenly saw the sheaf of papers

 which Drachea was clumsily trying to hide. The topmost

 document bore the High Initiate's own seal . . .

  

 The fire smouldering in Tarod's mind began to flicker

 into a blaze, and he stretched out his left hand. 'I think,' he

 said, 'that you'd do well to show me what you have there.'

  

 Desperate, Drachea shook his head. 'It's nothing,' he

 replied carelessly, battling to keep himself from

 stammering.

  

 'Then you'll indulge my whim to see it.' Tarod's voice

 was merciless.

  

 Drachea tried to resist as the icy green eyes held his

 gaze locked, but he couldn't look away. Jerkily, and

 against his will, his hand came up, stretched out; and

 Tarod took the documents from him.

  

 One glance at the sheaf confirmed his suspicions. So

 Drachea knew . . . and doubtless Cyllan, too, had seen

 these pages. Little wonder she had been so afraid when he

 encountered her in the vault, with Keridil's testimony

 fresh in her mind ...

  

 He looked at Drachea again. The Heir Margrave was

 shaking as though he had the ague, and the guilty terror

 in his eyes, the contempt his attitude aroused, disgusted

 Tarod.

  

 'So,' he said softly, 'you consider yourself entitled to

 steal more than you can find in the library.'

  

 White-faced, Drachea swallowed and dissembled

 weakly. 'Cyllan discovered them, not I ... I - I didn't

 trouble to read them; I told her they were none of my

 concern . . . ' His voice trailed off as he saw Tarod's

 expression.

  

 'You're a liar.' And, incensed by Drachea's shameless

 perfidy, Tarod felt something within him snap. His eyes

 fired with loathing; he flung the papers aside, raised his

 left hand, gestured once.

  

 Something with the power of a horse's kick hurled

 Drachea off his feet, and he crashed against the High

 Initiate's door, which burst open. Sprawling across the

 threshold, Drachea tried in panic to struggle upright and

 run - but in doing so he caught Tarod's eye. Every

 muscle in his body locked rigid. He couldn't move,

 couldn't breathe; his mind fought against the inexorable

 will that held it, but he was helpless.

  

 Tarod smiled, and the smile made Drachea want to

 scream. The gaunt face was changing, eyes narrowing,

 burning with an inhuman light, the black hair like a

 shadow of utter darkness. In an instant of terrified reve-

 lation Drachea saw what Cyllan had seen in the graven

 face of the statue - the malevolence, the knowledge, the

 sheer power that lay behind the mask. He made a sound

 deep in his throat; inarticulate, pleading. Tarod's smile

 widened, and the fingers of his hand curled as though

 outlining an invisible symbol.

  

 The thrall that held Drachea broke, and he shrieked

 like a wounded animal, eyes starting out of their sockets

  

 and hands scrabbling for purchase on the floor. Tarod,

 seeing what he saw, acknowledged the nightmare with a

 laugh. The last time Drachea had crossed him, he had

 shown him but a brief glimpse of the horrors he could

 conjure if he chose. Now, the punishment was merciless.

  

 'No . . . n-no . . . ' It was the only word Drachea

 could form from a babbling, pleading stream of

 incoherence. He was crawling on hands and knees, as a

 mortally injured mouse might try to crawl away from a

 preying cat, and Tarod moved slowly, casually after

 him, holding the delusions and manipulating them so

 that Drachea's terrors deepened, pushing him towards

 the brink of insanity. He felt no true malice towards

 Drachea - contempt was too ingrained for that - and

 what he did now gave him no satisfaction. But some-

 thing had moved him; a fury he couldn't contain. An

 emotion that demanded its due.

  

 Drachea was sobbing, curling into a foetal huddle in

 the passage and seemingly trying to dig his nails into the

 wall, as though refuge lay that way. Tarod's hatred had

 reached its peak and, as abruptly as it had come, the rage

 was passing. He stared down at the hunched wreck at his

 feet. It would be so easy to kill him. A single movement,

 and it would be done . . . but there seemed no point.

 Better that Drachea lived on, and remembered . . .

  

 He stepped back. The last time he had lost all self-

 control, a man had died, and hideously; but that, like so

 much else that plagued him, was in the past. He had no

 such motivations now.

  

 Or did he?

  

 The thought wasn't one he liked to live with, and

 when he looked at Drachea again he felt something close

 to remorse. Tarod turned on his heel and stalked away

 along the corridor towards the main doors. Behind him

 as he went he could hear the demented sobbing pleas

 diminishing in the distance, and the sound left a bitter

 taste.

  

 The two swords and the light, slim-bladed dagger were

 all Cyllan had been able to find, but nonetheless she was

  

 pleased with her spoils. Drachea's theory that an ar-

 moury might lie next to the Castle stables had proved

 wrong, and after an unfruitful search she had taken to

 looking through individual rooms in the great building,

 where she had found what she needed. The experience

 of searching those chambers had been eerie; she felt like

 a desecrator as she rummaged among the personal

 belongings of men and women whose lives had been

 abruptly suspended and who now languished in a world

 beyond imagination, if they still existed at all; and it had

 taken all the self-will she could muster to begin the

 search. So many of the artefacts told their own poignant

 stories; a torn coat with a sewing needle and thread laid

 on it; two empty wine cups beside a rumpled bed; a sheaf

 of papers covered with simple drawings in a child's hand.

 It had been a sharp reminder that this Castle had once

 lived and breathed and rung to the sounds of its human

 inhabitants.

  

 She had ignored, though with difficulty, the clothes

 that she found in some of the rooms. Gowns and cloaks

 in rich fabrics, graceful and decorative shoes that she

 knew would have fitted her, jewellery . . . the choice

 was almost endless, had she been able to ignore her

 conscience and steal them. But instead she had reluc-

 tantly set them aside, and her fantasies with them, and

 concentrated on the task at hand.

  

 Her search had, thankfully, allowed her to stay on the

 upper floor of the Castle wing, where she knew there

 was less chance of encountering Tarod. She had taken

 two wrong turns on her way back towards her room, but

 the maze of passages was growing more familiar and

 there was little danger of becoming lost. She was cross-

 ing the broad landing where the main staircase ended

 when a faint sound caught her sharp ears, and she froze.

 Someone was moving; someone on the stairs . . .

  

 Holding her breath, Cyllan inched forward, keeping

 close against the wall. The sounds seemed to have stop-

 ped, and no shadows moved to betray an approaching

 figure. Gaining confidence she crossed to peer over the

 balcony rail . . .

  

 The swords and dagger fell from her grasp, making an

 echoing racket as they clattered across the floor. Cyllan

 ran, flying down the stairs until she reached the figure

 sprawled prone halfway down the flight.

  

 Drachea wasn't quite unconscious, but the last dregs

 of strength which had enabled him to crawl, inch by

 painful inch, from the High Initiate's door had finally

 run out. His hands were grasping feebly at the tread of

 the next stair, the nails split and bloodied as though he

 had been trying to claw his way through stone, and

 palsied shudders racked his body.

  

 'Drachea!' Cyllan tried to help him sit up, but he

 couldn't rally. Appalled, she turned him over. His eyes

 were tightly shut, face dead-white, and he seemed,

 incredibly, to be trying to laugh, though no sound came

 from between his bloodless lips.

  

 Sweet Aeoris, what had happened to him? He couldn't

 lie here - she had to get him to a bed! Crouching, Cyllan

 hooked her hands under Drachea's arms and pulled with

 all her strength. He moaned, but was too weak to strug-

 gle, and with a great effort Cyllan managed to drag his

 limp weight to the top of the stairs. Bent double and

 gasping for breath, she looked along the corridor. His

 room was nearer . . . Taking a deep breath she lifted

 Drachea again and struggled towards the distant door,

 praying meanwhile that he wasn't physically damaged

 and this unceremonious progress only making matters

 even worse.

  

 By the time she reached the chamber Drachea had

 lost consciousness, which was a mercy. Her muscles

 protested as she forced them into one last effort to lift

 him on to the bed. She made him as comfortable as she

 could, then studied him closely to see if she could find

 any clue to what had happened.

  

 Thankfully, there were no obvious signs of injury -

 though Cyllan was no healer, and knew how easily she

 might overlook some serious hurt. Nor could she even

 begin to guess how this had come about . . . but a

 terrible suspicion was eating at her mind.

  

 She straightened, trying to quell the dread that filled

  

 her. Whatever the truth, something had to be done for

 Drachea, or he could die. And the only one she could

 turn to might be the very one who was responsible for

 bringing him to this condition.

  

 She looked at him again, and knew she had no choice

 but to ask Tarod's help. The worst he would do, surely

 the worst he would do, was refuse . . .

  

 Quickly, before courage could desert her, she ran out

 of the room and back along the passage to the stairs. The

 swords and dagger still lay where they'd fallen; she

 hesitated, then snatched up the knife and thrust it into

 her belt. She couldn't conceal it, but it gave her a little

 confidence. Then she was running down the long stair-

 case towards the Castle's main door.

  

 The sight of the black steps winding up into utter dark-

 ness almost broke Cyllan's resolve when at last she stood

 at the foot of the titanic Northern spire. She had seen the

 dim light glowing in the narrow window at the summit,

 and knew that Tarod must be there - but the thought of

 climbing those endless stairs, through dark so intense

 that it was almost tangible, was horrifying. She steeled

 herself- it had to be done. Drachea needed help, and

 she was his only ally.

  

 And if Tarod refused to aid her? She'd thought of little

 else as she crossed the courtyard, but amid all the doubt

 and confusion was a spark of hope. Despite what she

 knew, despite the terror she'd felt at their last meeting,

 she thought she had, in the library, at last recognised a

 shadow of Tarod as she had once known him, and she

 clung tightly to that. He had treated her kindly, giving

 the lie to those who had condemned him, and she prayed

 that, if she could touch that same chord again, he would

 help her now.

  

 Or was she being a fool again? In her mind she could

 hear Drachea's voice condemning her for her gullibility,

 and hope gave way to uncertainty. If she was wrong . . .

  

 She drew breath, squaring her shoulders. If she was

 wrong, there was only one way to find out. She had to

 try.

  

 Determinedly ignoring the painful thumping of her

 heart, Cyllan set foot on the first stair.

  

 It seemed that the black spiral would never end. Cyllan

 had climbed and climbed, trying not to falter but every

 now and again forced to stop, to rest aching muscles and

 regain her breath. The stops grew more frequent; her

 legs felt as though they were on fire, and the long

 struggle through the terrible, unchanging dark took on

 the proportions of a nightmare. She couldn't go back -

 she didn't know how many steps lay behind her, but they

 must have numbered thousands; the thought of giving in

 now and turning to face them all again was more than

 she could bear. And yet, though she prayed to reach her

 goal, the stairs still wound on and on, ever upward, with

 no reprieve.

  

 Her foot slipped and she stumbled, sinking down on

 the cold black stone and sobbing with exhaustion. It

 couldn't be much further - unless she had unwittingly

 strayed into some twist of dimensions, some evil jest at

 her expense, the stairs must surely end somewhere . . .

 She pulled herself upright, hands pressed against the

 unforgiving wall, and willed her limbs to obey her. She

 couldn't falter now . . .

  

 And, unexpectedly, Cyllan found that the seventh

 step she climbed was the last.

  

 The unexpectedness of it shocked her out of her mes-

 merised state, and she reeled against the wall, having to

 exert all her remaining strength to keep her legs from

 buckling under her. She was on a dark, circular landing,

 and in the gloom could just discern the faint outlines of

 three doors. All were firmly closed, and Cyllan's flag-

 ging confidence fell still further. If she were wrong, and

 Tarod wasn't here . . . or if he refused to help her . . .

  

 She swallowed back the thoughts, and stumbled

 towards the nearest of the three doors. But before her

 hand could reach it, the furthest opened, and a chilly

 light spilled out, silhouetting a tall figure on the

 threshold.

  

 'Cyllan?' Tarod's voice was soft, faintly curious.

 'What brings you here?'

  

 She drew breath, but could hardly speak; the climb

 had finally taken its toll and she was exhausted.

 'Drachea . . .' she whispered dazedly. 'He's ill... hurt

 . . . I came -I came for help . . .'Suddenly she swayed,

 and Tarod stepped forward, taking her arm.

  

 'Drachea be damned -I think it's you who are in need

 of succour! Come; in here.'

  

 She leaned against him, unable to support herself, and

 he led her gently through the door. The light, poor as it

 was, blinded Cyllan after the grim darkness on the stairs.

 Through its dazzle she had an impression of a small and

 overcrowded chamber, then Tarod was helping her to a

 couch, and gratefully she let her limbs give way until she

 was half sitting, half lying among its cushions. Gradually

 her vision adjusted, and her breath returned, until she

 was able to look at Tarod where he sat watching her.

  

 'Are you recovered?' he asked.

  

 'Yes. . .yes, well enough.'She met his gaze.'Thank you.'

  

 He inclined his head slightly. 'So Drachea is unwell,

 and you took it upon yourself to climb this great height

 to find me? You're very loyal, Cyllan. I hope our young

 Heir Margrave appreciates his friends!'

  

 His tone stung her. 'Anyone would have done the

 same,' she said.

  

 'I doubt that. What ails him?'

  

 She shook her head. 'I don't know ... I found him,

 lying on the main stairs. He was all but unconscious, and

 he - he was in a terrible condition! I don't know what

 brought him to that pass, but he was - his eyes; his hands

 -' She struggled to find a way to explain, then stopped as

 she saw the expression on Tarod's face. He showed no

 sign of surprise, or even interest; and a faint, wry smile

 curved the corners of his mouth.

  

 He saw her scrutiny, the dawning realisation in her

 eyes, and said evenly, 'Drachea has a habit of bringing

 his own misfortunes on himself. And if he's fool enough

 to steal what doesn't belong to him, he should anticipate

 the consequences.'

  

 The gnawing suspicion flowered into sudden painful

 certainty in Cyllan's mind. Tarod must have caught

 Drachea as he tried to return the incriminating docu-

 ments to the High Initiate's study . . . Slowly she got to

 her feet. 'You . . .' Her throat was constricted. 'You did

 that to him . . . '

  

 Tarod looked back at her dispassionately. 'Yes. I did.'

  

 A part of her had known; yet to hear Tarod admit the

 truth so carelessly was still shocking. Doubt and con-

 fusion were suddenly swept away, and in their place she

 felt only disgust.

  

 'Gods!' She spat the word. 'You are monstrous!'

  

 Tarod sighed. 'Oh, indeed. A callous monster, wreak-

 ing havoc at will with the minds and bodies of innocent

 victims.' There was a harsh light in his eyes. 'You under-

 stand nothing!'

  

 'I understand,' she retorted, her voice shaking. 'I

 understand all too well what you are! To tell me, without

 qualm or conscience; to react as though it means

 nothing, to - to be proud of such a deed - '

  

 'Proud?' He was on his feet so fast that she

 instinctively shrank back. 'Very well - I'll complete the

 picture for you, as you obviously know me so com-

 pletely! I have no conscience, I have no ethic-I am what

 you see in your own mind, Cyllan. I like to bring torment

 to others for the pleasure it gives me; it's my sole pur-

 pose for living!' He took a grip on himself and added

 with tightly controlled ferocity, 'Does that satisfy you?'

  

 He was challenging her, daring her to stand against

 him, and a sense of rebellion in Cyllan goaded her not to

 give way.

  

 'Yes!' she flared back at him. 'It satisfies me, Tarod;

 for it proves to me that Drachea was right and I was

 wrong! You are evil - and I know from where your evil

 springs!' And she made the Sign of Aeoris, defiantly, in

 his face.

  

 Drachea had told her . . . Swift as a cat, Tarod's hand

 came up and caught hold of her wrist. His own anger was

 rising, so rapidly that he was barely in control of it. She

 knew - and like all the others she had condemned out of

  

 hand, as he had known she must. Suddenly in his mind's

 eye another face supplanted Cyllan's; patrician, beauti-

 ful, limpid eyes hiding the calculating and self-centred

 heart beneath. He wanted to hurt the soul behind that

 face, take the retribution that was long overdue . . .

  

 His vision cleared and he saw instead Cyllan's thin

 features and wide amber eyes. The beauty was gone; but

 not the pride. Cyllan had pride enough, but it was of a

 different order . . . and she had the courage to face him

 with what she knew, instead of wielding the blade from

 behind.

  

 She was motionless, watching him and wary, ready to

 spring free at the smallest opportunity. Tarod gave her

 no opportunity. His hold on her wrist tightened until the

 pain showed in her face, but she made no sound. He

 could have snapped her arm; he could have killed her

 with one flick of his fingers . . .

  

 'You think you know me,' he whispered savagely.

 'But you're wrong, Cyllan. You're wrong!'

  

 She twisted, trying to break free; he held her

 effortlessly, but had to battle to stem the tide of sheer,

 raw emotion that was rising in him. 'I'm not wrong!' Her

 voice was edged with pain, breath coming sharply. 'I

 know what you are!'

  

 'Do you?'

  

 'Yes! I saw the documents, Tarod - Drachea read

 them to me, and now I know why you took such a vicious

 retribution! You are a thing of Chaos!'

  

 A thing of Chaos. . . Her words drove home, and the

 barriers which had been holding back the tide broke.

 Tarod smiled again, and this time the smile made Cyllan

 feel sick with terror. She had gone too far ... he'd kill

 her; and a paralysis of fear locked her muscles rigid as

 she anticipated the final, fatal strike.

  

 But it didn't come. Instead Tarod laughed as though

 at some private joke. 'Chaos,' he said softly. 'No,

 Cyllan; this time you're not wrong.' He drew her

 towards him, until her body pressed hard against him

 and he could feel the rapid pulse of her heart. 'But you

 are . . . misguided.' His free hand rose, pushed back

  

 the pale hair from her face. Beads of sweat banded her

 brow and now he could feel her trembling. There was

 mayhem in his mind; he wanted to strike out, avenge

 himself; and yet there was more, far more, behind the

 compulsion.

  

 'I'm no demon . . . ' he told her with soft menace.

 'I'm man enough.' And before she could twist away, he

 bent his face to hers and kissed her. It was a vicious kiss,

 a taking and not an asking; and she fought back with a

 strength that surprised him, writhing and clawing in his

 grip. She was as lithe and sinuous as a cat, and her

 ferocious determination struck an answering chord in

 Tarod. His mouth found hers again, this time more

 sensuously. He was reeling from the sensations that

 were swamping him - vengeance was eclipsed by some-

 thing far stronger and more urgent, and all thoughts of

 Sashka were forgotten.

  

 She broke free, breathless, and their gazes locked

 briefly. Cyllan's amber eyes blazed - and then, so fast

 that she almost caught Tarod unawares, she whipped a

 dagger from her belt and brought it shearing up in a

 vicious arc.

  

 Acting on a reflex, Tarod swung her off balance as she

 struck, and the blade flashed by an inch from his shoul-

 der. His left hand locked on her right wrist and twisted it

 until she choked out an involuntary cry; he pressed

 once, with his thumb, and the knife spun from her grasp.

  

 She glared at him, breath rasping in her throat. She

 might be afraid, but she wasn't cowed; at the slightest

 provocation he knew she'd fight him like a wild animal,

 and the knowledge raised his adrenalin.

  

 'You use a knife well,' he said, the words clipped by

 the suffocating pounding of his heart. 'But I've been

 fighting longer than you - and I know how to defend

 myself!' He smiled, showing his teeth. 'Do you give me

 best, Cyllan?'

  

 She shook her head fiercely. 'No!'

  

 The green eyes that gazed into hers suddenly seemed

 to take fire, and Cyllan felt her will draining away before

 Tarod's implacable stare. She tried to resist, but she was

  

 weakening - an inner voice reminded her that she was

 battling no ordinary mortal, and the fear came surging

 back . . . but mingled with it was an echo of the old

 feelings which she had thought banished, an overwhelm-

 ing desire . . .

  

 'Cyllan . . . ' Tarod's voice was sibilant, persuasive,

 smashing through her defences. 'Have I no warmth? No

 life?'

  

 She tried to deny it, but the words wouldn't form. His

 hands on her skin were real, physical; and a long-dor-

 mant need within her answered with a power she

 couldn't combat. She gasped as his teeth grazed her

 shoulder and the shirt, already torn, fell away to expose

 her pale skin.

  

 Tarod ... no - please, no . . . ' The protest was cut

 off as she staggered back under a gentle but irresistible

 pressure. She stumbled against the couch, fell; felt the

 weight and the strength of Tarod's body as he crushed

 her. This time when he kissed her she couldn't stop

 herself from responding. Terror was giving way to long-

 ing, and she could no longer fight him; no longer wished

 to fight him.

  

 Tarod raised his head. The wild light in his eyes was

 suddenly muted by a look that Cyllan didn't dare try to

 interpret, and he shook his head, brushing a strand of his

 unruly black hair away from his face. The gesture was so

 human that confusion filled her again - whatever the

 Circle might say, whatever he might have done, he was

 surely no demon . . .

  

 'You're brave,' he said softly, 'And you're honest. . .

 you fight fairly. I could defeat you easily, Cyllan, and

 you couldn't stand against my desire . . . but I won't. I

 still have some sense of honour . . . and you don't want

 to deny me. Do you?' His hands were light and cool on

 her skin, pushing aside the encumbering garments. 'Do

 you?'

  

 Against her will Cyllan's body was responding to him,

 racking her with a long-suppressed, aching longing that

 made her want to cry and scream, to thrust him away and

 yet hold him to her, all at once. A moan broke from

  

 her throat, and involuntarily her lips formed a single

 word.

  

 'No . . .'

  

 She cried out at his hungry violence when he took her,

 but he silenced her with his mouth on hers, making her

 yield in spite of herself. And after the first resistance

 there was pleasure as well as pain; a fierce, shuddering

 release as her bare arms locked tightly around him, her

 head thrown back and teeth drawing blood from her

 lower lip. Once she fought him again; he quieted her and

 she became pliant beneath him once more.

  

 At last, all desire satiated, Tarod let his hands move

 slowly and gently over Cyllan's body, tracing the slight

 curve of her breasts. She lay passive in his arms and her

 eyes were tight shut, as though she was trying to deny the

 truth. Tears that she stubbornly refused to shed sparkled

 on her dark lashes, and a feeling that might have been

 remorse awoke in Tarod.

  

 He spoke her name, and her eyes opened, reflecting a

 mixture of uncertainty and accusation and shame. He

 wanted to say more, but suddenly couldn't. Instead, he

 raised his hand and made a gesture over her.

  

 Her eyes closed again and her breathing relaxed into

 the light, even rhythm of sleep. He wanted no recrimina-

 tions, not now . . . when her body relaxed and he knew

 that her consciousness had slipped away, Tarod drew

 her limp form towards him and kissed her, lightly, on

 one pale cheek. Then he reluctantly released her, rose

 and crossed the room to the narrow window, forcing

 back the thoughts that threatened to take hold and

 break through the barriers he had raised against their

 onslaught.

  

 Chapter 8

  

 Cyllan woke to sense the uneven contours of the couch

 beneath her, and the rough texture of something that

 felt like an animal pelt covering her naked skin. Her

 body was filled with a devastating, fiery ache; her mouth

 felt bruised . . . and her stomach contracted as the

 realisation came home to her: it hadn't been a dream. . .

  

 Apprehensively, she opened her eyes.

  

 There was barely any light in the room, but in the

 dimness she could see Tarod seated in a chair. He had

 dressed, and a heavy black cloak was flung around his

 shoulders as though to keep out the cold. The high collar

 shadowed his features, but she thought that he was

 staring out of the window.

  

 Cyllan's limbs began to shake as the full implications

 of what had happened went through her like a knife.

 Slowly, cautiously, she started to sit up, thinking to

 reach for the crumpled clothes that lay among the debris

 on the floor -

  

 Tarod's head turned, and she froze. Mingled emo-

 tions tumbled through her mind as they looked at one

 another; then she saw the coldness in his green eyes, and

 her reactions coalesced into an icy rush of bitter shame.

 Tarod's passion was gone, as though it had never been;

 the barriers between them were up again, and his face

 was like stone. She had let him seduce her as though she

 were a simpleton . . . and all she had earned was his

 contempt.

  

 Self-loathing swamped her, and with it a sick revul-

 sion as she remembered what he was. But she still had a

 vestige of pride, and it came to her aid. Tossing her head

 back, she pushed away the blanket that covered her- it

  

 was fur, and rich fur, but she hardly noticed - and stood

 up. Tarod rose too, and Cyllan took a step back.

  

 'Don't, Tarod.' Her voice was harsh. 'Don't come

 near me!'

  

 He hesitated, then made a gesture towards the floor

 which she interpreted as careless. 'As you wish. But you

 might have need of your clothing.'

  

 'It hardly matters now, does it?' She squared her thin

 shoulders, facing him defiantly. 'You've seen me,

 you've touched me; you've taken what you wanted from

 me. What have I left to hide from you?' To her fury, her

 voice was shaking with poorly suppressed emotion, and

 she knew she was on the verge of losing control.

  

 Tarod said calmly, 'I took nothing that you were

 unwilling to give.'

  

 'Ohh . . . ' She turned away, hating him because he'd

 spoken no less than the truth. 'Damn you! I came to you

 for help, and you - you - ' She couldn't say any more;

 her voice broke and it took every last ounce of her will

 power not to burst into tears. Crying, she told herself

 ferociously, was for children; she had learned long ago

 to suppress such emotion, and wouldn't allow it to best

 her now; especially not in the presence of a creature like

 Tarod. She covered her face with her hands, fighting the

 reaction with all her strength.

  

 Tarod slipped his coat off and cast it round her shoul-

 ders. She didn't protest, but nor would she face him,

 only shook her head violently when he tried to turn her

 around. He watched her reflectively as she struggled to

 bring herself under control. Aware of her origins, he

 hadn't expected her to be virgin, and the knowledge that

 no man had ever lain with her before had disconcerted

 him. Yet she had chosen to give herself- and however

 bitterly she might regret it now, nothing could change

 that.

  

 Cyllan had calmed at last, and savagely pushed her

 hair back out of her eyes. She stepped away from Tarod,

 then deliberately shrugged the cloak aside and let it fall.

 It was hard for her to gather her torn clothes and dress

 with any dignity, and he moved back to the window,

  

 gazing out across the courtyard to give her what grace he

 could. She tugged the ruined shirt across her breasts and

 hesitated, looking at him. His face was an inscrutable

 mask, eyes hooded and brooding, and any thought

 Cyllan might have had of making a move towards him

 died within her. She stared down at the knife he had

 wrested from her hand . . .

  

 'Take it, if it's of use to you,' Tarod said.

  

 She glared at him, and let the dagger lie where it had

 fallen, turning and walking towards the door. Hand

 halfway to the latch, she paused.

  

 'Will it open?' she asked icily. 'Or do you have some

 further sport in mind?'

  

 Tarod sighed, and the door swung noiselessly open

 before Cyllan could touch it. She ignored a wild, irra-

 tional pang of hurt that he was prepared to let her go so

 easily, and stepped out on to the dark landing. Then she

 turned, looked back.

  

 Tarod still watched her. 'It's a long way down to

 the courtyard,' he said. 'I could make the descent

 easier.'

  

 For answer, Cyllan spat deliberately on the floor. 'I

 want nothing from you!' she retorted ferociously. And

 she was gone, her pale figure swallowed by the darkness

 of the stairs.

  

 She heard the echoing crash as the door above her

 slammed, and the sound of it goaded her on, until she

 was taking the stairs precariously fast, wanting only to

 get away and not caring that she might fall and break her

 neck. Suddenly the walls to either side of her warped;

 the steps beneath her feet seemed to give way to a

 dizzying emptiness, and she cried out involuntarily as

 the blackness inverted into a dazzling white brilliance. It

 lasted only the space of a single heartbeat - then she was

 reeling against hard stone, and staring, shocked,

 through the open door at the spire's foot.

  

 Cyllan stumbled out into the Castle courtyard. Damn

 Tarod - he'd had the last word, and she wished she could

 have taken the knife again, struck him, stabbed him,

 torn him apart . . .

  

 But she had had her chance, and she'd failed. And

 what he took from her, she had given of her own volition.

  

 She shut her eyes against the memory, pressing

 clenched fists to temples in a fruitless effort to blot out

 the small inner voice which accused her of being a hypo-

 crite as well as a fool. Tarod had awoken a fundamental,

 animal need within her - she'd known it since their first

 meeting on the cliffs of West High Land, and though

 since then she had tried to deny and suppress it, it had

 never truly died. That echo of the past had finally proved

 strong enough to conquer the horrors of Tarod's true

 nature, and she had gone to him, yielded to him, like an

 infatuated child.

  

 She wanted to kill him. However great a fool she had

 been, he had manipulated and preyed on her. If by

 destroying him she could free herself from guilt and self-

 torment and recrimination, then, she told herself, she

 would have no qualms. Drachea had known from the

 beginning how dangerous Tarod was; he had warned

 her -

  

 Drachea. Cyllan came back to reality with a jolt, and

 realised with a cold fear that she had utterly forgotten

 Drachea in the mayhem of all that had happened. She

 had failed him; and he still lay in his bed, mortally ill,

 perhaps dying . . .

  

 She began to run, racing towards the Castle's main

 doors and taking the shallow steps two at a time. If

 Drachea were to die - no, don't think of that! He had to

 live - she needed him, needed his determination now as

 never before, to keep the turmoil of her confusion at

 bay, and to help the clear, cold rage that she struggled to

 nurture shine through. Together they could defeat

 Tarod; they must defeat him, see justice done - he was

 evil, a creature of Chaos - he must be thwarted!

  

 Cyllan repeated the silent litany in her head as she ran

 up the broad staircase to the Castle's living quarters.

 Heart pounding, she raced towards Drachea's room,

 flung herself against the door, and burst in.

  

 Drachea was sitting on the bed. One of the swords

 which she had left on the landing lay at his feet; the other

  

 was gripped in his right hand, while his left moved

 slowly, almost hypnotically, up and down the length of

 the blade, polishing it with one of his sea-drenched and

 discarded garments.

  

 Cyllan's heart turned over with relief, and she rushed

 forward. 'Drachea! Oh, you've recovered! Aeoris be

 thanked; I thought - '

  

 He sprang to his feet, swinging the blade up in a wild,

 defensive gesture. Then the terror in his face gave way

 first to recognition, then to anger, and he snapped

 viciously,

  

 'Where in all the Seven Hells have you been?'

  

 Cyllan stared at him, astonished and chagrined.

 Drachea's face was dead white, and an obsessive,

 unhealthy light burned in his eyes. The hand that held

 the sword was trembling as he hissed again, 'I said,

 where have you been! You should have been here - I

 woke, and I was afraid, and I needed help, and you were

 gone! You abandoned me . . . '

  

 'Abandoned you?' The accusation took her breath

 away, and her happiness at seeing him restored

 crumbled. 'I found you, Drachea - I found you on the

 stairs, unconscious, and I brought you here to

 sanctuary!'

  

 'And then you left me to wake alone - '

  

 'I was afraid you might die!' Cyllan told him savagely.

 'I tried to find a way of helping you"!'

  

 Drachea's gaze raked her with a mingling of contempt

 and suspicion, then his mouth twisted into a travesty of a

 smile. 'Helping me - and what skills do you have that

 could combat what he did to my mind?'

  

 Tarod . . . ?' Her stomach tightened.

  

 'Yes, Tarod!' Drachea turned and stalked away from

 her. 'While you were safely occupied elsewhere, he -

 attacked me. I didn't provoke him, but he turned on me

 and - ' He put a hand to his mouth, bit the knuckles.

 'Gods, those nightmares ... he conjured them out of

 nothing, he sent them against me, and I -I couldn't fight

 back. Not against that . . . Scum!' He drew a deep,

 heaving breath. 'He'll pay for it. I'll see him annihilated!'

  

 Cyllan crossed the room to stand behind him, and

 tentatively reached out a hand. She was struggling to

 recapture the feelings she had clung to as she ran to find

 Drachea, the sense of comradeship, of fighting a holy

 war together; but it was slipping away from her grip.

 Drachea's outburst had broken the spell; by turning on

 her instead of welcoming her, he had struck her cer-

 tainty and confidence a hard blow.

  

 But, she told herself, he couldn't be held to blame.

 She knew what Tarod was capable of, and she knew

 Drachea's weaknesses. His ordeal must have been far

 worse than her own; enough to unhinge the strongest

 will. She had to help him, match his resolve with hers - it

 was the only hope for them both.

  

 She let her fingers come to rest on his arm; he shook

 her off.

  

 'I don't want your sympathy!' His tone was angrily hostile.

  

 Cyllan bit back a retort, willed herself to be patient.

 'I'm not offering sympathy, Drachea. I'm offering to

 stand beside you against Tarod.' She smiled bitterly.

 Tor what little it might be worth.'

  

 Drachea looked over his shoulder at her, suspicion

 mingling with a sullen resentment in his look. 'Yes . . .'

 he said. 'I don't know what your loyalty's worth, do I? I

 don't know anything any more . . . how do I know that I

 can trust you?' He swung round suddenly. 'You say you

 went to find help - how do I know it's the truth? Where is

 this help? What have you done for me?'

  

 Cyllan gave a bark of harsh laughter, and put a hand

 to her mouth. 'Done for you?' she echoed. 'Drachea, if

 you knew - if you knew what I tried to do, what hap-

 pened - ' She took a grip on herself, her eyes alight with

 all the anger and shame of the memory. 'I failed. Tarod

 . . . would not help me.'

  

 'You went to him?' Drachea's jaw dropped, and for a

 moment she thought he'd launch himself at her in sheer

 rage. Then, breathing hard, he hissed between his

 clenched teeth, 'You treacherous bitch! So now you

 consort behind my back with the very demon who

 almost killed me!'

  

 Astounded by such wanton injustice, Cyllan fired

 back without stopping to consider her words. 'How dare

 you say such a thing! Gods, when I think what I've been

 through for your sake - you're not the only one to have

 suffered at Tarod's hands!'

  

 Drachea's lips curled into a sneer. 'You, suffer? You

 can't imagine what the word means! While you were

 telling pretty stories to your demon friend, I was helpless

 here, on the verge of death! Traitor!'

  

 For a long, long moment Cyllan stared back at him,

 her face dead-white and every muscle rigid. Then she

 reached to her throat and pulled aside the ripped shirt,

 so that her neck and the swell of her breasts were

 revealed.

  

 'Look at me, Drachea,' she said, her voice danger-

 ously steady. 'Look closely, and you'll see what Tarod

 did to me. Maybe he didn't choose to assault my mind,

 not directly . . . but my body was a different matter!'

  

 Drachea's angry gaze flickered to her pale skin. There

 were bruises, the marks of fingers, a livid red crescent

 where she had been bitten in the heat of passion ... He

 moved closer, slowly . . . then his hand shot out and he

 hit her with all his strength across the face.

  

 Unprepared for such an attack, Cyllan went down,

 and before she could scramble to her feet Drachea

 lashed out with one foot and kicked her as though she

 were a dog that had displeased its master.

  

 'Slut!' he roared, hysterical. 'Lying, filthy, demon-

 spawned whore!'

  

 Stunned, she couldn't even begin to protest before he

 kicked at her again. This time she had the presence of

 mind to roll clear, and Drachea snatched up the sword,

 brandishing it over her head. His eyes were starting out

 of their sockets, and Cyllan knew beyond all shadow of

 doubt that he'd lost his reason. Driven to the brink of

 madness by Tarod's sorcery, he sought an enemy on

 whom to avenge himself, and no power in the world

 could make him listen or understand.

  

 She hunched into a tight ball against the wall, unable

 to escape, and appalled by the mania in Drachea's voice

  

 as he demanded savagely, 'How many times have you

 gone to his bed, harlot? How long have you been plot-

 ting with him against me? Serpent!' As he shrieked the

 last word his arm swung wildly and the sword blade came

 hurtling down, to strike the floor inches from her head

 with a shuddering clash of metal.

  

 'Drachea!' She screamed his name, trying to break

 through the insane rage but knowing she stood no

 chance of reaching him. He had regained his balance

 and now held the sword in both hands, swaying. The tip

 of the blade swung mesmerically before her; she tried to

 hunch further back but the wall blocked her way.

  

 'Serpent!' Drachea yelled again, his voice cracking.

 'Demon! You've been in league with him all along! You

 ensnared me, you lured me into this nightmare - damn

 you! I'll kill you, you white-faced monstrosity!'

  

 He raised his arms high, and the crimson light that

 pervaded through the window seemed to drench the

 sword blade in blood. Eyes widening with the hideous

 foreknowledge of her own death, Cyllan flung herself

 frantically to one side as the sword sheared down. The

 breath burst from her lungs as she sprawled on the floor,

 then she jack-knifed her body and made a convulsive

 grab for the door. It was ajar; her momentum forced it

 open and she rolled, trying to gain her feet before

 Drachea could reach her. She heard a bellow like a

 maddened, insensate bull, saw the blade whistling like a

 giant fang, light stabbing along its length, tried to throw

 herself clear - and pain exploded in her ribs as the point

 of the sword bit through clothing and flesh.

  

 She gave an animal shriek, eclipsing Drachea's tri-

 umphant howl. The sword came free with a fresh shock

 of agony and she clasped a hand to her side, knowing

 there must be blood and trying to stem it, but driven only

 by a blind, terrified will to escape. Drachea bore down

 on her again - she sensed rather than saw him - and,

 rolling on to her back, she kicked out savagely with both

 feet. By sheer fortuity the kick connected; she heard a

 grunt and a thud, didn't stop to see what effect the

 assault had had, but dragged herself to her feet and ran.

  

 Before her lay the stairs, swimming and swaying

 through a grey fog of pain and shock. She knew she was

 weaving from side to side, wasting a valuable advantage,

 but she couldn't run in a straight line. Warm stickiness

 flowed over her hand, pulsing rhythmically with the

 pounding of her heart, and she tried to laugh aloud. She

 couldn't die - there was no Time here; her life couldn't

 bleed away without Time to help it ...

  

 Lucidity came back and she realised she was leaning

 heavily on the rail above the stair-well, laughing like a

 madwoman. A soft ticking sounded from the floor at her

 feet. Her blood, dripping from the wound Drachea had

 inflicted, sapping her strength . . .

  

 'Demon bitch!' She heard the mad shouting behind

 her, echoed by the thud of running feet, and the shock

 brought her fully back to reality. She plunged on, reach-

 ing the stairs and almost pitching headlong down them

 before she could stop herself. A wild grab at the banister

 rail saved her, then she was half staggering and half

 falling towards the double doors that led to the court-

 yard. Drachea was behind her, and closing - she could

 hear his voice yelling for her to stop, and the sound of it

 goaded her on. Part of her mind, which seemed to

 observe from a misty distance, told her that flight was

 useless; that she'd merely prolong the inevitable. She

 could run only so far before she dropped from loss of

 blood. And then he'd move in, to finish her . . .

  

 Cyllan forced the thought away and grimly stumbled

 on. The double doors lurched giddily before her, and as

 she ran out she lost her footing and fell down the steps

 into the courtyard. Struggling painfully to her feet she

 saw the crimson smears marring the stone behind her,

 leaving a trail that a child could follow, and desperation

 brought a wild hope.

  

 Tarod . . . if she could reach Tarod . . .

  

 Savagely she ignored the inner voice. Not Tarod,

 never Tarod ... she couldn't, wouldn't . . .

  

 A crash told her that Drachea had reached the doors,

 and she heard him laughing, certain of his success.

 Blindly she staggered towards the fountain, clinging to a

  

 crazed idea that she might be able to break off some

 delicate piece of the stone tracery and wield it as a

 weapon against him. She cannoned into the fountain

 basin, and the pain of colliding with solid stone took her

 breath away so that she collapsed, clutching at an impas-

 sive carved fish as she fell. The running footsteps at her

 back thudded closer, dinning in her ears; she twisted,

 striking out with a rapidly weakening arm, spitting and

 cursing a stream of drover's oaths in the face of her

 nemesis, but knowing she was lost.

  

 White light blazed beyond her tight-shut eyelids, and

 hands gripped her. She screamed defiance, trying to

 beat them off -

  

 'Cyllan!'

  

 He was going to slaughter her, and she fought him

 with all her fast-waning strength, trying to kick, bite,

 battle to the last.

  

 'Cyllan!' The voice wasn't Drachea's - shocked, her

 eyes snapped open and her body went rigid.

  

 The grey fog clouded her vision still, but through it she

 could see the raven's-wing shadow of his black hair, the

 sharp-etched features, the green of his eyes. Cool fingers

 touched her burning face and she heard Tarod say softly,

 as though from a great distance,

  

 'It's all right. You're safe ... he can't reach you, he

 can't touch you. You're safe with me, Cyllan . . . '

  

 She tried to speak, but only choked as the pain within

 her redoubled and swelled to a crescendo. Her hand

 clawed convulsively and tangled in his hair; he clasped it

 tightly, and his voice was more gentle than she had

 believed possible.

  

 'Peace, Cyllan. No more harm can come to you. Sleep

 . . . I'll heal you. Sleep, now . . . '

  

 The words were a balm, and she clung to them. His

 hand still held hers, and she felt the throb of the pain

 fading, fading, her senses like a hot tide receding away,

 until a quiet, engulfing darkness overcame all else.

  

 *****

 'Drachea . . . No!'

  

 The words broke in harsh confusion from Cyllan's

 lips. She'd been dreaming, and in the dream Drachea

 had turned on her with the face of a devil, lunging

 towards her with a blade that glittered like molten silver

 against a blood-crimson background. She twisted con-

 vulsively and heard the soft thud of a cushion falling to

 the floor . . . then a powerful hand gripped her shoul-

 der, pressing her back and gently yet firmly forcing her

 to quiescence. The knowledge that she wasn't alone with

 the nightmare eased her, and she felt her muscles slowly

 relaxing.

  

 'Cyllan. The dream's gone. It's over; there's nothing

 to fear.'

  

 In her half-waking state she'd expected Drachea's

 voice, and the unexpected yet familiar tone made her

 open her eyes in quick alarm.

  

 She was in the room at the top of the spire, lying on the

 long couch. Tarod sat beside her, and his hand had

 moved to her brow, tracing lightly across her skin. She

 raised her own hand to clasp his fingers, a mute gesture

 of gratitude that brought a faint smile to his lips; then,

 still confused, tried to form words.

  

 'I thought I was - ' Recollection came back then, and

 she drew in a violently sharp breath. 'Oh, Gods;

 Drachea - '

  

 'Drachea tried to kill you,' Tarod told her, and the

 gentleness of his tone was belied by the cold anger in his

 eyes. 'It was fortunate that I found you before he could

 complete what he'd begun.'

  

 The memory was crowding back, and she began to

 feel sick. 'Then the light - ' she whispered. 'It was you

 . . . ' She looked down at her own body. There was no

 pain now - she had only just realised the fact - and nor

 was there any trace of blood. The wound Drachea had

 inflicted had vanished as though it had never existed.

 Quickly she raised her gaze to meet Tarod's once more,

 uncomprehending, and he said quietly but wryly, 'Yes,

 it's more than any healer could have done. There are

 occasions when power such as mine has advantages.'

  

 Cyllan swallowed, hard. 'Thank you . . . '

  

 Tarod's instinct was to dismiss her thanks carelessly,

 but he checked himself. Such a reaction could easily be

 misconstrued, and he was anxious not to alienate her

 now. Instead he reached behind him to a table and

 picked up a cup, holding it out to her.

  

 'Drink this,' he said, and smiled again, this time with a

 touch of humour. 'It won't fortify you, in a place where

 food and drink are irrelevant - but it'll warm you. And I

 imagine you've not tasted good wine since the High

 Initiate's inauguration!'

  

 He was reminding her of their second meeting, when

 he had championed her against a cheating wine-seller,

 and tears sprang to Cyllan's eyes. She blinked them

 back, angry with herself for being moved, and took the

 cup. Over its rim, as she sipped, her amber eyes

 regarded him uncertainly, and at last she asked, 'Why

 did you save me?'

  

 'Why?' He seemed surprised by the question, and she

 nodded.

  

 'You owe me nothing. After we - parted-I thought - '

  

 'That we were enemies?' Tarod finished the sentence

 for her. 'No, Cyllan. I feel no enmity to wards you; in fact

 - ' He stopped, and a quick uncertainty flickered in his

 green eyes before he took a grip on himself again. Then

 he shook his head. 'You must judge me as you think fit.

 You've seen the High Initiate's documents for yourself,

 and for the most part Keridil presented the truth as he

 saw it.' His eyes narrowed. 'I can't deny what I am, and

 if you look on me as an enemy I can expect nothing

 better. But, demon or no, I saved your life because I

 wanted to ... to protect you.' He shrugged. 'Perhaps

 that sounds glib. If it does, you must put your own

 interpretation on it.'

  

 Demon or no . . . Cyllan detected the irony in his

 voice, and her throat tightened with an emotion she

 didn't dare allow to take hold. Whatever else he might

 be, Tarod was no demon . . . the term was more fitting

 to Drachea, who had turned on her, condemned her

 without a hearing and elected himself judge and

 executioner.

  

 Cyllan had determined never to cry, least of all in

 Tarod's presence, but she had the terrible feeling that

 she was about to lose control and break down. Her ally

 had betrayed her; her enemy had saved her life - and the

 old feelings, which she had done all in her power to crush

 since arriving at the Castle, were fighting back to the

 surface.

  

 Her hand started to shake and Tarod took the cup

 from her. He set it down, then gripped her fingers again,

 but gently this time.

  

 'Why did Drachea try to kill you, Cyllan?' he asked.

  

 She bit her lip. She didn't want to think about what

 had happened, but it had to be faced . . . and she had to

 tell the truth. She owed Tarod that, at least.

  

 'He - he found out that I'd been here,' she said, so

 quietly that the words were barely audible. 'He was -

 was berating me for not being at his side when he began

 to recover from . . . ' She stopped, swallowed, con-

 tinued with an effort. 'From what had happened to him.

 I was angry because his attitude was so callous, and I told

 him - told him - ' This time, she couldn't finish.

  

 He began to understand. 'So he jumped to the con-

 clusion that you were . . . shall we say, a willing victim?'

  

 She nodded. The memory of Drachea's twisted face,

 his injustice, his cruelty, surged up from the dark corner

 of her mind to which she'd tried to banish it, and with it

 came a burning, bitter fury. Unable to stem it, she said,

 choking on the words, 'He called me a whore, and a

 serpent, and - '

  

 And suddenly the barrier she'd been tightly holding

 on to broke. Cyllan covered her face with both hands

 and burst into tears as the pent emotion shattered her

 self-control. She felt Tarod's arms go round her and

 pressed herself against him, hiding her face in the black

 tangle of his hair. He said nothing, only held her, and the

 relief of being able to cry freely with no fear of rejection

 or contempt was like a cleansing balm.

  

 Finally, the storm of weeping subsided. Tarod made

 no attempt to release her, and eventually it was she who

 disengaged herself from his arms, rising unsteadily to

  

 her feet and walking towards the window. She wiped her

 face with both hands, leaving smears on her cheeks, and

 said indistinctly, 'I'm sorry.'

  

 'You've nothing to be sorry for. I've known many

 Adepts who'd weep at less provocation.'

  

 She shook her head. 'No; I mean for more than that.'

 She wanted to look at him, to read the expression in his

 eyes, but didn't dare for fear of what she might see. She

 took a deep breath, aware that she must say what was in

 her heart, now or never. If she had misjudged Tarod

 then the mistake would hurt her badly. But she felt that

 she had nothing left to lose - and emotion was dictating

 what reason had finally been unable to suppress.

  

 'I've done you a great injustice,' she said quietly. 'I

 believed that you were an enemy, not to be trusted, and

 I allied myself with Drachea because I believed -

 thought I believed - in the cause he espoused. He wants

 to destroy you. I thought he was right.' She laughed, her

 voice breaking. 'I call myself a seer, yet I couldn't see the

 truth before my own eyes. Or at least ... I wouldn't

 acknowledge it. I thought Drachea's wisdom was

 greater than mine.'

  

 'And now?' Tarod asked softly, when she didn't

 continue.

  

 'Now ... I don't know. Drachea thinks me a

 simpleton peasant, and perhaps he's right. But I can

 only judge by what I see, not by what I'm told.' The

 words were coming in a rush now, and with them was a

 growing fear that seemed to eat into her soul. She was

 gambling everything; if she lost, she couldn't live with

 herself. But instinct - and emotion - told her to put her

 trust in the gamble, and believe that, at very least, Tarod

 would understand.

  

 'I wish,' she said, 'that I'd listened to my inner self.

 Because ... I don't believe you're the demon they say

 you are. And I don't want to be your enemy.'

  

 There was silence for a while. Then she heard a faint

 rustle as Tarod moved, and thought that he had come

 to stand behind her, though she didn't dare look

 round.

  

 'You've read the High Initiate's testimony,' he said.

  

 'No, I haven't. Drachea read it to me.' She smiled a

 smile that she didn't intend him to see. 'I can't read.'

  

 There was no surprise in his voice, no amusement, no

 pity. He simply said levelly, 'I can't deny the truth of that

 document, Cyllan. I might challenge the interpretation,

 but the facts are real enough.'

  

 She shrugged.

  

 'Doesn't that repel you?'

  

 'No. If those papers described a total stranger, then

 perhaps I'd condemn, because I knew no better. But

 they don't describe the man I met at West High Land, or

 the Adept who remembered me at the celebrations . . .

 or the man who saved my life.' She drew a breath. 'I

 thought I was afraid of you. But... I think I was more

 afraid of my own feelings.'

  

 Tarod felt as though something were constricting his

 lungs and throat. Cyllan was almost silhouetted against

 the gloomy light from beyond the window, only a faint

 blood-red gleam tinting her pale hair, and he wanted to

 move towards her, touch her, hold her. Her hesitant

 confession had stunned him - yet he knew she'd spoken

 from the heart, willing to risk mockery or contempt.

 She'd trusted him, and he imagined that throughout her

 harsh life such trust had rarely been honoured. She was

 still uncertain - the set of her small shoulders gave away

 her determined resolve not to seem weak - but she had

 bared her soul. And he, though he was soulless and had

 thought himself incapable of feeling, was overtaken by a

 force he couldn't combat and didn't want to. Emotions

 moved in him like an implacable tide; hope, wistfulness,

 an aching longing to be able truly to live again. He had

 held the feelings back, afraid of what they might mean

 and what they could lead to. But he could no longer

 control them.

  

 Cyllan laughed suddenly, chokingly. 'I still don't

 understand why,' she said.

  

 'Why?'

  

 'Why you saved my life.'

  

 He stepped forward and laid his hands on her

  

 shoulders. 'Don't you?' he said softly, and bent to

 kiss her upturned face. She responded eagerly, almost

 childlike - then her body tensed and she pulled

 away.

  

 'Please, Tarod . . . don't. Not unless - unless you

 mean it.'

  

 Tarod understood, and an image of Sashka as she had

 so often gazed at him, beautiful, hungry and inviting,

 came unbidden to his mind. He banished it. Sashka was

 dead; long dead for him . . .

  

 'I mean it.' He drew her towards him, his mouth

 finding hers and his body responding to the warmth of

 her. 'I mean it, Cyllan . . . '

  

 *****

  

 Desire was spent, but the emotion remained. They lay

 together on Tarod's couch, Cyllan's head resting in the

 crook of his arm. Neither had felt the need to speak, and

 now it seemed that Cyllan was asleep, her breathing

 light and regular.

  

 Tarod watched her. He felt more at peace than he

 could ever remember, and yet the peace was touched by

 a sadness that he had, as yet, been unable to bring

 himself to face. He had been shocked by the feelings that

 this oddly courageous and loyal girl had aroused within

 him, but knew that there was nothing illusory or transi-

 tory about his love for her, or hers for him. And yet,

 despite the flowering of those feelings, he was aware of

 an emptiness at the core of his heart, a dark, emotionless

 shadow that marred his new-found happiness.

  

 Could there be a future for them? Here, in this strange

 dimension where nothing ever changed, they could exist

 for eternity if they chose. But for a man without a soul,

 unable to give completely, it would be a hollow exist-

 ence because he could never be truly fulfilled. Tarod

 wanted to be complete again; to know the pains and the

 joys of completion. Soulless, he was but half alive . . .

 and yet to regain his soul would be to face once more the

 full implication of his true nature . . .

  

 He sighed, and Cyllan's eyes flickered open.

  

 Tarod?' Her fingers touched his arm lightly, sleepily,

 then she frowned. 'Something troubles you . . . '

  

 She read him all too well. 'Idle thoughts,' he said.

  

 'Tell me. Please.'

  

 He drew her closer. 'I was thinking of the future.' He

 smiled, but not happily. 'Since Time was banished, I've

 existed here without caring about all that I'd left behind.

 But now ... so much has changed. When I lost my

 soul, I thought I'd moved beyond humanity. I was

 wrong. And yet I'm a husk; a shell - there's a cold core

 within me that I can't break down. I can't give to you in

 the way that I once could have done; I can't love you

 with my soul, because I have no soul. And yet if I should

 try to turn back, and if I should succeed - '

  

 Tarod . . .' Sensing his distress Cyllan tried to interrupt

 him, but he silenced her by placing a finger on her lips.

  

 'No. It has to be said. You know what I've become,

 Cyllan. But do you know what I once was?'

  

 An echo of the old fear crept into her eyes, and he felt

 as though a knife had twisted in his gut. She still didn't

 fully understand, and he was afraid that, when she did,

 she would be unable to face the truth without revulsion.

 But he couldn't keep it from her. She had been prepared

 to gamble - so must he.

  

 'Once,' he said, 'I wore a ring. In the ring was a stone;

 a very beautiful gem. I learned that that gem was a focus

 of power, but I was ignorant of its true nature . . . until

 that nature was revealed to me by Yandros.'

  

 'Yandros . . . ' The word sent an atavistic shiver

 through Cyllan, and she said tentatively. The testimony

 claimed that he was - is - a Lord of Chaos . . . '

  

 'Yes.'

  

 'And the stone . . .' She knew the answer, but needed

 to hear it in his own words.

  

 The stone was the vehicle for my soul.' He ran his

 tongue over lips that were suddenly dry. 'It, too, is from

 the Chaos realm.'

  

 She sat up, seemingly wrestling with some inner con-

 flict - then turned abruptly to face him, reaching out to

  

 take his hand as her distress found voice.

  

 'But you're no demon! You're of this world; you're

 human - '

  

 'Cyllan - ' He squeezed her fingers, moved by her

 loyalty and yet finding it a bleak comfort. 'I'm not

 human. Not wholly. I never have been - though the

 Gods know it took me long enough to find that out.'

  

 'Then what are you?'

  

 Tarod shook his head. 'I don't know, Cyllan; I truly

 don't know. I have human feelings, human reactions;

 yet I also possess powers which no mortal man should be

 capable of wielding. The Circle say I'm a demon. And

 Yandros . . . ' his gaze flickered uncertainly to her face,

 'Yandros called me "brother".'

  

 Cyllan didn't speak, and when he looked at her again

 her head was bowed so that he couldn't see her face.

 Inwardly, she was struggling to assimilate all he had told

 her. She had expected him to deny the charges laid

 against him by the Circle; instead he admitted that,

 though slanted, they were in essence true. The idea that

 this man could be kin to a Lord of Chaos appalled her

 . . . and yet, no matter what every catechism she had

 learned since childhood might say, she couldn't reject

 him; couldn't turn against him for the sake of an abstract

 principle.

  

 'If I were to regain the soul-stone,' Tarod said, 'The

 links with Chaos would be reforged. Yet without it I

 can't truly live, and I can't find the fulfilment I long for

 with you.' He smiled bleakly. 'Can you reconcile such a

 paradox?'

  

 Cyllan looked at him. 'Is it a paradox, Tarod? What-

 ever that stone might have made you, you're human

 enough! You were a high Adept, a servant of our gods,

 when you possessed your soul. You were no demon -

 why should that change if you regain it now?'

  

 He laughed bitterly. The Circle would disagree.'

  

 'Then damn the Circle! If they couldn't see the truth

 before their eyes, they were fools!'

  

 He turned to regard her, unsure of himself. 'Do you

 really have so much faith in me, Cyllan?'

  

 'Yes,' she told him simply.

  

 The irony of her unquestioning loyalty, contrasted

 with the hostility he had met from those who had pur-

 ported to be friends and peers of a lifetime's standing,

 was sobering. During his cold existence alone in the

 timeless Castle Tarod had turned his back on the old

 allegiance to the Lords of Order, for with the Circle's

 betrayal Order had failed him. But the stirrings of a

 rekindled humanity had brought back the love of his

 world. He wanted to be a part of that world again; and it

 was a world in which Yandros and his ilk played no part.

  

 He looked down at the buckled base of the ring on his

 left hand. 'There could be dangers if the stone is

 recovered. It was the key to Yandros's plan to challenge

 the rule of Aeoris, and it could be that it would open the

 gateway . . . that Chaos could threaten the world once

 again.'

  

 'You fought Chaos once before. Even the High Initi-

 ate admitted that. His papers said that you banished

 Yandros . . . '

  

 'Nonetheless, Yandros doesn't accept defeat easily.'

 Tarod smiled thinly. 'As I know to my cost.'

  

 Cyllan leaned forward and let her arms slip around

 him, moving closer until she was pressed warmly against

 him. 'I don't care about Yandros,' she said with deter-

 mination. 'He's a shadow - and I'm not afraid of shad-

 ows. All that matters to me is that you've lost a part of

 yourself, and you want to regain it. That's what counts.'

  

 Tarod gazed down at her, and one hand reached out

 to stroke her pale hair. 'Whatever that self might be?

 You don't fear that?'

  

 'No.' She kissed him, and the kiss was fierce. 'I don't

 fear that.'

  

 Chapter 9

  

 Drachea's hand moved slowly, rhythmically back and

 forth along the length of the sword blade as he sat

 crouched over the weapon in one of the remotest of the

 Castle's many empty rooms. He had carefully wiped

 Cyllan's blood from the blade, but that wasn't enough;

 he needed to polish the steel until it shone blindingly,

 eradicate every possible trace of her. Purity, he told

 himself over and over again, with a twisted ferocity; the

 sword must be pure before it was fit for him to wield -

 he'd have no taint of the white-faced witch about him.

  

 Memory of the frustration and fury he'd felt at being

 cheated of his victim brought a chilly sweat to Drachea's

 brow. Bearing down on Cyllan, certain of securing her

 death, he had been momentarily blinded by the shatter-

 ing aurora of light that materialised around her from

 nowhere, and when its brief flash faded she had van-

 ished. He had no doubt that Tarod was responsible,

 though whether his skills had been enough to keep her

 alive he didn't know, If she lived, then she was another

 adversary to be counted in his personal reckoning - but

 the scores he had to settle with both her and her demonic

 lover could wait awhile. He had more urgent matters at

 hand.

  

 Drachea stopped polishing, studied the sword criti-

 cally and, satisfied, laid it with something approaching

 reverence on the bed before rising and crossing to the

 window. During his search for a safe hideaway he had

 found new clothes that he felt were more fitting to his

 station both as heir to a Margravate and as champion of

 the Circle against their common enemy. Taking up a

 stance at the window, he flicked back the short, fur-

  

 trimmed cloak that covered dark green velvet jerkin and

 grey silk shirt and trousers, trying to glimpse his own

 reflection in the glass. The panes distorted the image and

 irritated him; he turned back and picked up the sword

 once more, hefting it and testing its balance. Not ideal -

 Cyllan had failed him there, as in so many other ways -

 but it would do. And he had found a knife for him-

 self, which might prove a more useful weapon. The knife

 now hung in a sheath fastened to the belt at his waist; he

 slipped the sword through the adjacent loop, adjusted

 its angle at his hip and decided that he was ready.

  

 Drachea had no illusions about his prospects if he

 should face and defy Tarod alone - his last experience at

 the Adept's hands had all but unhinged him, and

 nothing would induce him to repeat it. If Tarod was to be

 defeated, he would need help - and the only chance of

 securing that help lay in finding a way to reverse the spell

 which had stopped Time, and call the Circle back to the

 world. Then retribution would be his for the taking, and

 he would relish every sweet moment. If Cyllan lived

 she'd learn to regret her alliance with Chaos, and he

 smiled to himself, thinking of the satisfaction that forc-

 ing her to witness Tarod's final annihilation would give

 him.

  

 But to relish his triumph now was premature - he had

 a long way to go before the victory. And the first step

 was to search for the Chaos stone, which could prove to

 be the most valuable weapon of all. With that in his

 grasp, he would be in a position to bargain with Tarod -

 a bargain that would be very much to his own advantage.

  

 Drachea took a final glance around the room, wishing

 that he could have shared this moment with someone

 who would admire his courage and wish him well. No

 matter; he would in time receive the Circle's gratitude as

 their champion and saviour, and they would see to it that

 he had his just reward.

  

 He left the chamber, closing the door quietly behind

 him, and set off towards the stairs.

  

 'Cyllan.' Tarod laid his hands gently on her shoulders as

 she looked up at him. 'Are you sure you want to do this?'

  

 She smiled, her face lighting. 'Yes, I'm sure.' She

 covered his left hand with her own, feeling the sharp

 contours of his broken ring against her palm. 'You can't

 enter the Marble Hall - but I can. And if the stone can be

 found, I'll find it.' She stood on tiptoe, drawing him

 down to kiss him. 'Trust me.'

  

 'I do. But I'm uneasy.' His green eyes, unquiet,

 focused on a point beyond her. 'You persuaded me to

 show mercy to Drachea ... I still think you were

 wrong.'

  

 'No.' She shook her head emphatically, remembering

 how hard it had been to dissuade him from finding the

 young man and slaying him without a second thought.

 Why she felt a measure of compassion for Drachea she

 didn't know; he had betrayed her trust and, if their

 positions were reversed, would have had no hesitation in

 killing her. But mingled with her contempt was an ele-

 ment of pity; revenge played no part in her thinking, and

 to see Drachea die for no good reason would prey on her

 conscience.

  

 Tarod felt differently. Drachea's treatment of Cyllan

 was in itself enough to provoke his quick temper, and he

 wanted nothing more than to blast him to damnation

 and have done. For her sake he had promised to stay his

 hand - but deep down he wondered if he might come to

 regret the promise.

  

 'Drachea can do us no harm.' Cyllan said. 'He counts

 for nothing, Tarod. I'm not afraid of him.'

  

 He hesitated, then smiled, though there was still a hint

 of doubt in his eyes. 'Go, then,' he told her. 'And if you

 need me, I'll hear you and be with you.' He kissed her,

 seeming reluctant to break away. 'The gods protect you.'

  

 He watched the door close at her back, waited until he

 heard her light footfalls on the stairs, then closed his

 green eyes, concentrating briefly on the small exertion

 of power that would transport her to the foot of the

 titanic spire. When it was done, he turned back to his

 table and sat down. The single candle in its sconce stood

  

 among a clutter of books; he passed one hand over it,

 and the familiar green witchfire glowed into life. As it

 gained strength, casting a cold radiance across his gaunt

 features, Tarod gazed unblinkingly into the heart of the

 flame and tried to banish the uneasiness that lurked like

 a worm within him.

  

 As she descended the stairs that wound down towards

 the library vault, Cyllan was keyed up with a mingling of

 excitement, anticipation and dread. She didn't fear the

 task that lay ahead of her, but knew that, if she was

 successful, the future would become unknown and per-

 haps perilous territory. With the soul-stone restored to

 him Tarod would again assume his true nature, and to

 stay in the timeless Castle wouldn't content him. He'd

 refused to admit the truth directly, but Cyllan believed

 that, when the stone was in his possession, he would use

 its power to call back Time to the dimension. The

 thought of what might ensue when he confronted the

 Circle again chilled her to the marrow; but she knew him

 well enough to realise he'd have it no other way. He

 couldn't exist in an unchanging eternity; he needed to

 live, and if living involved risk, he'd take the risk. She

 couldn't find it in her heart to argue with him, and yet the

 one fear which ate at her like a disease was the fear of

 losing him. Even with his soul restored, Tarod wasn't

 invincible; and if the Circle should prevail against him,

 she'd lose her own reason for existing.

  

 The sudden and drastic changes in both herself and

 Tarod had happened so unexpectedly that Cyllan had

 had no chance even to try to question or understand

 them. Nor, if she was honest, did she wish to. At

 Drachea's behest she had convinced herself that Tarod

 was evil, an enemy to be mistrusted and thwarted, and

 she had fought against her own desires and instincts in an

 effort to reinforce that conviction. But she had never

 been at ease with it; and once the barriers between them

 finally broke down, the feelings she had tried to suppress

 had taken hold of her with a vengeance. Powerful emo-

 tions, long repressed, had found their focus in a man

  

 who awoke in her a fierce desire, unquenchable love and

 a loyalty that nothing could shake. Right or wrong she

 had chosen her path, and no matter what the future

 might bring she wouldn't turn from it.

  

 She ran down the last few stairs of the flight and

 pushed open the door that led to the library. The dim

 vault was still and silent, and Cyllan paused on the

 threshold, turning her mind to Tarod where he waited in

 the spire. At once she felt an answering presence joining

 with her and soothing her unease, and she was com-

 forted by it. Whatever lay ahead, he'd be with her . . .

  

 As she crossed the room towards the half-hidden door

 which would lead her to the Marble Hall, the hem of her

 skirt snagged on one of the scattered books which lit-

 tered the floor, and she was forced to stop and free it.

 She was unused to wearing clothes like these; for as long

 as she could remember she'd had nothing but shirts and

 trousers handed down from a cousin or, in recent years,

 from one of the men in her uncle's drover-band. But

 Tarod had told her that she deserved something better,

 far better . . . and he had found, though the gods alone

 knew from where, a dress of dark red silk which fitted

 her as though it had been made for her alone. The feel of

 the fabric fascinated her; the rustle as she moved, the

 sensation of the silk swirling against her bare legs . . . and

 when she wore it for him he had said she looked beautiful.

 No one had ever paid her such a compliment before, yet

 she didn't doubt Tarod's sincerity. To him she was beauti-

 ful, and the knowledge meant more to her than she could

 express. Cyllan remembered his words, cherishing them,

 as she reached the low door, opened it and gazed through

 to the empty passage with its peculiar, silver-tinged light.

 Then, gathering her courage, she started towards the

 source of the light and the Marble Hall beyond.

  

 Tarod's plan, as he had outlined it to her, was straight-

 forward enough. Without the soul-stone he could do

 nothing to reverse the forces which had halted the

 Pendulum of Time and locked the Castle into this

 strange non-dimension; yet the stone had been con-

 signed to limbo along with the Castle's inhabitants. The

  

 only way to resolve the paradox was to break through

 the barrier on one of the highest of the seven astral

 planes, and find the stone. If the stratagem worked - and

 Tarod admitted that he was uncertain of success - it

 could be brought back through dimensions, if the

 motivating power and will were strong enough. Tarod

 had the power, and the will, but the vital focus provided

 by the Marble Hall itself was denied to him through the

 quirk of fate which had shifted it fractionally out of

 synchronisation with the Castle when Time was ban-

 ished. Soulless, he couldn't enter . . . but Cyllan could.

 And her innate psychic ability, Tarod believed, would

 be enough to enable him to succeed in his task using her

 as a medium.

  

 Cyllan didn't pretend to understand the nature of the

 occult skill which Tarod would need to achieve his aim,

 but only prayed that she would be capable of doing what

 he wanted of her. He had warned her that there could be

 dangers but she had stubbornly dismissed them; she

 trusted him, wanted to help him, and she was resolved to

 play her part.

  

 Now though, as she reached out to touch the dull

 silver door that stood between her and the Marble Hall,

 she was assailed by a chilly shiver of uncertainty. No one

 knew the true properties of this strange, illusion-

 haunted place; so much had been made clear in the High

 Initiate's papers, and Tarod had only confirmed it. If

 something were to go wrong with the plan, if some force

 that even Tarod hadn't bargained for were to manifest

 then no amount of foresight could predict the possible

 consequences. Limbo . . . Cyllan shuddered at the

 thought and all but withdrew her hand from the door.

  

 There's no shame in being afraid, Tarod had told her.

 Don't fight your fear, or pretend it doesn't exist. He was

 right . . . the feeling, on the threshold of such an

 undertaking, was natural . . .

  

 She took a deep breath, and touched her hand to the

 door. It swung open, and the shifting, shimmering mists

 enfolded her as she walked slowly into the Marble Hall.

  

 Drachea stood in the shelter of the doorway, his gaze

 roaming uneasily across the courtyard's vast expanse. It

 seemed deserted, but it was impossible to be sure; the

 crimson light played tricks with the eyes, and any one of

 a thousand dense shadows might without warning move

 and resolve into something other than shadow . . . He

 glanced towards the summit of the Northern spire, and

 thought he detected the faintest glimmer of light from a

 high window; but again, it could easily be illusion.

  

 He had arrived at the courtyard by a deliberately

 tortuous route which finally brought him to an insignifi-

 cant side entrance adjacent to the stables. If Tarod were

 watching for him, the chances were that he'd mount his

 vigil in sight of the main doors, which Drachea could see

 standing open. If he kept to the deeper darkness, he

 should be able to reach his goal with small risk of being

 detected . . . and so, trying to quell the thumping of his

 heart, he eased out into the shadow of the black wall and

 began to edge his way along it. Nothing untoward hap-

 pened - once he thought he glimpsed a blur of move-

 ment low down, as though something sentient had

 detached itself from the foot of a buttress and slipped

 snaking away across the flagstones; but it was nothing

 more than his imagination, and at last he gained the

 shelter of the colonnaded walkway. Here he could

 merge easily with the gaunt silhouettes of the pillars, and

 by moving with slow caution arrive at the door which led

 to the library vault.

  

 At the top of the vault stairs his determination almost

 failed him as he realised that Tarod could be waiting for

 him in the library, but Drachea forced himself not to

 dwell on the idea. If he baulked now, seeing demons at

 every turn, he might just as well return to his room and

 wait for insanity or Tarod's vengeance - or both - to

 claim him. The work must be begun, and he could gain

 nothing by delaying.

  

 Softly, though imagining every footfall to be as loud as

 thunder, Drachea began to descend the stairs.

  

 Cyllan stood at he head of the massive block of black

  

 wood which lay at what was deemed to be the Marble

 Hall's exact centre. Her eyes were closed, and her lips

 moved silently in a fervent prayer to Aeoris for protec-

 tion - though whether the god would see fit to grant it to

 her in the face of what she was about to do, she didn't

 like to speculate. Her stomach roiled with the sickness of

 nerves, and though instinct urged her to reach out and

 lay her hands on the block's surface, she couldn't bring

 herself to touch it. Passing by the seven defaced black

 statues, which loomed eerily out of the shrouding mist,

 she had faltered, and only by silently repeating the litany

 of Tarod's words to her could she force herself on. But

 she had come this far ... for his sake, for both their

 sakes, she must look forward and not back.

  

 The silence and stillness were absolute. Once she had

 imagined she had heard a distant sound like the muted

 chiming of a bell, and once an echo of soft laughter,

 almost beyond the threshold of human hearing, had

 seemed to shiver in the mist; but such illusions were

 gone now. The Hall itself seemed alive and waiting; she

 felt its tension like a physical presence. The mosaic floor

 was cold beneath her bare feet . . . she clasped her

 hands before her and struggled to quiet her mind, make

 herself receptive for contact with Tarod.

  

 His presence in her subconscious mind came suddenly

 and powerfully. For an instant Cyllan glimpsed the

 darkened room at the top of the spire and seemed to see

 steady green eyes gazing into her own, lit with an inten-

 sity that frightened her. Then she sensed the guiding will

 that began to integrate with hers and to take control. . .

 breathing slowly, lightly, she reached out as though

 sleepwalking, and her hands came to rest on the pitted

 surface of the block. As they touched, a lurching sensa-

 tion of vertigo struck up from far beneath the floor and

 she swayed, biting her tongue to stop herself crying out

 in alarm. The feeling passed, but she knew that, beyond

 her closed lids, something had changed. The tension was

 transmuting into a dreamlike sensation, as though she

 floated free of time and space. She wanted to open her

 eyes, but courage failed her. Whatever surrounded her

  

 now wasn't for mortal sight or mortal understanding,

 and the knowledge brought on something akin to panic.

 She flailed mentally, blindly seeking an anchor, and

 almost at once the other will touched her and held her,

 drawing her back from the terror. She felt Tarod's pre-

 sence in her mind again, but it was a presence that

 transcended humanity, more powerful than anything

 she had ever known. For a moment her own will resisted

 through fear, but the presence soothed her, reassured

 her, and she let herself be eclipsed by it as Tarod drew

 her through the planes towards their mutual goal.

  

 Sword drawn, Drachea stepped into the vault and

 picked his way carefully among the fallen books and

 manuscripts. At every other pace he turned quickly, the

 blade swinging up as though to block some assault from

 behind, but the precaution was needless. The library

 was empty.

  

 And yet he had a conviction that not all was as it

 should have been. Something was awry, though he

 couldn't put a finger on the cause. Drachea was no

 psychic, but a glimmer of sensitivity warned him, even

 before he came across the low door in its alcove and

 found it standing wide open.

  

 He stopped on the threshold, licking his lips uncer-

 tainly. This way lay the Marble Hall; the one place in all

 the Castle where, on his own admission, Tarod couldn't

 go. Yet the door gaped, suggesting that someone had

 recently come this way . . . and the Castle's only other

 inhabitant was Cyllan . . .

  

 His previous unreasoning fear of the Marble Hall

 meant nothing in the face of this unexpected oppor-

 tunity to settle the score. Drachea put the sword away,

 aware of its disadvantages in the confined space of the

 passage, and instead drew the short knife from its

 sheath. The blade glittered wickedly in the odd light,

 and he set off slowly, cautiously, towards the silver door.

  

 First there was a terrible sensation of weight, as though

 the towering cliffs of West High Land were crushing her

  

 beneath them . . . she resisted, urged by the will inter-

 locked with her own, and abruptly the pressure gave way

 to the balm of a cool, clear current which carried her like a

 fish on its tide. She heard the eldritch song of the fanaani,

 but it faded and instead she was being buffeted on a

 laughing, capricious gale . . . which exploded into heat

 that assailed her, burning, unquenchable. She seemed to

 pass through fire, on the point of screaming until sud-

 denly the searing pain was eclipsed by a voice that spoke

 in her innermost consciousness, Slowly, it seemed to say,

 Slowly . . . gently ... I am with you . . .

  

 And there was silence. She felt as though she hung

 weightless and motionless amid nothing; yet there was a

 disturbance in her mind, an unease, a fear . . . a sense

 that below her, something waited . . . and the voice

 spoke within her again and said, Look . . .

  

 It was a black and silver world, with no colour to

 relieve the austerity. Cyllan hung disembodied above a

 floor where mosaics made a complex pattern, and she

 looked down upon an extraordinary, motionless

 tableau.

  

 Some twenty or thirty men and women were ranged in a

 circle, all heads turned towards one man in heavy, sombre

 ceremonial garb, wearing a circlet that glittered coldly on

 his head. His arms were outstretched, and in both hands he

 held a massive, ugly sword which gave off a coruscation of

 light that seemed to burn the air around it. The light

 illuminated his powerful frame and a face which, though

 young and handsome, was set in hard lines.

  

 Cyllan felt a shaft of anger lance through her, and

 knew it emanated from the part of the linked con-

 sciousness that was Tarod. She looked again, and saw

 that the young man who held the sword stood before a

 great block of black wood . . . and on the block was

 another figure, tall, gaunt, face half hidden by a mane of

 black hair. The tableau's still rigidity gave a macabre

 twist to the attitude of extreme agony that racked the

 victim on the block - then the fury flared into life again,

 and Cyllan's mind recoiled in shock as she recognised

 him.

  

 The stone, Cyllan . . . find the stone . . . The voice

 that spoke within her carried no overt emotion, but

 Cyllan felt the savage thrust of pain that accompanied

 the words. Momentarily she realised how Tarod must

 feel at witnessing the scene of his own execution, but the

 understanding was eclipsed by an urgent longing that

 surged within their linked wills. Guided by Tarod, she

 exerted her strength, seeking, hunting . . .

  

 And then she saw it. It lay in the cupped hands of

 another Initiate who stood at the foot of the block, and it

 glowed with a cold inner life of its own. A single gem,

 multifaceted and beautiful . . . the Chaos stone.

  

 Take it, she heard Tarod's whispered command, and

 something seemed to propel her forward and down-

 ward, so that her mind reached out to the still figures of

 the tableau. The stone began to pulse, radiating seven

 shafts of light that all but blinded her as she drew closer,

 closer . . . and the presence in her mind prepared itself

 for a last, single exertion of will. She knew that this was

 the perilous moment; it would take all Tarod's skill to

 link their shared consciousness with the soul-stone, and

 snatch them back from this world of illusion and phan-

 tasm. She felt the power building within her, building

 until she thought she couldn't contain it and would

 shatter under its inexorable pressure . . . still it grew,

 and the glowing stone blazed more fiercely than ever,

 drawing her into itself like some terrible vortex . . .

  

 A gigantic concussion smashed from every direction

 at once, and Cyllan's scream of terror shattered into a

 thousand echoes that dinned in her ears as she was

 hurled from the dimension. Mind, body and soul split

 asunder, the scream rang on and on - until with a titanic

 crack the world returned.

  

 She was sprawled across the execution block, all

 breath knocked out of her lungs by the force of impact.

 She tried to move, but her limbs had no strength and she

 could only slide helplessly to the floor as her spinning

 senses struggled to right themselves. At last, guided by

 the feel of the cold marble beneath her, she gained a

 small measure of orientation and by slow and painful

  

 degrees was able to sit up. Her hands were clenched into

 fists and when she tried to unlock them she was racked

 by violent muscular spasms . . . but in her hand she felt

 something hard and cold and rounded . . .

  

 'Tarod . . . ' She croaked his name aloud, trying to

 urge her will to meld once again with his, and almost

 sobbed with relief when she felt his mind reaching out to

 her. The presence was weakened by their shared ordeal;

 he had exerted all his strength in calling on the forces

 he'd summoned, and the contact was tenuous. Yet it was

 enough . . .

  

 She projected the certainty she felt with all her

 remaining energy. I have the stone . . .

  

 He was barely able to answer her, and Cyllan began to

 struggle upright. Gaining her feet, she was forced to lean

 over the block to balance herself and get her breath -

 and it was as she gasped air thankfully into her lungs, the

 Chaos stone still tightly gripped in her hand, that a

 glittering sliver of steel slid from behind her shoulder to

 hover a hairsbreadth from her throat, and a voice thick

 with triumphant savagery said,

  

 'Thank you, Cyllan. You've solved my most pressing

 problem . . . '

  

 Tarod slumped in the chair, his head thrown back and

 sweat gleaming on his face and hands. He was drained,

 and the strength he craved wouldn't return to him. To

 summon and use such power was taxing enough under

 any circumstances, but to do so at second hand, through

 the medium of another mind, had almost proved his

 undoing. Only by an iron control of his will had he been

 able to pull himself and Cyllan back from limbo, and

 now he felt as weak as a new-born child.

  

 But it was done . . . The realisation lit a fire within

 him, though he hadn't the strength to rejoice. They had

 succeeded, and the stone had been retrieved from that

 netherworld . . .

  

 He must go to Cyllan. In his present condition he had

 no power to bring her back to the spire, but he must go to

 her. With a tremendous effort Tarod forced himself to

  

 rise from the chair, and stood swaying as though drunk.

 And then, as he turned towards the door, something

 impinged on a deeper level of his consciousness.

  

 Tarod . . .

  

 He felt the first stirrings of concern, for he recognised

 the source of the voiceless, psychic call and its inflection

 told him something was wrong.

  

 Tarod. . .

  

 Fear. It was fear he sensed in the call she sent, out to

 him; fear and an incoherent pleading. Drained as he

 was, he couldn't lock his mind completely with Cyllan's,

 but enough energy remained, fuelled now by alarm, for

 him to reach out psychically towards her. As he did, he

 heard her thoughts more clearly.

  

 Tarod, I've failed you . . . I was wrong. I thought he

 could do us no harm . . .

  

 The shock of her words struck his tired mind, and a

 terrible clarity brought home the truth to Tarod. He

 swung round to where the candle still burned with its

 sickly halo, and bent over the nacreous green flame.

 Distorted images danced before him; he willed them to

 focus, and saw her.

  

 She knelt on the mosaic floor at Drachea's feet, both

 arms twisted viciously up behind her back. Drachea held

 the blade of a knife poised at her throat, in such a

 position that one incautious movement would sever the

 jugular vein. Her eyes were tight shut and Tarod saw

 blood on her lip where she had bitten into it.

  

 A rage as he had never known before began to fill

 Tarod. The fury at Themila's death, which had led him

 to kill Rhiman Han, the bitterness of Sashka's betrayal,

 were nothing by comparison to the insanity of malev-

 olence that consumed him now. He gasped, swaying

 back, then with one hand swept the candle, books and

 all other artefacts from the table-top. They smashed to

 the floor; the witchfire halo winked out, and blackness

 surged up in Tarod's mind, bringing with it a resurgence

 of power which he caught, focused, savagely directing it

 towards Drachea -

  

 'No!' He yelled the word aloud in a desperate bid to

  

 break his own concentration, and reeled back as the

 power-bolt disintegrated in his head. His magic was

 useless - without a willing medium he couldn't penetrate

 the barrier between himself and the Marble Hall, and to

 use Cyllan as a vehicle for this would be to kill her. He

 sucked air into his lungs, striving to calm himself and

 railing wildly against the realisation that he was trapped.

 He could do nothing to Drachea, and Drachea held

 Cyllan's life as hostage. Whatever the treacherous Heir

 Margrave wanted - and Tarod believed he knew the

 answer to that question - he had no choice but to com-

 ply. If he refused, Cyllan would die. And as he faced this

 final, terrible test, Tarod knew that no sacrifice would be

 too great to save her.

  

 'So our mutual friend has heard you, and is aware of

 your plight.' Drachea smiled, speaking softly, and gave

 a vicious jerk to Cyllan's pinned arms that made her gasp

 with pain. 'No doubt he's aware, too, of what could

 become of his precious stone if he attempts to cross

 me!'

  

 Cyllan didn't answer. She could make no move,

 knowing that Drachea held the knife-blade so close to

 her throat that the smallest slip would drive it deep, and

 the wound would be fatal;. She had felt Tarod's despair

 and fury as he realised what had happened, but now

 there was no presence in her mind at all. She prayed that

 he still had a reserve of power, that he could use it to

 blast Drachea, and cursed herself a thousand times for a

 fool. If she hadn't pleaded with Tarod to show leniency,

 Drachea would be dead . . .

  

 Another cruel jerk at her arms brought her back to

 earth. 'Well?' Drachea demanded, his voice harsh in her

 ear. 'What does he say? What does he mean to do?'

  

 Cyllan made an inarticulate noise and he withdrew the

 knife sufficiently to allow her to speak. 'I - don't know

 . . . ' she whispered.

  

 'Liar!'

  

 'No ... it's the truth

  

 Drachea laughed. 'Then perhaps your demon-lover

  

 thinks less of you than you so fondly believe! Nonethe-

 less, he values that pretty trinket in your hand. Release

 it, Cyllan.'

  

 She clenched her fist. 'No . . . '

  

 'I said, release it!' The knife touched her neck and

 Cyllan realised she would achieve nothing by defiance.

 He could kill her and take the stone; she had nothing to

 gain by sacrificing herself.

  

 The jewel fell to the floor with a small, cold clink and

 Drachea stared down at it, hardly able to believe his

 good fortune. It looked an ordinary enough bauble now;

 dull, lifeless, like a piece of glass. But he had seen the

 white-hot glare that sprang from Cyllan's outstretched

 hands as the thing materialised in his full sight, and he

 had felt the power pulsing from its heart. It was a deadly

 artefact - and the Circle would reward him well when he

 returned it into their rightful custody!

  

 Drachea had entered the Marble Hall as the rite con-

 ducted by Tarod and Cyllan neared its climax. Cyllan

 was oblivious to her surroundings, and he had hidden

 himself behind one of the black statues, gambling that

 his presence would go undetected. He soon realised that

 Cyllan was acting as a medium for the dark sorcerer, and

 when he saw the soul-stone's radiance spilling from

 between her cupped fingers he knew what they had

 done, and a heady exultation filled him. Weak as she

 now was, Cyllan would be easy prey. Tarod couldn't

 enter the Hall . . . and with the Chaos-stone in his

 hand, Drachea would have an unassailable fortress from

 which to make his demands.

  

 But as yet, he had had no chance to voice those

 demands. He had ordered Cyllan to make contact with

 Tarod, but although she swore she had done so, Tarod

 hadn't responded. Doubtless he considered her ex-

 pendable - eventually he must come seeking the stone.

 And he wouldn't be inclined to risk the loss of his own

 soul for the sake of a simple bargain . . .

  

 Drachea wondered if Tarod was planning some coun-

 ter-move. The demon had great guile, and he felt uneasy

 with nothing to do but wait. Suddenly angry, he twisted

  

 Cyllan's arm again, opening his mouth to voice a further

 threat if she didn't try to make contact again. But before

 he could speak, a new voice cut across the eerie quiet of

 the Marble Hall.

  

 'Drachea.'

  

 The tone was chilling, calm but terrible. Drachea

 started and all but lost his grip of Cyllan's arms; seeing a

 chance, albeit slender, she twisted in his grasp and tried

 to pull away, but before she could roll clear he had

 snatched at her and jerked her back, her head against his

 shoulder, the knife touching the flesh of her neck.

 Slowly, dragging his burden with him, Drachea turned

 around.

  

 The coruscating mists had shivered apart as though a

 beam of light had cut through them, and the way to the

 silver door was unobscured. A single pace beyond the

 Marble Hall's threshold stood Tarod, mad-eyed, his left

 hand raised and pointing directly at Drachea.

  

 Tarod said with unhuman malignance, 'Release her.'

  

 For an instant Drachea baulked, then he remembered

 the Marble Hall's properties, and his face worked into a

 sneer. 'Release her?' he repeated mockingly. 'You may

 think me a fool, demon, but I'm not that gullible! I have

 the stone, and I have Cyllan. I will destroy either with

 impunity if you dare to give me orders again!'

  

 Tarod's eyes blazed, and a dark aura flickered into life

 around him. 'You cannot destroy the Chaos stone,

 worm.'

  

 'Perhaps not - but I can kill her!' Drachea jerked

 Cyllan violently- and saw fear in Tarod's look before he

 could disguise it. His own eyes lit with excitement as he

 realised that his adversary had revealed an unexpected

 weakness. Could it be that he had some care for Cyllan

 after all - or at least, that she was in some way vital to

 him?

  

 Slowly, thoughtfully, Drachea ran his tongue over his

 lower lip. 'Let us say, Adept Tarod,' he went on, inject-

 ing a venomous contempt in the last two words, 'that

 there is something I want from you. Let us say that if you

 refuse to grant it, I will slit Cyllan's throat, and you may

  

 watch her life-blood spill over this mosaic floor. What

 would your answer to my request be?'

  

 Tarod's face tightened and he responded savagely,

 'Harm Cyllan in any way, and you won't merely die - I'll

 send you to eternal torture!'

  

 'Ah!' Drachea crowed delightedly. 'So the soulless

 one has a flaw after all! What is Cyllan to you, Tarod,

 that makes her so vital to your needs ? A whore's a

 whore, after all - there are plenty better to choose from

 in the world!'

  

 Tarod's hand jerked up as though to release a furious

 power-bolt, but Cyllan cried out, 'No! Tarod, he seeks

 only to enrage you! Don't give him that satisfaction!'

  

 Drachea swore and pulled viciously at her hair to

 silence her, but Tarod knew she was right. Fury and fear

 had taken him dangerously close to losing control; now,

 with an effort, he collected his wits. If Cyllan was to be

 saved, he had no business arguing with Drachea. There

 was a bargain to be struck . . . and he knew what that

 bargain must be.

  

 The black aura flickered, faded as he stared at the

 Heir Margrave and at Cyllan. The slightest move could

 mean her death ... he swallowed, his throat dry, and

 he said to Drachea,

  

 'What is it you want of me?'

  

 Drachea grinned. 'Better! You begin to understand at

 last. I'll spell it out clearly for you, demon. I have

 Cyllan, and I have your soul-stone. If you want to save

 Cyllan's life, you must use the stone, and call back Time

 to this Castle!'

  

 Cyllan twisted ferociously in Drachea's grip. 'Tarod,

 no!' she shrieked. 'It would mean awakening the Circle

 - you can't do it, not this way!'

  

 Her eyes, wide and staring, met his, and she saw a

 sadness and compassion in his green gaze that horrified

 her with its implication. She tried to shake her head, but

 the knife was too close. 'Tarod, no, please . . . '

  

 He continued to look at her. 'I have no choice.'

  

 'But you have! Let him kill me - it's better than the

 alternative!'

  

 'No!' The refusal was shockingly vehement, and

 Tarod raised his head to stare proudly, contemptuously

 at Drachea. 'I will do what needs to be done, Heir

 Margrave. And I congratulate you on your deviousness.

 My reckoning with you must wait!'

  

 'Your reckoning will be with the High Initiate!'

 Drachea sneered. 'Save your pride for him, serpent!'

  

 Tarod took a deep breath, fighting down his fury, and

 said calmly, Then give me the stone.'

  

 'What?' Drachea was incredulous, then he laughed, a

 loud peal that rang and echoed dashingly through the

 Marble Hall. 'I gave up suckling at the teat many years

 ago, my friend! Until the Circle return, and you are

 safely bound, this stone stays with me!' He forced Cyllan

 forward until she crouched painfully with head bent,

 then with one foot shifted the Chaos stone, which still

 lay on the floor, into Tarod's view. 'You've already used

 this white-faced bitch as your medium. Use her again.'

  

 It would take more strength than he possessed . . . he

 was still weakened by the force expended to call the stone

 out of limbo . . . Aloud, Tarod said, 'I can't.'

  

 'You're lying! You've done it before!'

  

 'Cyllan may not consent.'

  

 'Damn you, then make her consent! It's a simple

 enough choice - either you do what I command, in the

 way I command it, or you watch her die! My patience has

 run out - make your decision!'

  

 There was no other way open to him. If he refused to

 accede to Drachea's demands, the Heir Margrave would

 slit Cyllan's throat while Tarod stood helpless. And no

 matter what vengeance he took, nothing could ever

 compensate for her loss . . .

  

 But Tarod knew that, weakened as he was by the

 forces he had used to call the Chaos stone out of limbo,

 he might not have the strength to do what Drachea

 wanted of him. This was no trifling magic, and if he

 failed, if his will broke, then the backlash of power could

 destroy Cyllan.

  

 Yet she's damned already if you don't try . . .

  

 The inner voice chilled him, for it spoke nothing less

  

 than the truth. Tarod sighed. 'Very well, Drachea. I

 accept your terms.'

  

 'Ha!' Drachea grinned, then leaned over to leer at

 Cyllan. 'It seems you can take comfort from your

 demon-friend's loyalty, bitch! And he thought I was the

 fool

  

 Cyllan shut her eyes, wanting to blot out the image of

 Drachea's twisted, triumphant face. She had to stop

 Tarod somehow - it was better, far better, that she died

 and left him free, for the alternative was too appalling to

 consider. Desperately, she tried again to plead with him.

  

 Tarod . . . listen to me . . . '

  

 'Quiet!' Drachea hissed.

  

 'No! Tarod!' Her voice rose shrilly. 'I don't care what

 happens to me - let him use the knife, I don't care ! You

 musn't do this, you can't!'

  

 Drachea had twisted her around so that she couldn't

 see Tarod, but she heard his voice clearly enough, and it

 was implacable.

  

 'There's no other way.' And as he spoke aloud, she

 heard other words, voiceless, echo in her mind. Cyllan,

 if you love me, obey me in this!

  

 She summoned her mental resources. I can't! The

 Circle will —

  

 Damn the Circle! I won't see you die . . .

  

 I'll fight you ...

  

 You can't fight me. I'll do what I must do, and I'll use

 you in whatever ways I need to, to save your life!

  

 There was venom in the last message, and Cyllan

 realised that nothing she could say or do would sway

 him. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks; tears of

 misery and defeat, and Drachea looked quickly up at

 Tarod. 'Is she subdued?' he demanded.

  

 'She'll do what I ask of her,' Tarod told him curtly.

  

 'Good. Then don't prevaricate - begin!'

  

 Tarod bowed his head. To turn his mind from Cyllan's

 plight and concentrate on what must be done was a

 nightmare, but he forced himself to clear all extraneous

 thoughts from his mind. So much depended on his skill

 and remaining strength now . . . yet if he succeeded, he

  

 would be placing himself in a trap with jaws that could

 clamp ferociously on him. It was likely that Drachea

 would attempt to kill Cyllan the moment the rite was

 completed, and Tarod had to risk everything on the

 chance that, freed from the constraints put upon him by

 timelessness, he would be able to intervene before it was

 too late. But if he failed . . .

  

 He spoke, hardly recognising his own voice. 'Let

 Cyllan kneel by the wooden plinth, and place the stone

 in her hands.'

  

 Drachea spat. The stone stays where it is, and so does

 she!'

  

 Tarod looked up, his eyes malevolent. Then there

 can be no raising of power. The procedures must be

 followed.'

  

 The Heir Margrave flushed angrily, and looked about

 him. At his back the slab of black wood loomed out of

 the mist, and he dragged Cyllan towards it, kicking the

 Chaos stone along the floor as he went. Reaching the

 block he looked back at Tarod speculatively - then with a

 force that made her cry out, he wrenched Cyllan up on to

 the slab so that she lay staring at the invisible roof, her

 white throat exposed. Snatching the stone Drachea

 pressed it into her hands, then took up a stance over her

 and laid the blade of the knife lightly on her neck.

  

 'I trust I make my intentions clear, demon,' he said to

 Tarod. 'If you attempt to trick me, however swift you

 are I'll cut her throat before you can touch me!' He

 smiled unpleasantly. 'When we play the game of Quar-

 ters at my home in Shu-Nhadek, both contestants know

 that to try to take advantage of such an impasse will gain

 them nothing.'

  

 'We, too, play Quarters at the Castle,' Tarod replied.

 'When impasse is reached, the game is at an end and

 there's no victor.'

  

 Then I'd suggest for Cyllan's sake that you don't

 attempt to change the rules.'

  

 Tarod inclined his head. 'So be it.'

  

 Lying on the unyielding, splintered wood of the block,

  

 her eyes closed, Cyllan knew that they were lost. Tarod

 had made his decision and had refused, foolhardily, to

 sacrifice her. Now, she hadn't the will to defy him,

 however much she might want to. He could overcome

 any obstacles she put in his path, and she was helpless.

  

 Inwardly she railed against the twist of Fate that had

 brought them both to this. She should have let Tarod kill

 Drachea . . . and she swore to herself that, if they both

 lived - or if only she lived, which was too terrible a

 thought to contemplate further - she wouldn't rest until

 she had destroyed the Heir Margrave of Shu-Nhadek;

 destroyed him and all he stood for. She hadn't thought

 herself capable of such hate, but it burned in her now

 like a black flame. And mingling with it suddenly came

 the awareness of another mind, a raw emotion that

 linked with hers and made her strong.

  

 Tarod . . . She sent the mental call out softly and

 heard his reply shape into silent words.

  

 Listen to me, love. I may not be strong enough - and to

 conserve strength, I must act swiftly. Don't be afraid, and

 don't resist me. Holdfast to the stone, let it guide you. . .

 I'll be with you . . .

  

 His presence faded suddenly into a confusion of

 images which resolved into a smoothness, a oneness,

 like a dark, featureless sea. Cyllan felt her identity slip-

 ping away, and the stone in her hands seemed to pulse

 hot, a living heart. She could still feel the touch of the

 knife at her throat, but it was her only link with reality,

 and a tenuous one. With a soft sigh she let her con-

 sciousness sink into the sea, merging with Tarod, with

 the soul-stone, with infinity . . .

  

 It must be done quickly, for there would be no second

 chance. Before, when he sought the Pendulum of Time,

 he had travelled through the seven astral planes, gather-

 ing strength and will from each in turn, until at the last he

 had cloaked himself in an iron strength that was sufficient

 for his awesome task. But now there could be no such

 precautions. There was but one way; savage and

 instantaneous. And an ancient memory was unlocking

  

 deep within him, opening the doors that would take him

 to that brink . . .

  

 Tarod reached out his will, and found the Chaos

 stone. It called him and he both loved it and loathed it;

 but he had to master it, or it would betray him. Every

 muscle in his body was locked rigid: all awareness of

 Cyllan, Drachea, the Marble Hall, faded away and was

 left far behind as he travelled onward and outward in

 spirit. The stone hung always ahead of him, just out of

 reach; he tried to breathe and found no air, and sweat

 soaked him as his hands clenched together into a sign

 which, in his human existence, he had all but forgotten.

  

 It was drawing nearer . . . He felt its presence like

 some grim nemesis, and again reached his mind towards

 the stone, needing its power now at this crucial moment.

 An image flickered at the edge of awareness; darkness,

 rust, decay ... he pursued it and it eluded him.

  

 Darkness, rust, decay . . . remember what you once

 were ...

  

 And slowly, slowly, it materialised before him, a mon-

 strous shadow amid dense, evil gloom. The shaft reared

 up into an unimaginable void, and the titanic bob hung

 still and lifeless, red-brown corrosion encroaching

 across its surface. The Pendulum, Time's arbiter in his

 own world, abandoned and rotting, a derelict hulk,

 frozen until the single bolt of power should wake it...

  

 Tarod reached down, far down into the deepest

 recesses of his being. His strength was failing, the power

 of the stone slipping away from him - he must make the

 last summoning now, or be defeated. Drawing his

 psyche like an animal poising to spring, he felt a white-

 hot flowering at his heart as the force of the Chaos soul,

 momentarily freed from its crystal prison, flowed into

 him. For an instant he and the Pendulum were one - and

 Tarod flung himself forward with the full power of his

 will.

  

 A high, thin shriek like a soul in torment split the

 darkness apart as the massive bob of the Pendulum gave

 under the forces that assailed it. The shaft quivered with

 a monstrous shock - and the Pendulum of Time swung

  

 forward, shattering the barrier between dimensions and

 hurtling into the world with a vast, clamouring boom

 that smashed Tarod back like flotsam against a tidal

 wave. Momentarily he glimpsed the tremendous bulk of

 the Pendulum bearing down on him, then it seemed to

 explode into a blinding, seven-rayed flash that blasted

 his senses. Walls rose from nowhere to meet him; he

 reeled, then his body crashed in a twisted contortion to

 the floor of the passage as all awareness was obliterated.

  

 The scream that tore from Cyllan's throat was drowned

 by the awesome voice of the Pendulum, and the Marble

 Hall seemed to turn in on itself, the floor bucking and

 the walls shrieking a protest. She was flung from the

 block like a doll thrown by some giant, petulant child,

 and sprawled on the mosaic floor of the Hall with the

 reverberations of the great concussion still echoing in

 her head. Gasping like a stranded fish, she glimpsed

 through watering eyes the prone form of Drachea - then

 she was seized by a spasm of retching and doubled over

 as the muscles of her empty stomach contracted

 violently.

  

 Tarod . . . Memory crawled to the surface of her

 mind at last. Where was Tarod? Had they succeeded?

 And the stone . . . Her hand clenched convulsively and

 she felt the sharp contours of the gem against her palm.

 In her confused state, all she knew was that she must

 reach Tarod, and she began to struggle upright -

  

 'Ah, no, you bitch!'

  

 Cyllan whipped round, and saw Drachea bearing

 down on her. He had recovered his senses more quickly

 than she, and was already on his feet, though unsteady.

 Horrified she started to run, heard footsteps at her back

 - and Drachea flung himself at her, bringing them both

 down with a jarring impact. Cyllan kicked out wildly,

 and a fist smashed across her face, stunning her; she

 slumped, and Drachea breathlessly grasped her shoul-

 ders as he got up, made to drag her back across the

 floor -

  

 And stopped.

  

 'Aeoris!' He dropped his burden and made the White

 God's sign over his heart. The robed figures — some

 .twenty or thirty of them, women as well as men - who

 formed a circle around the black slab were all staring at

 him, their faces white and shocked and uncomprehend-

 ing. One man, young and fair-haired, held a huge sword

 in both hands; now it fell from his fingers and clattered

 raucously on the marble floor as its wielder struggled to

 assimilate the sight that greeted him. A movement to

 one side alerted Drachea's attention and he was in time

 to see a much older man slide to the floor with a soft

 moan and lie motionless; then a woman began to

 scream, a long, wailing, featureless cry of hysteria.

  

 Drachea and the fair-haired man continued to stare at

 each other, and all the words of triumphant greeting that

 Drachea had so carefully and frequently rehearsed died

 on his tongue. Then slowly, shakily, the fair-haired man

 moved round the block.

  

 'What . . . ' He shook his head, dazed and unable to

 form the question.

  

 Cyllan stirred. A livid bruise was spreading across her

 cheek where Drachea had hit her, and when she opened

 her eyes her vision wouldn't focus at first. Convulsively,

 she tried to move, and hands viciously pushed her down.

 She winced in protest - then realised that someone was

 staring at her. And as her sight cleared she found herself

 meeting the light brown, steady eyes of a man dressed in

 a sombre, funereal garb of purple and sapphire blue.

 Recollection dawned - she had seen that face, that garb,

 before, in the grisly tableau on the astral plane . . .

 and then she recognised the symbol at the man's

 shoulder; a double circle bisected by a lightning-flash.

 Keridil Toln, High Initiate of the Circle - and Tarod's

 deadliest enemy ...

  

 Drachea pushed sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes

 and made a creditable attempt at a bow in the fair-haired

 man's direction. 'Sir,' he said when he had breath

 enough, 'There's much explaining to be done, and I'd

 consider it my privilege. But. . . Aeoris be thanked for

 your safe return!'

  

 Chapter 10

  

 Keridil Toln stared at Drachea and Cyllan, stunned by

 the sudden and violent interruption of the Circle ritual.

 To him, it seemed that he had but a moment ago been

 standing before the execution block, ceremonial sword

 raised high above Tarod's head as he called down the

 White Flame of Aeoris to consume and finally damn the

 creature of Chaos. Then with no warning a colossal

 crash of thunder had split his mind, shattering the power

 he had built - and, reeling with the shock, he had

 opened his eyes to find his victim gone and two complete

 strangers fighting like wildcats on the floor of the Marble

 Hall. A combination of fury and fear of something

 beyond his comprehension filled him, and he snapped at

 Drachea, 'Who are you? And how in the name of all the

 gods did you get here?'

  

 Drachea swallowed. 'Sir, there's no time for explana-

 tions now! Your enemy - the creature called Tarod - is

 at large, and must be found before he can wreak more

 havoc!'

  

 Keridil's head snapped quickly round to look at the

 empty block. Tarod is behind this . . . ?'

  

 Before Drachea could answer, Cyllan twisted in his

 grasp and cried out, 'No! He's lying, it isn't true! Listen

 to me - '

  

 Drachea's bunched fist hit her hard on the side of the

 head and she collapsed to the floor. 'Quiet, you harlot!'

 Drachea spat. 'One more word from you and I'll kill

 you!'

  

 Keridil's face darkened with anger, and he said

 furiously, 'I'll have no such behaviour here!'

  

 Drachea stared down at Cyllan and said harshly,

  

 'Even towards a woman in league with Chaos? This

 treacherous bitch is Tarod's paramour - and she has his

 soul-stone!'

  

 'What?' The beginnings of comprehension dawned in

 Keridil's eyes and he moved to stand over Cyllan. 'Is this

 true, girl?'

  

 Cyllan stared back with mute defiance, wishing that

 her mouth wasn't too dry to spit.

  

 'She holds it in her left hand,' Drachea said, giving her

 a vicious shake. 'And there's only one way to make her

 give it up.' He touched the tip of the knife blade to

 Cyllan's neck.

  

 'No.' Keridil raised a hand, forestalling him. 'I'll have

 no violence against her until I've heard the whole story.'

 His eyes met Drachea's again. 'You say Tarod is at

 large. Where is he?'

  

 'I'm here, Keridil.'

  

 Everyone turned, save for Cyllan who was held rigid

 with Drachea's blade still at her throat. Tarod walked

 slowly and unsteadily into the Marble Hall, barely able

 to stay on his feet. His sweat-soaked hair hung lank and

 his eyes were glazed with exhaustion; he had used the

 very last of his strength to call back Time, and its final

 draining had left him an empty husk.

  

 Four men moved forward, weapons drawn, then hesi-

 tated, remembering how the sorcerer had dealt with

 such assaults before. Tarod smiled thinly and with an

 effort. 'Tell your friends they've nothing to fear, High

 Initiate.'

  

 Keridil stared at him for a moment as though weighing

 his words. Then he said curtly, 'Bind him.'

  

 One of the Adepts used the belt of his robe to tie

 Tarod's hands behind his back, then all four flanked him

 closely as he approached the gathering around the

 block, until at last he and Keridil stood facing one

 another.

  

 Keridil said softly, 'So we failed to destroy you ... I

 should have known you'd not admit defeat so easily.'

  

 Tarod, kill him!' Cyllan suddenly cried out. 'Kill him,

 before they - ' Her words choked off as Drachea

  

 wrenched on her hair and raised his knife as though to

 strike a death blow -

  

 'No!' The harsh order came from Keridil, who swung

 round and knocked the dagger out of Drachea's hand.

 Cyllan tried to launch herself towards Tarod, but the

 High Initiate caught her arm and dragged her back, his

 other hand locking on her left wrist. He was taller and

 heavier than Drachea, and she could only gasp a curse at

 him as he tried to prize her fingers open.

  

 'Let's see if the young man speaks the truth about this

 girl . . . ' Keridil grunted as Cyllan ferociously resisted

 him, then twisted her hand round so that he could get at it

 more easily. Cyllan bit him with all her strength, drawing

 blood, and two other Adepts stepped forward to pin her

 while Keridil at last forced her clenched fingers to part.

  

 The stone fell free, and Drachea pounced on it as

 Cyllan shrieked a protest. He held it out to the High

 Initiate, who handed the struggling girl into the safe

 custody of the two Adepts before taking the stone - a

 little gingerly, Drachea noticed - and weighing it in his

 palm. His brown eyes looked with thoughtful specula-

 tion at the younger man for a moment, then he turned

 his gaze once more to Tarod.

  

 'We seem to have opened a veritable nest of vipers,'

 he said evenly. 'But I think we hold the upper hand. We

 have the Chaos stone - and Tarod, it would seem, is in

 no condition to challenge us. Perhaps now someone will

 explain to me what has happened here!'

  

 Tarod said nothing, and Drachea stepped forward.

 'Sir, I am Drachea Rannak, Heir Margrave of Shu

 Province. I believe you are acquainted with my father,

 Gant Ambaril Rannak . . . '

  

 Keridil frowned. 'I know Gant . . . and you have his

 look about you, I'll grant you that. But how, by all that's

 sacred, did you come to be here?'

  

 Drachea glared at Tarod. 'I've been held prisoner in

 the Castle - just before the Spring Quarter-Day I was

 brought here against my will - '

  

 'What?' Keridil was incredulous. 'The Spring Quarter

 Day is two months ahead of us - '

  

 'No, sir! By now it could be two months or even two

 years past, for all I know!'

  

 Keridil looked quickly at his fellow Adepts. Their

 faces were blank, and he said harshly, 'Explain

 yourself!'

  

 Drachea took a deep breath. 'Time has been stopped.

 This Castle has had no true existence since the creature

 called Tarod used his demonic power to snatch it and all

 its inhabitants from the world and lock them in limbo.'

 He paused. 'I've seen the documents relating to his

 execution. He called on his Chaotic powers at the climax

 of your rite, and banished Time itself.'

  

 Someone made a sound of shocked disbelief, and

 Keridil shook his head. 'No - I can't accept that such a

 thing's possible!'

  

 'It's possible, Keridil.' Tarod spoke quietly, and when

 the High Initiate looked at him he saw a trace of the old

 malevolence in Tarod's smile. 'Did you think I'd meekly

 submit, at the last, to my own destruction?'

  

 Keridil stared at him, and realised that he was telling

 the truth. The thought of such a titanic power in the

 hands of one man chilled him to the marrow, and he

 suppressed a shiver before turning back to Drachea.

  

 'You say that Time here was halted - yet you and this

 woman found your way to the Castle. How?'

  

 Drachea shook his head. 'I don't know, High Initiate

 - but I believe it was at her behest.' He pointed an

 accusing finger at Cyllan. 'She's a witch, a creature of

 Chaos herself - she duped me and lured me here, and

 since I arrived she's been plotting with that hellspawn

 against me and against all who stand for Light and

 Order.'

  

 'Liar!' Cyllan spat. 'Traitor, betrayer!'

  

 Keridil looked over his shoulder at her and said

 calmly, 'You'll have your turn to speak, girl. Until then,

 hold your tongue - or I'll cut it out.'

  

 'She should die!' Drachea insisted vehemently. 'Isn't

 that the rightful fate of all Chaos's servants? She's a

 witch, a serpent - waste no time on her, High Initiate,

 kill her now!' His hand went to the sword at his hip.

  

 'You've seen for yourself that she's in league with this

 demon - and after what they've done to me - '

  

 'Touch Cyllan and I'll see you damned!' Tarod grated.

  

 Keridil looked into Drachea's eyes and saw a feverish

 hunger for revenge. The young man was hot-headed; he

 had made his judgement and wanted to see it imple-

 mented. Cyllan's continued survival was of no personal

 interest to Keridil - and if she had indeed plotted with

 Tarod against the Circle, she deserved the severest

 penalty. But he wouldn't condone Drachea's idea of

 summary justice . . . and besides, Tarod's angry threat

 had given him a vital clue. Unlikely though it might

 seem, the girl was obviously important to him, and he

 was anxious to protect her - which placed the black-

 haired sorcerer at a singular disadvantage . . .

  

 Drachea was launching into a further tirade against

 Cyllan, but a searing look from Keridil silenced him.

 The High Initiate crossed the floor to where Cyllan still

 fought her captors, and, taking a handful of her hair,

 tilted her head back until she was forced to look at him.

  

 'It seems that Tarod sets great store by your safety,' he

 said, quite gently. 'We must see what we can do to

 accommodate his desire to protect you.'

  

 'I don't want protection!' Cyllan fired back. 'I'm not

 afraid of dying, and I'm not afraid of you!'

  

 'Brave words.' Keridil smiled. 'But we shall see how

 your courage faces up to your soul's damnation.'

  

 His words provoked the response he hoped for. Tarod

 shook off the four men who held him and stepped for-

 ward. 'Harm her at your peril, High Initiate! If any hurt

 comes to Cyllan I swear I'll destroy you, destroy the

 Circle, destroy this Castle!'

  

 The malign glitter was returning to his eyes, and

 Keridil guessed that he had regained some measure of

 strength. Not enough, yet, to make him dangerous; but

 nonetheless he'd be well advised to waste no time in

 sealing a bargain between them. He turned his back on

 Cyllan and walked with slow deliberation towards his

 adversary.

  

 'Very well, Tarod. Your loyalty is to be commended,

  

 and perhaps it can be used to the girl's advantage.'

 His eyes hardened. 'Your fate is ordained. We have

 the soul-stone, and we have the means whereby we

 can finally see you annihilated. But you've already

 proved yourself treacherous, and I intend to ensure

 that you don't try to cheat us a second time.' He stroked

 his chin, making a show of deliberation. The girl

 will stay in the Castle, under close guard, while

 preparations are made to repeat the ceremony which

 failed tonight. If you submit to us, she won't be

 harmed, and when you are dead she will be allowed to

 go free. But if you attempt any treachery - just

 one move which could be misconstrued - then I'll give

 her to the Heir Margrave to take the vengeance he

 craves.'

  

 It was the same blackmail which Drachea had used to

 force the return of Time, and Tarod's heart was bleak.

 He knew Keridil well enough to realise that he'd have no

 compunction in carrying out the threat - his was a cold,

 calculated motivation, more dangerous than the per-

 sonal score Drachea had to settle, and his choice was

 painfully clear. If he agreed to Keridil's terms, he would

 die; cruelly, agonisingly. And the Chaos stone would

 remain in the world, a vehicle for Yandros's ambitions.

 Yet if he did not, Cyllan's death would follow on the

 instant.

  

 He could carry out his threat; destroy Keridil and the

 Circle, retrieve the stone and send them all to damna-

 tion. But he couldn't bring Cyllan back to life, and

 without her there was no life worth the having. Damn

 the world ... he cared nothing for whatever evil might

 threaten it if he allowed them to kill him. If Cyllan could

 live, that was all that counted.

  

 But Keridil had betrayed him once before ... He

 looked up, met the High Initiate's steady gaze.

  

 'What safeguard do I have, Keridil? What guarantee

 can you give that Cyllan will be treated kindly if I agree

 to your demand?'

  

 Keridil smiled reservedly. 'My word as High Initiate

 of the Circle.'

  

 The green eyes narrowed to slits. 'Your word is worth

 nothing!'

  

 Take it or leave it. You're in no position to barter -

 unless you'd prefer to see her die here and now?'

  

 A sudden, violent scuffle broke out at Keridil's back,

 and he turned in time to see Cyllan wrestling with one of

 the Adepts. She was trying to wrench his short sword

 from its scabbard, and blood flowed from her palm

 where she'd cut it on the blade.

  

 'Hold her!' Keridil snapped, furious as he realised

 what she was attempting. If she could have got her arm

 to the blade, she could have opened an artery and spilled

 her life-blood before anyone could stop her.

  

 Cyllan fought as though demented, kicking and bit-

 ing, but she was overpowered. One of the Adepts cut a

 length of fabric from his own cloak and bound her hand,

 and only when she was finally subdued did Keridil turn

 back to Tarod.

  

 'Well?' he said. 'I'm awaiting your answer.'

  

 There was nothing he could do but pray that Keridil

 would keep his word. The High Initiate had no personal

 grudge against Cyllan, and nothing to gain by harming

 her. It was a chance . . . and he had no choice but to

 take it.

  

 Tarod nodded once, curtly. 'I agree.' Then his head

 came up and he regarded Keridil with a cold, cruel stare.

 'But you must abide by your bargain to the letter. If any

 man lays hands on her against her will - '

  

 'There'll be no abuse of her.' Keridil smiled un-

 pleasantly. 'I doubt that any man living would want to

 bed with a servant of Chaos.'

  

 Tarod ignored the jibe. 'And when I'm dead - ' He

 hesitated, hearing a stifled cry from Cyllan, 'she will be

 granted her freedom.' He looked at the girl. 'She has no

 power. She'll be no threat to you.'

  

 'She will be released, unharmed.'

  

 Tarod nodded again. 'I'll not clasp hands with you on

 the pact. But consider it sealed.'

  

 Keridil let out a pent breath. For a moment he had

 wondered if Tarod's loyalty would waver in the face of

  

 the choice he had to make, but his first instinct had

 proved right. He gave silent thanks to Aeoris for the

 quixotic flaw in Tarod's character which would provoke

 him to sacrifice himself for the sake of a personal altru-

 ism - an admirable quality under some circumstances,

 but one which too often proved misguided. Yet as he

 turned away he was aware of a small worm of discomfort

 within himself that might have been a sense of shame.

 He dismissed it impatiently, then spoke to his fellow

 Adepts.

  

 There's nothing to gain from remaining here any

 longer. If our friend Drachea Rannak,' he bowed an

 acknowledgement in Drachea's direction, 'is right in

 what he has told us, we'll find the Castle in some disar-

 ray. There's much to put right, and a great deal of

 explaining to be done.' He gestured in Tarod's direc-

 tion. 'Lock him up, and guard him heavily. I'll see about

 further precautions later.'

  

 'And the girl?' one of the Adepts asked.

  

 'Assign her a room, and see that she's comfortable.

 But have her watched.' Keridil turned to Drachea. 'Heir

 Margrave, if you would accompany us . . . ?'

  

 Cyllan made no protest as the Adepts led her towards

 the silver door. Tarod stood motionless, watching her,

 and as she drew level with him she suddenly stopped and

 looked up.

  

 Tarod.' Her voice was frighteningly calm. 'I won't let

 this happen to you. I'm going to kill myself. I don't know

 how, but I'll find a way, I swear it. I'm not going to let

 you die for me.'

  

 'No, Cyllan.' He tried to reach out to her, forgetting

 momentarily that his hands were bound behind him.

 'You must live. For me.'

  

 She shook her head violently. 'Without you, I'll have

 nothing to live for! I'll do it, Tarod. I don't want to stay

 in the world if it means . . . this.' She pulled her hand

 free from her guard's grip . . . embarrassed and uncer-

 tain, the man let it go ... and touched his face gently.

 Tarod kissed her fingers, then turned his head away.

  

 'She means it, Keridil.' His eyes were filled with pain.

  

 'Stop her. You know what the alternative is.' And

 before Cyllan could speak again he walked away

 towards the vault beyond.

  

 It was a strange procession that made its way up the

 winding stairs to the Castle courtyard. Keridil led, with

 Drachea hurrying eagerly at his heels, and behind them

 came Tarod under the close guard of four Adepts.

 Cyllan and her escort followed, while the remainder of

 the high-ranking Adepts brought up the rear.

  

 As they approached the courtyard door, Cyllan felt a

 sense of foreboding at the prospect of what she might

 see. In a strange way she had come to love the Castle as

 she knew it; the eerie crimson light somehow befitted

 the ancient stone of its walls, and the stillness had a

 peace - albeit a dark, brooding peace - that was better

 suited to it than the bustle of human habitation. And

 there were memories here that brought tears to her eyes

 as she climbed the last few steps and emerged at last into

 the night.

  

 The crimson glow had gone. In its place, a dense grey

 darkness hung over all; the pewter-green of a night sky

 lit by the reflection of one Moon, now setting below the

 high walls. A faint susurration caught her ears and she

 saw the glitter of water from the ornate fountain, catch-

 ing and reflecting the dim starlight. The Castle stared

 down like a blind, indifferent beast, not a single lamp or

 torch showing in any of its myriad windows, and there

 was a smell of the sea on the night breeze.

  

 Keridil drew a deep breath, tasting the air. 'Come,' he

 said quietly. There's an hour or more to go before

 dawn, by the feel of it. We'll gather in the hall.'

  

 Silently they crossed the courtyard and mounted the

 steps to the main doors. As they walked through the

 Castle's corridors, footsteps echoing hollowly, Cyllan

 gazed about at her surroundings which had taken on a

 disturbing unfamiliarity. Every now and then she looked

 at Tarod, who walked ahead of her, and once she had

 tried to use her psychic skill to make mental contact with

 him, but he had not responded.

  

 She felt bitter and miserable. With victory literally in

 their grasp they had been thwarted, and she blamed

 herself for the misplaced pity which had allowed

 Drachea Rannak to live. Now, nothing but an empty

 void lay ahead of her. But she would find a way to do

 what she had promised. And when she was dead, Tarod

 would be free to exact his revenge . . .

  

 The doors of the dining-hall opened with a groan of

 protesting hinges, and Keridil surveyed the bare, des-

 erted chamber. It shocked him deeply to see the Castle

 so empty and forlorn, and to assuage his uneasiness he

 became brisk.

  

 'Rouse the servants, and have a fire lit,' he ordered.

 'We'll send word to the kitchens for food to be prepared

 - oh, and if someone would be so good as to find my

 steward, Gyneth, I'll need him here.' He turned to

 regard Tarod. 'Find the securest place you can find for

 him, preferably on the lower levels where there are no

 windows. I'll finalise the arrangements later. And as for

 this girl . . . ' He stared at Cyllan thoughtfully for a few

 moments, then beckoned to her escort. 'Come with me.'

  

 Cyllan looked back over her shoulder to see Tarod

 being hustled away through a side door before she was

 propelled up the stairs that led to the gallery above the

 vast fireplace. From the back of the gallery a small door

 led to another maze of passages and stairs, until finally

 they arrived at a narrow corridor on the Castle's highest

 floor. Keridil opened the door to a room at the far end,

 looked in and, satisfied, motioned for Cyllan's guards to

 bring her through.

  

 The room was small, and sparsely though comfortably

 furnished. An alcove bed, a single upholstered chair, a

 small table, and heavy velvet curtains at the window.

 Underfoot were woven rugs, and Cyllan stood mute in

 the middle of the room, staring around.

  

 Keridil crossed to the window and pulled the curtains

 back to reveal an iron mesh across the glass. Then he

 drew a knife from his belt and, with two quick strokes,

 severed the tasselled cords that hung from the curtains.

 Then he came to stand in front of Cyllan.

  

 'Understand me,' he said, not unkindly. 'The window

 is barred, so that you can neither open it and jump out,

 nor break the glass and use it to slash your wrists. There

 are no curtain ropes by which you can hang yourself.

 And a lamp will be fixed at a point too high for you to

 reach, so don't think you can burn yourself to death

 either.'

  

 Cyllan only glowered at him.

  

 'Consider yourself a valued guest of the Circle,'

 Keridil went on. 'When we've done what must be done

 you'll be free to go, and if you choose to take your own

 life then, it's no concern of mine.' He paused before

 smiling in an attempt to thaw her ice-cold expression.

 'Though I think it would be a tragic waste.'

  

 'Think what you please,' Cyllan said venomously.

  

 'I'll wish to talk to you when I've attended to some

 more urgent matters. I've yet to hear your side of this

 story, and I want to be fair.'

  

 That brought a response. Cyllan laughed harshly.

 'Fair?' she echoed. 'You don't know the meaning of the

 word! Tarod has told me about you, High Initiate, and I

 want none of your idea of justice!'

  

 Keridil sighed. 'Have it your own way. Perhaps in

 time you'll understand - I hope so. I feel no malice

 towards you, Cyllan- that is your name, isn't it? And I'll

 keep my side of the bargain I made with Tarod.'

  

 She smiled unpleasantly. 'So will I.'

  

 'I think not. Oh, you could try and starve yourself to

 death, true; but our physician, Grevard, has a few meth-

 ods for dealing with such cases, and he can keep you

 alive and well whether you will it or no. So you'll live,

 and you'll prosper. If you understand and accept that

 now, we'll get along a good deal better.'

  

 Cyllan walked to the window, shoulders hunched. 'I

 want to see Tarod.'

  

 'That isn't possible.' Keridil returned to the door and

 spoke in a lowered voice to the two Adepts. 'Stay on

 guard outside until I can find someone to relieve you.

 Keep the door between yourselves and her unless

 there's some emergency- but whatever you do, don't let

  

 her near your swords or she'll stab herself before anyone

 can stop her.' He looked back at the small, defiant figure

 by the window. 'She's a valuable hostage, although the

 gods alone know how valuable she'll prove to be until it's

 put to the test.' He clapped each man on the shoulder.

 'Be vigilant.'

  

 Cyllan heard the door close and lock from behind her,

 and turned to find herself alone in the unlit room. Her

 eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and she paced restlessly

 around the chamber's perimeter, seeking something

 which she could use to carry out her self-destructive

 plan. She wanted to die; wanted to free Tarod from the

 onus he had taken on himself - but Keridil had been

 thorough, and there was nothing to hand. Even the bed

 had no pillows, though she doubted if she could have

 smothered herself anyway . . . she was thwarted.

  

 At last, giving up the search, she moved to the bed and

 sat down, clasping her hands in her lap and trying not to

 let despair take hold of her. She wondered where they

 had taken Tarod, how he fared, whether she would be

 able to persuade them to let her see him, at least one last

 time before . . . angrily she broke the dismal train of

 thought. She wasn't going to admit defeat, not yet.

 While he lived, there was still hope. And she'd find a

 way to spark and fuel that hope . . . somehow, she'd

 find it.

  

 The words were brave - as Keridil had said - and yet

 in the solitude of her prison they rang hollow. Cyllan

 fought to keep them alive in her mind, but it was an

 unequal struggle. And at last, giving in to the feelings

 that lay buried far deeper within her, she began to cry,

 softly, helplessly, as the first pale glimmer of dawn

 showed beyond her window.

  

 *****

  

 The dining-hall was a maelstrom of activity, gladdening

 Drachea's heart as he sat, washed and refreshed and

 replete from a good breakfast, at a bench near the huge

 grate. A fire burned brightly, banishing the chill, and he

  

 was surrounded by men and women who all morning

 had plied him with questions, praise and gratitude until

 he was giddy with their approbation.

  

 A few paces from him, the High Initiate sat at a

 separate table with the senior members of the Council of

 Adepts - or at least, those who had survived their

 ordeal. It had been an unpleasant revelation to find that

 the return of Time had taken its toll. Seven of the

 Castle's older inhabitants, including the high Adept who

 had collapsed in the Marble Hall, were dead; their

 hearts incapable of withstanding the shock as the Pen-

 dulum had heralded its presence in their world like an

 earthquake. Others were in need of medical attention,

 and Drachea had glimpsed Grevard, the Castle's physi-

 cian and by all accounts the most skilled of his kind in the

 world, harassed and weary, attending to one emergency

 after another, aided only by two assistants and a horse-

 faced, elderly woman in the white robes of a Sister of

 Aeoris.

  

 An hour ago, a party from Shu Province had come

 thundering through the Maze that held the Castle aloof

 from all but the Initiated, and among their number had

 been a white-faced messenger from the Margrave him-

 self, bringing a plea for the High Initiate's aid in finding

 his missing son and heir. Keridil had immediately

 despatched a rider to carry the good news to Shu-

 Nhadek, and imagined that the Circle could anticipate a

 personal visit from Gant Ambaril Rannak by return.

 The prospect didn't please him - he remembered

 Drachea's father as a fussy martinet, and with so much

 confusion to put to rights he could do without unnecess-

 ary interruption. But there were formalities that

 couldn't be avoided - Drachea must remain at the Castle

 at least until a full session of the Council of Adepts could

 be convened so that he could present his evidence in the

 proper manner. And, although he had to admit privately

 that he didn't entirely like the arrogant young man,

 Keridil acknowledged that Drachea was due some for-

 mal recognition of the service he had rendered.

  

 He had now had the chance to hear the full story, at

  

 least in outline, and it formed a disturbing picture. But

 for Drachea's intervention. Tarod would have regained

 possession of the soul-stone, and the thought of the

 havoc he might have wreaked then was appalling. Now

 though, Tarod was safely locked away in one of the

 Castle's cellars, and as soon as Grevard had finished his

 work and had a chance to rest, he'd be detailed to see to

 it that the right precautions were taken.

  

 Keridil pinched the bridge of his nose between fore-

 finger and thumb as the papers before him blurred. He

 badly needed sleep himself, but there could be no

 respite yet. Messengers were arriving seemingly every

 minute, and he was only just beginning to realise the

 extent of the alarm that had been raised throughout the

 land at the Circle's unexplained disappearance. Spring

 was advancing; there had been plenty of time for

 rumours to arise and grow, and it would take a

 concentrated effort to spread the word that all was

 now well. A report must be made to the High Margrave,

 to the Matriarch of the Sisterhood; there were fears

 and speculations to be allayed . . . the list seemed

 endless and the prospect of completing the work

 daunting.

  

 But, somehow, it would be done . . . and Keridil was

 warmed by the thought that, in his task, he'd have the

 support of one person in particular. She sat near him

 now, in a comfortable chair a little behind his, and when

 he turned his head she smiled radiantly at him.

  

 Sashka Veyyil looked as serene and as beautiful as she

 had done at the moment when he had kissed her and left

 to begin the rite that would send Tarod to destruction. In

 a velvet gown with a fur-trimmed jacket over it to ward

 off chill, and with her rich auburn hair carefully dressed

 and ornamented, she was composed, self-assured, ut-

 terly the aristocrat, and Keridil felt proud of her. Time

 and again Sashka was proving her worth to him . . . she

 noted matters for his later attention, gave orders on his

 behalf, fended off the constant flow of messengers from

 the South. And later, when the work was done, she

 would come to him in his private rooms and let him taste

  

 again her pliant, hungry sweetness as she soothed away

 the ravages that the day wrought.

  

 Sashka herself was intrigued with the turn events had

 taken. Listening as Drachea Rannak's story was told,

 she had at first been wide-eyed with disbelief - but

 Keridil had confirmed enough of the facts to convince

 her. She congratulated herself on her own strength of

 character in taking the return from Timelessness in her

 stride - despite the fact that her only experience of it had

 been the shock which had racked the entire Castle as the

 Pendulum broke through from limbo - and now was

 speculating on the realisation that Tarod was still alive.

 Once, when he was seventh-rank Adept of the Circle,

 she had been betrothed to him . . . but when the truth

 about him was revealed, she had thankfully had the

 wisdom and foresight to change her allegiance before

 any slur could be cast upon herself. And the gods had

 rewarded her by bringing her to the attention of a man

 whose rank Tarod could never have hoped to match; a

 man, moreover, whom she found far easier to cajole and

 persuade to her will. As the High Initiate's paramour she

 had an undreamed-of status ... yet deep down some-

 thing still rankled, and would continue to rankle while

 Tarod lived. She despised him, hated him . . . but she

 couldn't entirely forget him. And because of those feelings,

 she wanted him to suffer. Before, she had had the satisfac-

 tion of believing that he still loved her and yearned for her;

 but now it seemed that matters had taken a different turn.

 The young man from Shu-Nhadek had spoken of a girl

 from the Eastern Flatlands who had taken it into her head

 to champion Tarod's cause, and who was now shut away in

 the Castle. It would be interesting, Sashka thought, to find

 out a little more about her . . .

  

 She leaned forward and touched Keridil lightly on the

 shoulder. He turned, smiling at her, and lifted her

 fingers to his lips to kiss them.

  

 'You must be weary, love,' he said solicitously.

  

 She shook her head. 'Not weary, no ... but a little

 stiff with sitting for so long. Will you forgive me if I leave

 you for a while?'

  

 'Of course.' He kissed her hand again. 'See if there's

 anything your .mother and father are in need of. And

 convey to them my regards.'

  

 'Of course.' She slid gracefully out through the nar-

 row aisle between tables, and made her way at leisure

 along the length of the dining-hall. An elderly woman in

 a Sister's robes, passing by, gave her a withering look,

 but Sashka ignored the scrutiny. Sister Erminet Rowald

 had been one of her Seniors at the West High Land cot

 where she was officially a Novice, and was at no pains to

 hide her dislike of Sashka. Sashka cared nothing for the

 good opinion of Sister Erminet, considering her a

 shrivelled and frustrated harridan who vented her jeal-

 ousy on those more fortunate than herself. And she had

 nothing to fear from the old woman, for if all went well,

 it was unlikely she would ever need to return to the cot to

 continue her studies.

  

 Holding her head at an arrogant angle, she brushed past

 Sister Erminet, then glanced around the hall. Almost at

 once she saw her quarry seated among a group of younger

 Initiates whom he seemed to be regaling with a story.

 Drachea Rannak was a celebrity, but Sashka felt sure he

 could be persuaded to give her a little of his time . . .

  

 She walked up to the table and said, 'Pardon me . . .'

  

 Drachea looked up, and was startled to see the beauti-

 ful, patrician girl who all morning had sat beside the

 High Initiate smiling down at him. He didn't know her

 name or rank, but her face alone was enough to arouse

 his interest. He rose, and bowed.

  

 'Madam. I'm afraid I haven't had the privilege of an

 introduction.'

  

 His manners were impeccable . . . Sashka inclined

 her head. 'I am Sashka Veyyil, of Veyyil Saravin, Han

 Province.' She was gratified to see that the clan name

 was familiar to him. 'I believe you are Drachea Rannak,

 Heir Margrave of Shu?'

  

 'At your service.'

  

 The Initiates had also risen, and were watching the

 exchange with interest. Sashka turned her haughtiest

 expression on them.

  

 'Gentlemen, the High Initiate has asked me to convey

 some information of a confidential nature to the Heir

 Margrave. If you would excuse us . . . ?'

  

 The ploy was effective, and with expressions of cour-

 tesy they moved away, leaving Sashka and Drachea

 alone. She sat down, gesturing graciously for him to do

 likewise, and with no preamble said, 'I was most inter-

 ested by your story, Drachea- may I call you Drachea?'

  

 He flushed. 'I'd consider it an honour.'

  

 Thank you. I particularly wanted to know more

 about the girl whom you tell us was in league with

 Tarod.'

  

 'Cyllan.' He didn't quite understand her; what pos-

 sible interest could she have in Cyllan's well-being?

  

 Sashka ignored his obvious puzzlement. 'Can you tell

 me something about her?' she asked sweetly. 'Her back-

 ground, her past - I gather that she's from the Great

 Eastern Flatlands.'

  

 Drachea studied his folded hands for a moment, then

 said with unexpected venom, 'Cyllan Anassan is nothing

 but an ignorant, gutter-bred slut who has yet to learn her

 place!'

  

 Sashka raised her perfect eyebrows. 'Indeed? You are

 - vehement, Drachea.'

  

 He smiled. 'Then I must crave your foregiveness. I

 have a personal score to settle with both that trull and

 her lover; memory of what I have suffered because of

 them makes me . . . indelicate in my expression of

 those feelings.'

  

 She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. 'It must

 have been a great ordeal for you.'

  

 Drachea's eyes burned eagerly. 'Yes . . .' Gods, this

 girl was exquisite . . . a match for any man with the

 courage to try her . . .

  

 'You said,' Sashka went on, not removing her hand,

 'that she was Tarod's lover.'

  

 'Lover, paramour, harlot - ' Suddenly Drachea grin-

 ned wolfishly. 'Whichever term you choose, he was fool

 enough to sacrifice himself for her sake.'

  

 'So he loves her . . . ?'

  

 'Love? I don't know if a soulless vermin like Tarod

 can know the meaning of the word. But he made a pact

 for her safety with the High Initiate, so he values the

 little witch in some way.' He paused. 'May I venture to

 ask if you yourself knew Tarod?'

  

 'Oh,' Sashka said carelessly, 'we all knew Tarod to

 some degree. I simply wanted to clarify one or two

 points that Keridil was unclear on.' She rose, amused by

 the haste with which he followed her example and grati-

 fied by his obvious anxiety to please her. 'Thank you,

 Drachea. You've been most helpful.'

  

 The chances of being able to speak alone with her

 again were slim, Drachea knew, and so before she could

 turn away he said, keeping his voice casual, This room

 grows a little overbearing - perhaps you'll permit me to

 escort you into the fresh air for a while?'

  

 She regarded him. 'Thank you, but no.'

  

 Then perhaps some refreshment?'

  

 Sashka smiled sweetly. 'I think that to save embar-

 rassment, Drachea, I should tell you that I am shortly to

 wed the High Initiate.'

  

 She had flattened him and dismissed him with a single

 sentence, and as he began to stammer out an apology

 she gave him a small, almost amused bow and walked

 away. The boy must be arrogance itself if he thought he

 was worthy of her ... he was well mannered and

 pleasant enough, but her prospects went far beyond a

 mere Margravate.

  

 'Sashka!' A voice spoke behind her, and she turned to

 find her father, Frayn Veyyil Saravin, at her elbow.

  

 'Father.' She kissed him. 'Is Mother rested?'

  

 'Well rested, yes - she'll join us a little later.' He

 nodded in the direction of Drachea, who had sat down

 again disconsolately. 'I saw you talking with the Heir

 Margrave. He seems a very worthy young man.'

  

 'I'm sure he is,' Sashka said disinterestedly.

  

 Frayn pursed his lips. 'I hope you weren't rude to him.

 He looks downcast, and I know what your tongue can be

 like.'

  

 'Oh, Father! Of course I wasn't rude. He made a

  

 polite and proper advance, and I simply told him that I

 am betrothed to the High Initiate.'

  

 Her father's jaw dropped. 'But you're not!'

  

 'Keep your voice down; people are staring at us.'

  

 His face purpled apoplectically and he repeated in a

 strangled whisper, 'But you're not betrothed!'

  

 'Not officially yet, perhaps, but . . . ' Sashka shrug-

 ged. 'It's only a matter of time, Father. Would you

 therefore want me to squander myself in some dalliance

 with a provincial Margrave's son?'

  

 Frayn frowned darkly. 'Sometimes, Sashka, your

 arrogance astonishes me! If Keridil hasn't yet asked for

 your hand - '

  

 'But he will.' She planted a kiss squarely on her

 father's forehead to pacify him, then, turning, tossed her

 hair back. 'Sashka Veyyil Toln - it sits well on the

 tongue, don't you think? And don't try to tell me that it

 won't be the best alliance our clan has ever had!'

  

 Frayn Veyyil Saravin sighed exasperatedly, but knew

 better than to argue with her. In truth he was deeply

 proud of what his daughter had achieved. He'd never

 felt easy with her original plan to marry that black-

 haired Adept; he'd always felt there was something

 wrong with the man, and his opinion had been vindi-

 cated. But the High Initiate was another matter. As a

 man of rank, Keridil was second only to the High Mar-

 grave himself; as an individual he was personable, trust-

 worthy, had already proved himself a worthy successor

 to his sire, Jehrek. Frayn could hope for nothing better.

  

 He caught his daughter's arm and squeezed it fondly.

 'Then if you're so set in your own mind, Sashka - and

 I'm not about to gainsay you - take an old man's advice,

 and return to the High Initiate's side. That's a woman's

 proper place, and he'll appreciate you the more for it.

 Ask your mother if you doubt me.'

  

 Sashka gave him one of her most beatific smiles, laced

 with a good measure of pity. 'Dear Father!' she said, and

 kissed him soundly again before moving quickly and grace-

 fully away in the direction of the hall doors.

  

 Chapter 11

  

 Cyllan's face was white and pinched with strain as she

 walked between her two guards through the Castle's

 corridors. In the three days which had passed since

 her imprisonment she had seen no one, save the

 escorted servant who brought her food and returned

 after an interval to take away the untouched plate,

 and she had spent almost all her time sitting at the

 window of her room, gazing out over the courtyard

 in the vain hope of gaining some clue to Tarod's

 whereabouts.

  

 She had to admit - though it rankled - that her captors

 had been scrupulous in keeping their part of the bargain

 for her life. No one had made any attempt to molest her;

 indeed, they'd treated her with punctilious courtesy,

 even kindness. She'd stonily rebuffed their efforts, igno-

 ring the delicacies sent to tempt her and refusing to

 respond to any attempt at conversation. But she knew

 that this impasse couldn't last forever. Keridil Toln had

 anticipated and thwarted any effort she might make to

 kill herself; unless she found another way to break the

 deadlock, then the grim pact would be fulfilled, and

 Tarod would die while she remained a helpless hostage.

 And she had little time left . . .

  

 She had tried to make mental contact with Tarod, but

 always her efforts failed, and she imagined that the

 Circle had taken precautions- perhaps by drugging him,

 perhaps by magical means - to prevent any communi-

 cation. And so, with every other way she could think of

 barred to her, Cyllan had concluded that she had but one

 choice ... to plead with the High Initiate for Tarod's

 life.

  

 Knowing what she knew of the enmity between

 Keridil Toln and Tarod, and the reasons behind it, she

 felt that a mouse in the jaws of a cat would have a better

 chance of survival than she had of convincing the High

 Initiate to heed her. But when, on her third morning of

 captivity, two Initiates came to confer with the guards

 outside her door and then announced that she was to be

 brought before Keridil for an interview, she felt a spark

 of hope. She had nothing to lose by making her plea save

 her self-respect, and that counted for nothing.

  

 And so she went with them willingly enough, her

 heart pounding with nervousness as at last they halted

 outside the door of the High Initiate's apartments.

  

 'Come.' Keridil answered the knock crisply, and

 Cyllan was led in.

  

 The room was lined with shelves crammed with papers,

 and dominated by a large table behind which Keridil Toln

 sat. Cyllan's spirits sank as she realised that, contrary to her

 hopes, he wasn't alone. Two elderly men flanked him, one

 fussing with a scroll, the other staring at her with something

 resembling distaste. Grevard, the Castle's physician,

 stood by the window, and on a chair nearby sat a girl of

 about Cyllan's own age; a patrician, beautiful yet cold-

 eyed girl with rich auburn hair. From Tarod's descrip-

 tion Cyllan recognised Sashka Veyyil immediately, and

 forced herself not to react outwardly to her first sight of

 the woman who had been his chief betrayer.

  

 'Cyllan.' The High Initiate's quiet voice broke into

 her angry thoughts and, dazedly, she turned to look at

 him. He smiled reassuringly. 'Please, sit down. There's

 nothing to fear.'

  

 She gave him a withering glance, and seated herself in

 the chair he indicated.

  

 Keridil clasped his hands and rested his chin on them.

 'We want to give you the chance to tell your side of this

 unhappy story,' he went on. 'And I hope that you'll look

 on us not as enemies, but as friends. There's a great deal

 you don't yet know about the events that have led up to

 today, and it's the merest justice that you should under-

 stand fully.'

  

 Cyllan stared back at him. 'Where is Tarod?'

  

 Sashka Veyyil coughed delicately, and amusement

 flickered in her eyes. Tarod still lives,' Keridil said.

 'And he has kept his side of the bargain we made. I hope

 we can persuade you to do the same.'

  

 She ignored the remark. 'I want to see him.'

  

 'I'm sorry; that's impossible. As I explained to you

 before -'

  

 'Keridil . . . ' Sashka rose gracefully and came to

 stand at his back, her hands resting lightly on his shoul-

 ders. 'Please, let me intercede for this girl. Surely, under

 the circumstances, she can at least be permitted to see

 Tarod one last time before he dies?' She looked at

 Cyllan and her eyes were malicious.

  

 That's a kind thought, love.' The High Initiate was

 clearly unaware of any ulterior motive, and Cyllan won-

 dered how he could be so blind to Sashka's duplicity.

 But if the patrician girl anticipated any reaction from

 Cyllan to her deliberate reminder of Tarod's impending

 fate, she was disappointed. Cyllan's expression

 remained stony. But inwardly the taunt was like a knife-

 thrust . . . and she knew she couldn't plead for Tarod's

 life in the presence of such an audience. Thought of

 Sashka's mockery, the cold hostility of the two old men,

 the physician's hawk-like scrutiny . . . she couldn't do

 it; the words would wither on her tongue, for her cause

 would be lost before she could begin.

  

 Keridil glanced at Sashka, who had resumed her seat.

 'We'll see what can be arranged . . . but there's time

 enough yet. I want to hear your story, Cyllan - and I

 want you to understand that we of the Circle are not

 your enemies. We want to help you, in any way that we

 can.'

  

 The look he received for his well-intentioned remark

 was one of such searing contempt that it brought an

 involuntary flush to his face. Collecting himself, he tried

 again.

  

 'Perhaps you'd begin by telling us how you came to

 the Castle? We've heard Drachea's side of the tale, of

 course, but - '

  

 'Then you don't need mine,' Cyllan said.

  

 'But we do. If justice is to be done - '

  

 'Justice?' She laughed harshly, then: 'I have nothing

 to say to you.'

  

 One of the elderly Councillors leaned across and cup-

 ped a hand to Keridil's ear. 'If this girl chooses to be

 difficult, High Initiate, I see little point in wasting time

 on her. We have, surely, all the information we need

 from the Rannak boy? And it must be said that any

 evidence she presents to us can at best be considered -

 ah - dubious.'

  

 Keridil looked obliquely at Cyllan, who sat mutely

 defiant on the chair opposite him. Despite her alle-

 giances he felt sympathy for her, and couldn't help but

 admire her steadfastness. He believed - and he didn't

 think it a rash assumption - that if she could be per-

 suaded to speak at all, she'd speak the truth. And he

 wanted to hear what she might have to say.

  

 He lowered his voice to a whisper. 'I take your point,

 Councillor Fosker, but I've a suspicion that the girl's

 reticence stems more from fear than hostility, and per-

 haps it's little wonder. With respect, I suggest that we'd

 have better hope of success if I were to interview her

 privately.'

  

 The elderly Initiate looked at his fellow Councillor,

 who had overheard Keridil's words. The other man

 grunted. 'If the High Initiate thinks it wise . . . '

  

 'I do.'

  

 Fosker nodded. 'Very well. Though I must say I've

 little faith in the notion, Keridil.'

  

 Keridil smiled thinly. 'I trust I can prove you wrong.'

  

 Cyllan watched with wary suspicion as the two old

 men made a great fuss of escorting Sashka to the door.

 She had caught the flash of resentment in the girl's eyes

 when Keridil asked her to leave, but Sashka made no

 overt protest. When they were gone, Grevard levered

 himself up from his reclining posture against the wall.

  

 'Do you wish me to leave, too?' he inquired.

  

 Keridil inclined his head. 'I'd appreciate it, Grevard.'

  

 The physician paused as he drew level with Cyllan,

  

 and stared critically at her, eyes narrowed. 'I'll want to

 see you again before much time has passed,' he told her

 sternly, then looked at the High Initiate. 'She's not been

 eating. We'll have to do something about that, if she's to

 stay in good health. As soon as I've had a chance to catch

 up on some sleep, I'll see to it.'

  

 Thank you.' Keridil watched until Grevard had

 closed the door behind him, then sat back with a sigh. A

 flask of wine and several cups stood near him on the

 table; he poured two cups and set one in front of Cyllan.

 She ignored it, and he said, 'You won't compromise

 yourself by drinking wine with me, Cyllan., I need it, and

 I don't doubt you do, too. Oh - and pay no heed to

 Grevard's brusque manner; it's merely an affectation.

 Now ... do you feel a little better without a plethora of

 strangers to stare at you?'

  

 He smiled encouragingly, and a little of Cyllan's lost

 confidence returned. He was attempting to bridge the

 gulf between them, and if she could bring herself to

 unbend towards him - or at least appear to - she might

 stand a slender chance of winning a sympathetic

 hearing.

  

 She nodded, and picked up the cup. The wine was

 light and crisp, and made her realise how thirsty and

 hungry she had become. She drank more, and Keridil

 nodded approval. 'That's better. If we can get along

 without hostility, I think this will be a happier interview,

 don't you?'

  

 Cyllan stared down into her cup. 'I didn't ask for this

 interview,' she said. 'And it's true that I've nothing to

 tell you that you don't already know.'

  

 'Maybe so. But I still want to hear the story from your

 own lips. I want to be fair to you, Cyllan. You've done

 nothing to harm the Circle, not directly; and it saddens

 me to think that you consider me your enemy.'

  

 The wine, on an empty stomach, was going quickly to

 her head. Cyllan looked up, blinking, and found herself

 voicing the thoughts she'd intended to keep to herself.

 'But you're Tarod's enemy, High Initiate. That makes

 you my enemy, also.'

  

 'Not of necessity. If you only understood what lies

 behind this affair - '

  

 'Oh, but I do. Tarod told me the whole story.' She

 paused. 'He also told me that you were once his closest

 friend.'

  

 Keridil shifted uncomfortably. 'Yes, I was. But that

 was before I discovered the truth about him.'

  

 'So you changed your allegiance without a second

 thought, and friendship and loyalty counted for

 nothing.' She smiled humourlessly. 'It's little wonder

 that Tarod is so bitter!'

  

 The barb went home, and not for the first time Keridil

 felt echoes of shame.

  

 Cyllan drained her cup and held it out for more. She

 was beginning to feel reckless, and although she knew

 the wine was dangerously loosening her tongue, she no

 longer cared. Keridil refilled her cup without comment,

 and she took another mouthful before setting it down.

  

 Tarod was loyal,' she said savagely. 'He was loyal to

 the Circle, and the Circle betrayed him.'

  

 Keridil shook his head. 'You don't understand. What-

 ever Tarod told you, it's a twisted image of the facts.'

  

 Tarod isn't a liar!'

  

 Keridil sighed. This was proving harder than he'd

 expected - he had hoped that by using reason he could

 persuade her round to his point of view, but the task was

 looking more hopeless with every moment. Cyllan had

 no thought for her own safety, no fear of reprisal - her

 loyalty to Tarod was ferocious, and the High Initiate

 realised that, however deluded she might be, she loved

 him. In the face of that, how could he make her accept

 that Tarod had to die?

  

 'Cyllan.' He laid both hands on the table, palms

 down, in a conciliatory gesture. 'Please. You must listen

 to me, and try to see matters through my eyes.'

  

 Anger flared in her look and she retorted, 'Must I,

 Keridil? You'll not see matters through mine - why

 should I make concessions where you refuse them?' She

 picked up her cup, drank again, beginning to feel giddy

 and a little sick. 'You hold me hostage while you make

  

 preparations to murder Tarod. Yes, murder,' she added

 as Keridil made to protest. 'It's nothing less than that!

 He's never been tried for his supposed crimes - oh, I too

 saw the documents! Instead, you simply condemn him to

 death because it's expedient!' She spat the last word

 viciously. 'If that's your justice, I want none of it!'

  

 Keridil's mouth tightened as anger began to replace

 the nagging guilt. 'As you're so ready to cry murder,' he

 snapped back, 'then perhaps you'll spare a thought for

 the fellow Initiate whom Tarod slaughtered in cold

 blood, in this very room! Do you condone that?'

  

 Cyllan smiled icily. 'Do you mean the man who killed

 Themila Gan Lin?'

  

 That was an accident!' Keridil got up and paced

 across the room, furious. The girl was twisting his every

 word to her own advantage; he felt as though he were

 the prisoner and she the inquisitor. Abruptly he turned

 on his heel, pointing a finger at her. 'Your lover isn't

 what you so fondly believe him to be. Damn it, he isn't

 even human! Consorting with Chaos is a crime that

 hasn't been heard of in this land for centuries, but you,

 with your ridiculous romantic notions, have committed

 that crime! The rightful punishment is death, and if it

 wasn't for the fact that we need you as a safeguard, I'd-'

 He stopped, realising that he was losing his temper, and

 took a deep breath. 'No. I didn't mean that; I'm sorry.'

  

 'You shouldn't be,' Cyllan replied, her eyes intense.

 'Kill me. I don't care.'

  

 He shook his head. 'I won't harm you. When Tarod is

 dead, you'll go free with no stigma attached to you. I'll

 keep my bargain - and.the gods know I don't bear you

 any personal ill will! But while you persist in this insane

 determination to champion an evil-doer, I can't help

 you, either.'

  

 She turned her head away. 'I don't want your help. I

 don't want anything from you - except Tarod's release.'

  

 'You know that's impossible. One day, with Aeoris's

 grace, perhaps you'll understand.'

  

 The storm of rage was past now, leaving Cyllan

 drained and weakened; and the wine was sapping her

  

 will to fight. At this moment she would have gone down

 on her knees before the High Initiate and pleaded for

 Tarod's life, but she knew with a dismal certainty that it

 could avail her nothing. Keridil was implacable in both

 his hatred and his resolve, and nothing she could do or

 say would sway him. She felt despairing tears start in her

 eyes and struggled to hold them back, but Keridil saw

 the tell-tale glitter on her lashes. He moved towards her,

 knowing he couldn't comfort her and yet urged by an

 uneasy conscience to try, but was interrupted by a tenta-

 tive knock at the door, which opened to reveal an elderly

 woman in the white robes of a Sister of Aeoris.

  

 'Oh . . . forgive me, High Initiate.' Her bright, sharp

 eyes focused on Cyllan. 'I'm seeking Grevard, and I was

 told I'd find him here.'

  

 Keridil forced himself, with an effort, not to snap at

 her. 'He was, Sister Erminet, but he's gone. Can I be of

 service?'

  

 'It's simply that your captive should be attended to

 before he has a chance to recover from Grevard's last

 dosage,' the old woman told him briskly. Cyllan's head

 came up sharply and she stared at the Sister, receiving a

 frown in return. 'I understand it's a precaution that's

 better not neglected,' Sister Erminet went on. 'But if

 Grevard is occupied elsewhere, I'll gladly see to the

 matter myself.'

  

 'Yes, yes.' Keridil was impatient, annoyed by the

 interruption and only thinking to rid himself of its

 perpetrator as quickly as possible. 'Please do as

 you think fit, Sister. Grevard will be grateful for your

 help.'

  

 'Very well.' The old woman looked at Cyllan again,

 speculatively this time. The girl's face was frozen, as

 though she'd seen some ancestral ghost, and the snip-

 pets of hearsay she'd gleaned in the Castle over the past

 few days began to make a pattern in Erminet's mind.

 She pulled her gaze away, nodded with quick courtesy to

 the High Initiate, and went out.

  

 Cyllan stared at the closed door until Keridil's hand

 on her shoulder startled her back to the moment. She

  

 jerked away, her face venomous. 'She's going to Tarod

 . . . where is he? What have you done with him?'

  

 'He's safe, and he's well enough.' Keridil spoke

 shortly.

  

 'I want to see him!'

  

 'And I've told you, you can't!' Sister Erminet's unwit-

 ting interruption had brought the High Initiate near the

 end of his tether. 'Don't you think I've enough to do

 without this miserable affair to contend with as well? I

 brought you here in the hope that I could make you see

 sense - I'm beginning to feel I'm wasting my time!'

  

 Cyllan bit her lip hard to stop the tears. 'We disagree,

 High Initiate, on what is sense and what is not. And if

 you think you'll persuade me to change, you're wrong!'

 She looked at him, accusation and contempt in her eyes.

 'Unlike many others, I abide by my word of honour!'

  

 Keridil's lips whitened and he strode to the door,

 flinging it open and shouting for Cyllan's escort, who

 were waiting a little further down the corridor. They

 hastened in, and he made a dismissive gesture in

 Cyllan's direction.

  

 'Get the girl out of my sight,' the High Initiate said

 coldly. 'She's had her chance - I'm wasting my time with

 her!'

  

 He wondered if Cyllan would have some last word,

 even some plea, as she was led away. Even now he'd

 help her if he could . . . but her face remained whitely,

 icily expressionless, and she didn't so much as glance at

 him. The door closed behind her and, angry and frus-

 trated, Keridil lifted his own wine cup and drained its

 contents in a single draught.

  

 The steep stairs that led down to the Castle's cellar level

 were uneven, and the unsteady light of Sister Erminet

 Rowald's lantern made the way more tricky still,

 especially with the added encumbrance of her bag of

 herbs and philtres. She had, however, refused all offers

 of help with her task, convincing Grevard that she could

 quite well manage alone.

 The physician had been thankful enough to have this

  

 particular duty lifted from his shoulders, and his willing-

 ness suited Erminet's purpose perfectly. Past the wine

 stores, he had told her; then the third cellar on the right.

 A troublesome task, and a time-consuming one . . .

 Erminet's nostrils caught the mingled smells of musty

 casks, old, spilled wine, stale air and earth; and wryly

 she wondered how any living being could be expected to

 prosper in such unsavoury surroundings.

  

 Reaching the bottom of the flight she set off briskly

 along the dark, narrow passage. At her heels a small

 silver-grey shape trotted, blending with the shadows,

 and as she approached the third door Erminet paused to

 look down at the cat which had followed her from the

 main wing.

  

 'Little Imp.' Affection softened the old woman's nor-

 mally acerbic tone, and the cat raised its tail high.

 There'll be no tidbits for you down here!'

  

 The cat uttered a self-satisfied chirrup in reply, and

 ran on ahead. It was one of the numerous offspring of

 Grevard's own pet which lived half wild in the Castle,

 and for some inscrutable reason it had lately taken to

 following Erminet wherever she went, attaching itself to

 her like a familiar. Erminet was amused and gratified by

 its partiality for her company; she had dubbed it the Imp

 - not entirely in jest; many people mistrusted these

 creatures' telepathic abilities - and, when no one was

 about to observe, spoiled it with food from her own plate.

  

 The cat, prompted by that same telepathic instinct

 which enabled its kind to communicate in a primitive

 way with human emotion and intent, stopped at the

 appropriate door and looked at Erminet with inquiring

 interest. The door was unguarded - Keridil had taken

 more arcane precautions - and Erminet drew the key

 Grevard had given her from her pouch. It turned stiffly

 in the lock, and she entered the cellar beyond.

  

 She couldn't see him at first. Her lantern-light was

 poor, and the shadows played tricks with the eyes. But

 as she turned from relocking the door carefully behind

 her, a figure moved in the deeper darkness on the far

 side of the chamber.

  

 He was sitting on what looked like a pile of worn and

 discarded rugs, his back propped against the damp wall,

 and even in this dim light Sister Erminet could see the

 sardony in his green eyes. Grevard had been lax - the

 drugs he had administered had clearly worn off, leaving

 the captive in full possession of his faculties. But perhaps

 that could be to her advantage . , .

  

 Tarod spoke suddenly. 'A Sister of Aeoris to adminis-

 ter to my needs. I'm honoured.'

  

 Erminet sniffed. She had encountered this man - or

 demon, or whatever he was - before, under similar

 circumstances; and although they had crossed swords,

 she felt respect and a strong measure of sympathy for

 him. Heretical though the thought might be, the old

 Sister strongly disapproved of the kind of treachery

 which had brought Tarod to this pass, and disliked

 seeing a once proud individual so reduced. And she had

 stronger views still on the nature of girls like Sashka

 Veyyil . . .

  

 'Adept Tarod.' She crossed the room towards him,

 aware that he hadn't as yet recognised her. 'I see

 Grevard's nostrums have done nothing to dull your

 tongue.'

  

 The green eyes narrowed momentarily, then Tarod

 laughed a tired, throaty laugh. 'Well, well; Sister

 Erminet. I didn't expect this particular wheel to come

 full turn again.'

  

 She set her bag down on the floor and stared at her

 patient. Gaunter than ever, unshaven, hair lank, clothes

 dirty . . . and the tell-tale lines of tremendous strain on

 his face. The sight of him affected her, and to combat

 such unwarranted feelings she was brusque as she said,

 'You look no better for your respite.'

  

 Thank you. Did Grevard send you specifically to

 entertain me with your observations?'

  

 'Grevard is too busy attending to what they tell me is

 the aftermath of your handiwork,' Erminet retorted.

 'I've simply been detailed to see that you are, and

 remain, stupefied.' She frowned at him. 'It would

 appear that someone has been neglecting their duty.'

  

 Tarod sighed. 'Perhaps they also tell you that I don't

 present a threat to anyone here, drugged or no.'

  

 This was what Erminet had suspected, and it fitted

 with the slowly emerging picture. 'I heard some rumour

 of a bargain between you and the High Initiate,' she

 said, busying herself with the contents of her bag. 'But it

 sounded unlikely, and no one took the trouble to explain

 it to a withered old apple like me, so I dismissed it as

 nonsense.'

  

 'It's true.' Tarod eyed the concoction she was prepar-

 ing with distaste.

  

 Erminet stopped her work and regarded him

 thoughtfully. Then I've misjudged you. I hadn't imag-

 ined you would accept defeat so easily.'

  

 She saw the answering flicker of pain in his eyes, and

 the cat, which until now had sat peacefully washing

 itself, paused to give a little cry of protest as though its

 telepathic senses had picked up some powerful emotion.

 Then Tarod said curtly, 'I have my reasons, Sister.'

  

 'Ah, yes . . . ' Erminet licked her lips. 'The girl. . . '

  

 The sudden change in the atmosphere was palpable as

 Tarod sat upright, every muscle tense. 'You've seen

 Cyllan?'

  

 She had expected a reaction, but not one so vehe-

 ment; and to hide her surprise she feigned indifference.

 'Cyllan; so that's her name. Yes, I've seen her, not an

 hour ago in fact. That is, if she's that frail-looking child

 with the pale hair and peculiar eyes.'

  

 Tarod tensed visibly. 'Where is she?'

  

 'Your anxiety betrays you, Adept.' Erminet eyed him

 with sour amusement, then abruptly relented. 'She was

 with the High Initiate, in his study - and yes, I recall the

 circumstances under which Sister-Novice Sashka Veyyil

 was granted a similar interview.' She remembered

 Cyllan's face, the agony of rage in her eyes; remem-

 bered, too, the argument on which she'd shamelessly

 eavesdropped before knocking at Keridil's door. 'You

 need have no fears there,' she added. 'Had the girl been

 armed, I imagine I'd have found the High Initiate with a

 knife through his heart.'

  

 Tarod closed his eyes. 'Then she's alive, and she's well

 ... I thought Keridil might betray our pact . . . '

  

 Erminet looked at him beadily. 'Your pact? How is

 the girl involved in that?'

  

 Tarod met her gaze, weighing her up in an attempt to

 decide whether or not he should say more. This old

 woman had tried to be kind to him once, in her peculiar

 way; despite his contempt for Circle and Sisterhood, he

 liked her - and, though in many ways the two women

 were poles apart, something in her character reminded

 him of Themila Gan Lin.

  

 He said, softly, 'Cyllan is the crux of our pact, Sister.

 She is a hostage against my good behaviour. If I should

 fight against the fate the Circle has ordained for me,

 Keridil will have her executed the moment I'm dead.'

  

 Erminet was clearly shocked, and her customary sour-

 ness gave way to sudden humanity. 'But she's no more

 than a child! The High Initiate surely wouldn't - '

  

 'She has consorted with me. Any Province Margrave

 would hang her for less.'

  

 That was true enough. . . no one, now, was in any doubt

 as to Tarod's real nature, although in the privacy of the

 cellar Erminet found it hard to believe she was talking with

 a demon of Chaos. She should have been afraid of him, but

 wasn't. To her, he seemed little more than a victim of

 circumstance . . . and that was a condition she understood

 all too well, even if the memory was forty years old . . .

  

 'So you're prepared to die, in order to save her life . . .'

 she said.

  

 'Yes.'

  

 Gods, she thought, was the age-old pattern repeating

 itself yet again? She licked her dry lips. 'And when

 you're gone?' she asked.

  

 'Keridil has promised that she'll go free.' Tarod's eyes

 darkened. 'I have no choice but to trust him. At least this

 way she'll have a chance.'

  

 Erminet doubted the wisdom of speaking what was in

 her mind, but couldn't break her lifelong habit of brutal

 honesty. 'Are you sure it's a worthwhile sacrifice,

 Tarod? You were betrayed once . . . '

  

 For a moment she thought he'd strike her, but the

 anger in his eyes died and he only said, 'I'll not

 be betrayed a second time, Sister Erminet. Not by

 Cyllan.'

  

 No ... recalling again what she had overheard,

 Erminet believed that he was right. She sat down, dis-

 carding her potions, and her face was suddenly drawn

 with an uncomfortable mingling of confusion and pain.

 Tarod's love for that strange little outland girl, his readi-

 ness to lose his own life in order to save hers, moved her

 deeply, awakening emotions which she'd thought gone

 and forgotten. She sat motionless for what seemed a

 long time, tormented by her thoughts, and only looked

 up when Tarod's hand touched her arm.

  

 He was smiling, faintly but kindly. 'Forty years ago,

 you said, Sister. But you haven't forgotten what it is to

 love, have you?'

  

 The face of the youth, doubtless by now aged and

 withered, as she was, who had spurned her and for love

 of whom she had tried to kill herself, was suddenly sharp

 and clear in Sister Erminet's inner eye. The cat ran up to

 her and tried to climb on to her lap, making small sounds

 of distress. Tarod stroked its head. 'I'm sorry. I

 shouldn't have spoken.'

  

 'Nonsense.' Erminet forced her voice to take on its

 old brusqueness. 'Ghosts can't harm anyone . . . ' She

 laughed, sharply and artificially. 'I haven't cried since I

 entered the Sisterhood, and I'm not about to start now;

 not for myself, at any rate.' She looked at him, her eyes

 over-bright. 'But that doesn't stop me wishing there was

 something I could do for you and that girl.'

  

 Tarod leaned back. 'You could do something for me,'

 he told her. 'If you will.'

  

 'What's that?'

  

 'See to it that she lives, and prospers.'

  

 Erminet blinked. 'Should she not?'

  

 'She's sworn to take her own life. She tried once,

 when we were first captured, to stop the bargain being

 made. I believe she'll try again, and I don't trust Keridil

 to prevent her.' He hesitated. 'If you can do that for me,

  

 Sister, you'll have my lifelong gratitude - ' He stopped,

 and laughed at the irony of his own words. 'No; that's

 worth little enough. Say instead, my thanks.'

  

 It was a modest enough request; and if the High

 Initiate, or her own Senior, the Lady Kael Amion,

 disapproved, they might do as they pleased. The

 thought gave Erminet a frisson that was almost pleasant.

  

 'I don't need your thanks,' she told Tarod. 'I'll do as you

 ask, because I don't want to see two lives wasted where one

 would suffice.' Abruptly she smiled. 'There; now you have

 a sour old woman's reasoning to comfort you.'

  

 'You're not as sour as you like to pretend.'

  

 'You've only seen my weaknesses. But you'll see my

 strengths unless you take this.' Bending, she picked up

 the concoction she had been mixing. 'Enough, Grevard

 says, to render you unconscious, so that the rest of us can

 sleep easy in our beds tonight.'

  

 Sleep would be a blessing ... its oblivion was far

 preferable to the long, solitary hours, the agony of wait-

 ing, of wondering. Tarod took the tiny silver cup. 'A

 bargain, then, Sister Erminet.'

  

 'You're too fond of making bargains for your own

 good,' she said with an attempt at acid humour. 'But yes.

 I'll keep my promise.'

  

 She watched as he drank the cup's contents, then took

 it from him and said, 'I'll speak to the girl. I'll tell her you

 still live - though whether she'll trust me, I can't predict.

 Were I in her place, I wouldn't believe a word anyone

 said to me.'

  

 Tarod gazed thoughtfully into the middle distance for

 a few moments, then smiled wryly. 'Give her a message

 from me, Sister. Ask her if she remembers her first visit

 to the spire . . . and remind her that I took nothing she

 was unwilling to give.' His green eyes met Erminet's.

 'She'll understand.'

  

 His look made the old woman feel something akin to

 shame. She nodded, hiding behind a brisk defence. 'I'll

 tell her.'

  

 Tarod leaned forward and kissed her brow. 'Thank

 you.'

  

 Erminet smiled thinly. 'I never thought I'd live to be

 kissed by a demon from Chaos. That would have been a

 tale to tell my grandchildren, had I had them.'

  

 The Imp, silent as a shadow, followed her out of the

 door. Tarod heard the key grate in the stiff lock, then

 tried to make himself comfortable as he waited for the

 drug to take effect. Although the cellar was almost

 pitch-black without Sister Erminet's lantern, he could

 see well in darkness. Not that there was any prospect

 worthy of attention . . .

  

 He lay back, ignoring the irrational flicker of hope

 within himself. Hope was a pointless exercise. One old

 woman, however kindly her intentions, could do

 nothing beyond bearing a message; and during the stul-

 tified miasma of the days since his capture Tarod had

 consciously chosen to resign himself to what fate had

 decreed for him. He had quenched the fires of hatred

 and vengeance and fury, deliberately deadening all feel-

 ing and all thought of the future. If Cyllan were to

 survive, he could do nothing more.

  

 His eyelids felt heavy, and he wondered if he would

 dream. If he did, likely as not they'd be fragmented

 dreams, meaningless; as everything else was meaning-

 less now. Tarod closed his eyes. Briefly, in his inner

 vision, he thought he saw a many-faceted stone, glitter-

 ing like a mocking eye, and from far away someone - or

 something - seemed to call his name with an odd

 urgency. Lapsing into narcotic-induced confusion he

 ignored the call, thrust it away. It faded and was gone,

 and he lay still in the silent darkness of the cellar.

  

 Chapter 12

  

 The Sun's last light had flared above the Castle wall in

 brief glory, and the first of the two Moons would soon

 show its pockmarked face in the East. Torches flickered

 in the courtyard; groups of people crossed the flagstones

 and an occasional burst of laughter drifted up to where

 Cyllan sat at her window staring out, unmoved, at the

 activity.

  

 She was exhausted by her argument with Keridil Toln,

 dazed with the effects of the wine, and yet she couldn't

 sleep. She had had her one chance to plead for Tarod,

 however remote the hope of succeeding - and her tem-

 per had got the better of her. She'd failed him; and now

 it seemed there was no other path left.

  

 Fury welled up in her, a bitter railing against the

 Circle's justice which could condemn one of their own to

 a terrible death without a qualm. The ceremony involved

 fire, Tarod had told her; a supernatural fire that burned

 more than flesh—abruptly Cyllan put a hand to her mouth,

 forcing back a sick spasm as hideous images sprang

 unbidden and unwanted into her mind. When the spasm

 faded she was shaking uncontrollably with the rage of

 impotence, and with a desperate fear that made her

 want to scream aloud. Tarod would die, while she sat by

 in this dismal room, helpless until she should be granted

 her freedom - and then it would be far too late.

  

 But there was nothing she could do. Keridil had seen

 to it that she couldn't kill herself and thereby negate the

 bargain Tarod had made; Tarod would not abandon her

 as she had pleaded with him to do; the Circle was

 intractable. Her only choice, now, would be to go down

 on her knees and pray to Aeoris for a miracle.

  

 But Aeoris was unlikely to take pity on one who

 interceded on behalf of Chaos. More likely the White

 Lord would rejoice at Tarod's destruction, and, not

 caring that the thought was blasphemous, Cyllan felt her

 anger focusing on the god himself. She'd find no help

 there - better to turn to Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who

 had claimed kinship with Tarod . . .

  

 Yandros. The idea shocked her and chilled her blood.

 But surely Yandros, of all beings, wouldn't be willing to

 see Tarod die, if it was within his power to intervene?

  

 She tried to dismiss the idea as insane. Tarod himself

 had rejected his links with Chaos, banished Yandros,

 and spoke of him as a deadly enemy. Yet, Cyllan

 reasoned, there could be no enemy deadlier than those

 who were bent on Tarod's annihilation. Perhaps

 Yandros couldn't aid her; perhaps he'd not choose to.

 But with every other door closed to her, she had nothing

 left to lose.

  

 She rose, still shaking, and for a minute or two stared

 at the slowly rising Moon, which glared back like a

 malevolent eye. How could she reach out to such an

 entity as Yandros? The travelling Sisters who had cate-

 chised the children of her home village taught that

 Aeoris heard the most humble of petitions; that a pure

 heart and spirit was enough to ensure the great god's

 benevolence. Cyllan's heart and spirit were ablaze with

 a black flame of fury - and petitioning Chaos was a very

 different matter. By turning to Yandros, she would

 betray her fealty to the White Lords and damn herself in

 their eyes. But to reject any possibility that gave her

 even the most slender thread of hope was a greater

 betrayal still . . .

  

 She lowered her gaze to look across the courtyard,

 beyond the splashes of torchlight and the groups of

 people, to the brooding bulk of the Castle's North spire

 where Tarod had had his eyrie. Her eyes misted as she

 thought of him, and she said softly, as though whispering

 to an intimate companion.

  

 'Tarod . . . forgive me. There's no other way left.'

  

 Turning, Cyllan sat down cross-legged on the floor.

  

 By tradition all prayers to Aeoris were made while the

 supplicant faced the East. As Yandros was Aeoris's

 sworn enemy it seemed fitting that his petitioner should

 look to the West, and she quelled an instinctive sense of

 sacrilege as she set her back to the point of Sunrise.

 Closing her eyes, she tried to form an image in her mind,

 recalling the vision she had seen in the Marble Hall when

 the defaced statues had manifested their true origin to

 her. Sharp-etched features, beautiful but cruel; mouth

 smiling in mockery, eyes slanted and knowing . . . the

 picture wavered, eluding her. She concentrated harder,

 her breathing harsh and loud in the room's quiet, but

 still the image wouldn't form.

  

 If only she had her stones . . . they would aid her,

 enable her to focus her mind and her desires. But her

 pouch lay somewhere in the Castle beyond her reach,

 and she didn't dare ask for it lest her motives should be

 suspected. Cyllan's eyes flickered open and she sighed.

 She was no sorceress - her skills were limited enough

 even with the precious pebbles; without them she could

 do nothing.

  

 Then her gaze lit on a bowl which her jailers had

 earlier placed on the table. In an effort to tempt her

 appetite, and thus avoid the unpleasant necessity of

 calling on Grevard's services to force her to eat, Keridil

 had sent a dish of Prospect Province fruits from the

 Castle's precious supply. She had ignored them, despite

 their rarity and the fact that she had never been offered

 such delicacies in her life; but now she realised that the

 fruit would contain stones . . . and even a substitute

 might suffice if her own pebbles were unavailable.

  

 Quickly she snatched the bowl from the table and

 broke one of the fruits apart. At its centre was a hard,

 wrinkled stone the size of her thumbnail. . . discarding

 the pulp, Cyllan set to work on the other fruits until she

 had a collection of some dozen seeds. Few enough, but

 they might be all she needed . . . She licked juice from

 her fingers - she was sorely tempted to eat one or two of

 the ruined fruits, but, having heard of the importance of

 fasting for magical rites, rejected the impulse - then

  

 wiped her palms on her skirt and gathered the stones

 into her hands.

  

 This time, when she closed her eyes the darkness

 behind her lids was absolute. And moments later she felt

 the first prickling sensation at the back of her neck,

 suffusing through to her scalp. Quelling her excitement

 she focused her mind, feeling the rough, hard contours

 of the stones between locked fingers. Hardly aware of

 what she did, her lips formed a name, whispered it into

 silence.

  

 'Yandros ...'

  

 Her hands were hot, blazing hot; the stones like ice by

 comparison . . . and a face was beginning to form in her

 inner eye, taking shape and life . . .

  

 ' Yandros . . . Yandros, hear me. Lord of Chaos, hear

 me . . . '

  

 The room's stillness deepened and the air seemed to

 cloy around her, as though a vast, dark curtain had

 descended. Cyllan could feel her pulse pounding suf-

 focatingly throughout her body; her hands burned, the

 stones burned . . .

  

 'Yandros, Lord of Night, Master of Illusion, hear my

 prayer . . . ' The words were coming swiftly, uncon-

 sciously; she no longer chose them but they were sud-

 denly there on her tongue, as though an ancient memory

 had awoken. 'Yandros, though you were banished, your

 servants still remember. Return to me, Master of Chaos,

 return from the realm of Night and aid me?

  

 It was as though the stones had caught fire in her

 hands. Cyllan cried out with pain and shock, and the

 fruit-seeds scattered across the floor as she flung them

 from her with a violent reflex, rocking back. And at the

 same moment a dull, echoing crack reverberated in her

 ears.

  

 'Aeoris!' The oath, though inappropriate, was invol-

 untary, and Cyllan's eyes snapped open.

  

 The gloomy walls of her room surrounded her,

 unchanged. The stones lay on the floor, forming a ran-

 dom pattern which she couldn't even begin to interpret,

 and as the shock of their burning heat faded she realised

  

 miserably that she had failed. Yandros either could not

 or would not answer her call, and all she had experi-

 enced was the delusion of a fevered and desperate

 imagination.

  

 She rose, ignoring the scattered stones, and walked to

 the window. The first Moon was high now - odd; for it

 seemed that only a few minutes had passed - and its

 scarred face, near full, mocked her chagrin. Down

 below in the courtyard the torches had been

 extinguished and the giant rectangle was empty.

  

 Or was it? Cyllan looked again, and realised that there

 were figures in the court . . . but none of them was

 moving. Each stood like a statue, as though a single

 moment in their lives had been frozen and preserved.

 They looked faintly ridiculous, some with one foot

 raised in the act of walking, one with an arm held high in

 some extravagant, arrested gesture . . . and the foun-

 tain was no longer playing . . .

  

 Instinct warned her in the split second before she

 heard the softly emphasised sound of a latch clicking

 behind her. She whirled round -

  

 The outlines of a door which hung suspended in the

 middle of the room were flickering out of existence,

 vanishing even as she glimpsed them. He stood before

 her, and with a flowering of panic she realised that she

 faced something so far beyond humanity that the con-

 cept threatened her sanity. Tall, gaunt, gold hair flowing

 over his high shoulders, he could have been Tarod's twin

 - but for the fact that there was no trace of mortality in

 the beautiful, cruel features, that the smile on his lips

 made a mockery of human knowledge and ambition. His

 narrow, feline eyes were opalescent, their colour shift-

 ing and changing in the deceptive Moonlight.

  

 Cyllan backed away until her spine jarred against the

 window-frame. She was struggling for breath, but there

 was no air to fill her lungs. The being - demon or god,

 whatever he might be termed - stepped with graceful

 ease towards her, and as he moved, the outlines of the

 room warped and twisted as though they and he could

 not exist in the same space. Cyllan sensed a vastness

  

 wiped her palms on her skirt and gathered the stones

 into her hands.

  

 This time, when she closed her eyes the darkness

 behind her lids was absolute. And moments later she felt

 the first prickling sensation at the back of her neck,

 suffusing through to her scalp. Quelling her excitement

 she focused her mind, feeling the rough, hard contours

 of the stones between locked fingers. Hardly aware of

 what she did, her lips formed a name, whispered it into

 silence.

  

 'Yandros . . . '

  

 Her hands were hot, blazing hot; the stones like ice by

 comparison . . . and a face was beginning to form in her

 inner eye, taking shape and life . . .

  

 'Yandros. . . Yandros, hear me. Lord of Chaos, hear

 me . . . '

  

 The room's stillness deepened and the air seemed to

 cloy around her, as though a vast, dark curtain had

 descended. Cyllan could feel her pulse pounding suf-

 focatingly throughout her body; her hands burned, the

 stones burned . . .

  

 'Yandros, Lord of Night, Master of Illusion, hear my

 prayer . . . ' The words were corning swiftly, uncon-

 sciously; she no longer chose them but they were sud-

 denly there on her tongue, as though an ancient memory

 had awoken. 'Yandros, though you were banished, your

 servants still remember. Return to me, Master of Chaos,

 return from the realm of Night and aid me!'

  

 It was as though the stones had caught fire in her

 hands. Cyllan cried out with pain and shock, and the

 fruit-seeds scattered across the floor as she flung them

 from her with a violent reflex, rocking back. And at the

 same moment a dull, echoing crack reverberated in her

 ears.

  

 'Aeoris!' The oath, though inappropriate, was invol-

 untary, and Cyllan's eyes snapped open.

  

 The gloomy walls of her room surrounded her,

 unchanged. The stones lay on the floor, forming a ran-

 dom pattern which she couldn't even begin to interpret,

 and as the shock of their burning heat faded she realised

  

 miserably that she had failed. Yandros either could not

 or would not answer her call, and all she had experi-

 enced was the delusion of a fevered and desperate

 imagination.

  

 She rose, ignoring the scattered stones, and walked to

 the window. The first Moon was high now - odd; for it

 seemed that only a few minutes had passed — and its

 scarred face, near full, mocked her chagrin. Down

 below in the courtyard the torches had been

 extinguished and the giant rectangle was empty.

  

 Or was it? Cyllan looked again, and realised that there

 were figures in the court . . . but none of them was

 moving. Each stood like a statue, as though a single

 moment in their lives had been frozen and preserved.

 They looked faintly ridiculous, some with one foot

 raised in the act of walking, one with an arm held high in

 some extravagant, arrested gesture . . . and the foun-

 tain was no longer playing . . .

  

 Instinct warned her in the split second before she

 heard the softly emphasised sound of a latch clicking

 behind her. She whirled round -

  

 The outlines of a door which hung suspended in the

 middle of the room were flickering out of existence,

 vanishing even as she glimpsed them. He stood before

 her, and with a flowering of panic she realised that she

 faced something so far beyond humanity that the con-

 cept threatened her sanity. Tall, gaunt, gold hair flowing

 over his high shoulders, he could have been Tarod's twin

 - but for the fact that there was no trace of mortality in

 the beautiful, cruel features, that the smile on his lips

 made a mockery of human knowledge and ambition. His

 narrow, feline eyes were opalescent, their colour shift-

 ing and changing in the deceptive Moonlight.

  

 Cyllan backed away until her spine jarred against the

 window-frame. She was struggling for breath, but there

 was no air to fill her lungs. The being - demon or god,

 whatever he might be termed - stepped with graceful

 ease towards her, and as he moved, the outlines of the

 room warped and twisted as though they and he could

 not exist in the same space. Cyllan sensed a vastness

  

 surrounding him, an alien dimension that clashed with

 the natural laws of this world. He was here, and yet not

 here - this was but one manifestation of an entirety

 whose essence, if once glimpsed, would send her scream-

 ing over the brink of madness. This was Chaos . . .

  

 Propelled by a combination of terror, awe and a fear-

 ful reverence, Cyllan dropped to her knees. 'Yandros

  

  

  

 'Rise, Cyllan.' Yandros's voice was like silver, yet the

 mellifluence only thinly disguised an implacable men-

 ace. Shaking, she forced herself to obey, though all her

 instincts protested, and he walked slowly in a circle

 around her, his unhuman eyes critical and the small

 smile still playing on his lips. At last he stopped before

 her once more, and she felt his scrutiny like a physical

 pain as he gazed down at her.

  

 'So you've chosen to damn yourself by calling on me.'

 Yandros spoke with careless amusement. 'I commend

 your courage. Or your foolishness.'

  

 Cyllan shut her eyes tightly and reminded herself that

 Tarod had not feared this being. She had summoned

 Yandros of her own free will; if he proved a harsh

 master, she must take the consequences. With an effort

 she forced herself to speak.

  

 'I had no choice. They mean to kill Tarod, and I can't

 help him.' Taking a grip on her fear she looked up into

 his ever changing eyes. 'You're my only hope.'

  

 The Chaos Lord bowed sardonically. 'You compli-

 ment me. And why do you believe that it might be in my

 interests to save a pledged servant of Aeoris?'

  

 He was challenging her to prove herself; as perverse

 as she might have anticipated . . . Cyllan licked dry lips.

 'Because you once called Tarod "brother".'

  

 Yandros continued to regard her for a few moments,

 and she didn't dare to imagine what he might be think-

 ing. Then he stepped forward, and laid a hand on her

 head. She flinched inwardly from the cold touch of his

 fingers, feeling her stomach turn over, but forced herself

 not to give ground.

  

 'And you are willing to jeopardise your very soul in

  

 order to save him . . . that's a very noble sentiment,

 Cyllan.' The silver voice was disdainful still, but some-

 thing akin to affection had crept into the tone. 'It would

 seem we chose well when we brought you to the Castle.'

 Shocked, she stared at him uncomprehending. 'You -

 you brought me - ?'

  

 Yandros laughed softly; a sound that made her shud-

 der. 'Let's say we were instrumental in your arrival.

 Exiled we may be, but some of the forces that serve our

 cause still remain in this land.'

 Suddenly she understood. 'The Warp . . . '

 'As you say: the Warp. Even Aeoris and his corrup-

 tion-ridden brothers couldn't entirely rid the world of

 their old enemy.' Yandros smiled. 'And when we also

 find a mortal willing to serve us, our ambitions begin to

 take form . . . and that pleases us.'

  

 So she had been a dupe, a tool, manipulated by Chaos

 from the beginning . . . Cyllan began to feel sick at the

 thought of that implication and recalled what Tarod had

 told her of the Chaos Lord's machinations. Yandros

 wanted to challenge the rule of Order, to snatch the land

 back into the maelstrom from which Aeoris had saved it

 so many centuries ago. And he saw them both as pawns

 in the greater game.

  

 But however evil Yandros might be, whatever the fate

 he planned for the world, Cyllan no longer cared. He

 alone could help her to save Tarod from annihilation,

 and no price was too great to pay for that.

  

 The Chaos Lord regarded her, clearly aware of her

 thoughts. At last, almost gently, he said,

 'What is it that you ask of Chaos, Cyllan?'

 She took a deep breath. 'Help me to save Tarod's life!'

 He inclined his head. 'And how would you envisage

 that I do it? Should I bring a legion of demons to raze the

 Castle and consign its inhabitants to the Seven Hells?

 Would you condone that, to save him?'

 Cyllan met his searing gaze. 'If need be.'

 'Ah; then you are worthy of Tarod.' To her astonish-

 ment she saw respect lurking beneath the amusement in

 Yandros's expression before his thin lips quirked

  

 downwards. 'But, much as the thought appeals to my

 sense of justice, it can't be done. We are in exile, Cyllan.

 Our powers in this world are a poor shadow of what they

 once were. I have been able to reach your mind and

 speak with you - but I can bring you no direct aid.' He

 smiled again, thinly. 'Only Tarod had the power to open

 the way to us, and he chose instead to break the pact we

 had made and turn his back on the old allegiance.'

  

 Cyllan felt her throat constrict. Yandros's mercurial

 nature was twisting again, offering her hope one minute,

 despair the next. He had made no promise to help her

 . . . could it be that, even now, he'd refuse?

  

 She said, her voice unsteady: 'I can't deny that. But I

 hope -I believe - that in spite of it, you won't abandon

 him now.'

  

 Yandros's look was enigmatic. 'You place a childlike

 faith in our loyalty.'

  

 'I have no other choice.'

  

 The Chaos Lord considered. 'And if I am persuaded

 . . . what would you have me do?'

  

 She had thought, and she saw only one way. 'Kill me,'

 she said harshly. 'Break the hold that the High Initiate

 has over Tarod. When I'm dead, there'll be nothing to

 stop him from taking revenge.' She hesitated, then her

 eyes met his and she added with heartfelt emphasis,

 'Please

  

 'No.' Yandros held up a graceful hand, forestalling

 her protest. 'To free Tarod by destroying you would be a

 waste. I could do it - and would, if it served my purpose -

 but there are better ways, and you're of more use to us

 while you live. But understand this; if Tarod is also to

 live, you must serve us, and serve faithfully. Look at

 me.'

  

 She had cast her gaze down, but now, at his bidding,

 looked up again. Yandros's eyes had turned black, and

 mirrored in them she saw images that made her recoil

 with a deep-buried, atavistic horror. Havoc - a wild,

 howling insanity of impossible colours, tormented

 shapes, shrieking faces - the stuff of Chaos itself, roiling

 from the implacable black eyes turned towards her,

  

 ready to explode upon the world in insane

 pandemonium.

  

 'You see what you must pledge yourself to serve.'

 Yandros's voice was cruel, unrelenting. 'Make your

 choice!'

  

 Panic seized her; the revulsion of a hundred genera-

 tions who had sworn fealty to the peace of Order; the

 inherited memories of thousands who had died to wipe

 the plague of Chaos from the world; the horrors of

 eternal damnation. To ally herself to this being would be

 to betray all she had ever known . . . yet without

 Yandros, Tarod would die . . .

  

 Slowly, shaking violently, Cyllan dropped to one knee

 before the Chaos Lord.

  

 Yandros smiled. He had foreseen enough to confirm

 the judgement he had made in sending the Warp that

 had snatched this girl from her old life; in moving the

 fanaani, who owed no debt to Order, to save her from

 the sea; in manifesting a part of himself in answer to her

 call. And if she succeeded in her task, she alone would

 hold the key to Tarod's future . . . and the future of the

 Chaos realm. She would be a valuable servant ...

  

 There can be no turning back,' he said softly, with

 satisfaction.

  

 Cyllan didn't raise her head, but he saw her nod

 almost imperceptibly before she whispered, 'What must

 I do?'

  

 'You must find the stone . . . and restore it to its

 rightful owner.'

  

 She looked up quickly. 'How can I do that?'

  

 'By using the cunning and the guile that have already

 stood you in good stead. We can help you - we have no

 power to intervene directly, but our . . . influence . . .

 may still be felt in the right quarters.' Abruptly the smile

 faded from his expression. 'It must be done, Cyllan.

 Only Tarod has the power to call us back to the world,

 and then only when the soul-stone is in his possession

 once more. But if the stone remains in the hands of these

 worms of Order, they'll not rest until its essence is bound

 and destroyed.' His proud, sinister face now held no

  

 trace of kindness, but was cruelly venomous. 'If the

 stone is destroyed, Tarod's soul will be destroyed with it.

 And that is not what you want ... is it, Cyllan?'

  

 'No . . . ' she whispered.

  

 Yandros raised a hand, pointing at her heart. 'Then, if

 you desire him to live, I charge you to return the Chaos

 stone into his keeping.' His eyes flashed with a white-hot

 fire. 'Don't fail me - for if you do, you'll lose far more

 than Tarod's life. Your own gods damned you when you

 called on Chaos for aid; but if you fail Chaos now, your

 soul will find no comfort in our realm!'

  

 His tone struck to the marrow of her bones; a chill

 certainty that brought back the horrifying images she

 had seen in his eyes. She couldn't answer; she was too

 appalled by the enormity of the bargain she had made.

  

 Yandros seemed to relent a little and his eyes quieted,

 strange colours moving once more in their slanting

 depths. 'Do your work well, and you have nothing to

 fear,' he said more softly. 'And don't think that you're

 entirely alone. There is one here in the Castle who will

 help you. When you meet that one, you'll know.'

 Abruptly he caught her left hand, turning it palm up.

 'You cannot summon me again, Cyllan. I've answered

 you this once, and I can do no more. But I leave you with

 my blessing.' And with a gesture that seemed to mock

 human courtesy, he kissed her wrist.

  

 It was as though a burning brand had been touched to

 her arm. Cyllan screamed with pain, jerking violently

 backwards - and as she fell, a fire-hot blast of air ripped

 through the room with a muffled, thundering explosion.

 The walls bulged out, tortured by a force they could

 barely contain - Yandros vanished, and Cyllan slammed

 back against the window before slumping in a dead faint

 to the floor.

  

 The servant who ran to fetch Keridil received a tongue-

 lashing for his pains, but the High Initiate had no choice

 but to leave the small celebration taking place in his

 rooms and follow the man to the Castle's South wing. He

 had cut off the garbled explanation, aware only that the

  

 girl from the Eastern Flatlands had somehow managed

 to do herself some mischief in spite of his best precau-

 tions, and as he hastened towards her room he felt sick

 to his stomach at the thought of what might happen if she

 died. They could keep the news from Tarod easily

 enough, until the time came for his execution. But he

 wouldn't go willingly to destruction unless it was proved

 to him that she still lived and prospered. And if she did

 not . . .

  

 Keridil swallowed back the bile of fear as he

 approached the locked door.

  

 To his relief, his peremptory knock was answered by

 Grevard. The physician looked irritable rather than

 worried - surely a good sign, Keridil told himself

 nervously.

  

 'Ah - Keridil.' The physician scowled at him. 'I told

 those damned fools there was no need to send for you!'

  

 Keridil looked past him to the bed. Hard to make the

 girl's figure out; she seemed to be unconscious, and a

 white-robed woman whom he recognised as Sister

 Erminet Rowald was tending her, dogged by two ser-

 vants who seemed to be more of a hindrance than a help.

  

 'She's alive?' the High Initiate demanded tersely.

  

 'Oh yes; she's alive.'

  

 'What happened?'

  

 Grevard shook his head. 'I don't know. We thought

 all possible precautions had been taken, but it seems we

 were wrong.' He nodded towards the bed. 'One of the

 servants found her huddled senseless in a corner when

 he brought her food. I thought at first she'd collapsed

 from malnourishment - you know how she's been refus-

 ing to eat - but I changed my mind when I saw her arm.'

  

 'Her arm?'

  

 The physician shrugged. 'Go and look at it for

 yourself.'

  

 Frowning, Keridil crossed to the bed, nodding a brief

 acknowledgement to Sister Erminet as he drew near.

 Cyllan lay still and white-faced, and at first she seemed

 unmarked - until Keridil saw that the left sleeve of her

 dress had been rolled back, exposing a ferocious

  

 crimson mark that ran from her wrist almost to the

 elbow.

  

 He looked quickly back over his shoulder at Grevard.

 'That's a burn mark . . . '

  

 'Precisely.' The physician grimaced. 'And if you can

 explain how she came to have fire in her hands, you're a

 better man that I am!'

  

 'It's impossible. Unless she conjured it out of thin air -'

  

 'Well, I've yet to hear a better theory. Does she have

 any power?'

  

 Keridil mused, then shook his head. 'I doubt it.

 Besides, if she had a talent, the Sisterhood would have

 snapped her up years ago; isn't that right, Sister

 Erminet?'

  

 The old herbalist eyed him enigmatically. 'Naturally,

 High Initiate.'

  

 'Then if she didn't inflict it on herself, who could have

 . . . ' Keridil's voice trailed off as an unpleasant pos-

 sibility occurred to him. Tarod. If the girl had somehow

 contacted him, persuaded him to break the bargain, he

 might have tried to use his power to kill her from a

 distance, in order to save himself. And almost suc-

 ceeded . . .

  

 He turned on his heel. 'Grevard, is that demon Tarod

 still under lock and key?'

  

 'Of course.' The physician looked surprised.

  

 'And have my instructions to keep him drugged been

 followed to the letter?'

  

 Now Grevard looked affronted. 'If you're suggesting

 that I -'

  

 'High Initiate.' Sister Erminet's voice cut in on

 Grevard's angry retort, and Keridil turned to see that

 she had straightened and was facing him, arms akimbo,

 like an admonishing tutor. 'The Adept Tarod is at this

 moment lying in his cell, oblivious to the activities of the

 world around him. I administered the narcotic with my

 own hands, and watched him drink it with my own eyes.'

  

 Nonplussed, Keridil made a pacifying gesture. 'I'm

 sorry, Sister; I didn't mean to imply negligence. And

 Grevard -I apologise.'

  

 The physician shook his head. 'It was a reasonable

 enough assumption under the circumstances.'

  

 Again, Erminet spoke up. 'There is, of course, one

 other possibility,' she said indifferently. Both men

 stared at her and she continued. 'It may not be a burn

 mark at all. The stone of the walls is rough - if the girl

 really wanted to kill herself, she might have tried to

 graze her wrist to the point where the artery was

 severed.' She smiled pityingly. 'She couldn't have suc-

 ceeded, of course, but who can fathom the reasoning of

 the desperate? And if she rubbed it hard enough, the

 grazing could produce a mark very akin to a burn.'

  

 Grevard looked sceptical, but to Keridil the old

 woman's theory seemed as credible as any other. 'Thank

 you, Sister,' he said. 'You may well have solved our

 conundrum . . . but the question remains as to how we

 keep her from doing herself further harm. She can't be

 constantly watched - we haven't the servants to spare.'

  

 'Perhaps I can be of use, High Initiate?' Erminet said,

 as though the idea had only just occurred to her.

 'Grevard has little need of me now that his list of emer-

 gencies has been dealt with, yet he himself is still busy

 enough. It would be no hardship for me to divide my

 time between two patients.' She smiled ingenuously. 'I

 believe I could ensure that this girl doesn't have the

 opportunity for any further mischief.'

  

 'I don't know.' Privately, Keridil wasn't taken with

 the idea; he had caught much of Sashka's dislike of the

 acerbic Erminet, although he had to admit that he could

 find no fault with her skills. 'I feel we've already imposed

 too much on your good offices, Sister, by detaining you

 at the Castle this long. You must surely have more vital

 work at your Cot?'

  

 'Nothing that can't wait.' Erminet told him briskly. 'If

 truth be told, sir, I find great satisfaction in being in a

 place where I can use my skills rather than merely teach

 them. I feel that I am being of practical help.' She

 beamed at him.

  

 Cornered, Keridil looked at the physician. 'Grevard?'

  

 Grevard and Erminet had reached a tacit understanding

  

 whilst they worked together, and the physician had

 developed a respect for the old woman. 'If the good

 Sister is willing to stay, I don't mind admitting that I'm

 grateful for her assistance. Especially with Tarod . . . '

 His face tightened perceptibly. 'Don't take me wrong; I

 share the views of the entire Circle where he's con-

 cerned. But it isn't easy to face a man and prepare him

 for execution when I once knew him as a friend.'

  

 Keridil's face remained impassive, though the physi-

 cian's words went sharply home. 'Very well, then,' he

 said, making the best of it. 'If Sister Erminet is willing to

 take responsibility for both our prisoners, so be it.' He

 bowed to the old woman. 'Thank you, Sister.'

  

 She cast her eyes down modestly. 'An honour, High

 Initiate.'

  

 Grevard clapped Keridil on the shoulder. 'And now

 you can return to whatever tedious business was inter-

 rupted by this little drama!'

  

 In the furore over Cyllan, he'd all but forgotten . . .

 Keridil's face broke into a broad grin. 'It was far from

 tedious, I assure you!'

  

 'Ha!' Misinterpreting, Grevard burst out laughing. 'I

 should have known! Your cheeks are as red as a Sunset,

 my friend! Give the lady my personal apologies!'

  

 Keridil held up both hands. 'Grevard, you've a mind

 like a cesspit!' Then his expression sobered, though he

 was still smiling. 'This news interrupted a celebration,

 and - you may as well be the first outside her clan to

 know, for the announcement will be public in the morn-

 ing. Sashka Veyyil and I are to wed.'

  

 Sister Erminet's head came up sharply, then as

 quickly she bent back to her patient. Grevard stared at

 Keridil in delighted astonishment for a few moments,

 before delivering a punch to the shoulder that almost

 sent the High Initiate to the floor.

  

 'So you've finally asked her! Well done, Keridil, well

 done! There'll be a celebration as great as the Inaugura-

 tion itself!'

  

 Keridil flushed again. Thank you. I appreciate your

 good wishes.'

  

 'You'll have the good wishes of the world, my friend,

 make no mistake. A beautiful girl; beautiful . . . and a

 just reward for you both after all that's happened. Your

 father would have been very happy.'

  

 The two men headed towards the door, still talking,

 and Erminet paused to watch them go. Her bird-bright

 eyes were unfathomable, but one corner of her mouth

 was lifted in an expression that faintly suggested

 contempt.

  

 Chapter 13

  

 When Cyllan began to sweat and struggle in delirium,

 and scream out an alien-sounding name, Sister Erminet

 bustled the serving-woman sent to assist her out of the

 room, placating her with the assurance that this was only

 to be expected in such a case and she could cope per-

 fectly well. Once alone with her patient, she turned to

 her collection of herbs and prepared a draught whilst

 listening intently to the panicked ramblings from the

 semi-conscious girl.

  

 Yandros . . . she'd heard the name before some-

 where, and recalled a connection with the condemned

 Adept. And that tied in with her suspicions concerning

 another apparently insignificant discovery she'd made in

 this room. A bowl of fruit which had been broken and

 pulped to no obvious purpose . . . and the fruit stones,

 scattered in an apparently random pattern on the floor.

 Stone-reading, she knew, was a form of geomancy pecu-

 liar to the East - so it seemed that the girl had been

 playing with fire, and - quite literally - had burned

 herself.

  

 Cyllan's ranting had by now degenerated into word-

 less mumbles, and when Erminet looked at her again her

 eyelids were fluttering spasmodically. Consciousness

 was returning . . . good. The old woman carried her

 prepared draught to the bed, sat down and drew Cyllan's

 head forward.

  

 'Here, now. Drink this; it'll unlock your muscles and

 calm your mind.' She held the cup to the girl's lips,

 watched with satisfaction as a good mouthful went

 down. 'That's the way . . . oh, Aeoris preserve us, girl,

 you're spluttering it everywhere; look at that mess!'

  

 Cyllan had gagged on the drink, but Erminet's involun-

 tarily sharp reprimand seemed to pierce her clouded

 mind. She batted feebly at the cup, then her eyes

 opened.

  

 They looked at each other, Erminet curious, Cyllan

 hostile and wary. She had been dreaming monstrous

 dreams, haunted by Yandros's coldly sardonic face -

 and the shock of waking to find herself confronted by a

 Sister of Aeoris dismayed her.

  

 'Well, are you simply going to stare at me as though I

 were your grandmother's ghost?' Erminet demanded.

 'Or have you something to say for yourself?'

  

 Cyllan lay back, but her gaze didn't leave the old

 woman's face. 'Who are you?' she demanded huskily.

  

 'Sister Erminet Rowald. I see they don't teach good

 manners in the East,' Erminet retorted tartly.

  

 Cyllan scowled. 'I didn't ask you to tend me.'

  

 'Indeed not; but someone did, and so I'm here

 whether you like it or no.' She brandished the cup.

 'Finish your drink.'

  

 'No . . . you're trying to drug me.'

  

 She was as perverse and obstinate as Tarod, Erminet

 thought, and sighed. 'It's nothing more than a simple

 restorative. Here; I'll show you. I don't doubt my need's

 greater than yours anyway!' She drank half the cup's

 remaining contents and held it out once more. 'Now are

 you satisfied?'

  

 Dubiously, Cyllan took the cup from her and finished

 the draught. It tasted pleasant enough; spiced wine with

 a hint of honey and other, subtler flavours, and her

 stomach was glad of it. Erminet, meanwhile, had risen

 and crossed the room, her movements apparently

 casual, and was stirring something on the floor with one

 foot. Cyllan glanced at her - then felt her lungs constrict.

 The stones . . .

  

 'The old Eastern geomancy,' Erminet said musingly.

 'I'd thought the technique was all but dead.' And when

 Cyllan didn't reply, she smiled. 'So you're a seer, eh?'

  

 'No!' The denial was too vehement, and Erminet saw

 fear in Cyllan's eyes.

  

 'There's little point in denying the obvious, child, not

 when your guile doesn't extend to hiding the evidence!'

 Abruptly, and to Cyllan's surprise, her tone softened.

 'Just be thankful that as yet I'm the only one to have

 divined your secret. The others all think you harmless

 enough, despite the protests of that spoiled little

 Margrave's son.'

  

 'Drachea . . . ?' The word came involuntarily from

 Cyllan's lips; her hostility wavering in the face of puzzle-

 ment and a growing curiosity.

  

 'Is that his name? Yes; the arrogant brat's still here,

 and no doubt his proud father and the entire brood will

 soon be on their way from the South to bask in his

 reflected glory.' Erminet's voice was acid, and Cyllan's

 confusion redoubled. Such harsh words, from a Sister of

 Aeoris? She didn't understand . . .

  

 Suddenly Erminet came back to the bed and stood

 looking down at her. 'Who is Yandros?'

  

 The change of tack caught Cyllan by surprise - as the

 Sister had intended - and she couldn't collect her wits in

 time to hide her chagrin. She swallowed. 'I've never

 heard the name.'

  

 'Oho, you haven't! So unfamiliar it is to you that you

 called on it no more than a dozen times in your fever!'

 The old woman bent closer. 'You babbled a pretty par-

 cel of words while you slept, girl. If I was a suspicious

 woman, I'd have sworn on my oath that they were a

 litany designed to call up something better left

 undisturbed!'

  

 Oh, yes; the arrow had struck its target. Terror and

 guilt flickered in Cyllan's eyes before she could hide

 them. Then the peculiar amber gaze hardened.

  

 'And if it was, Sister?' she replied venomously. 'Do

 you see a legion of demons ranged around the walls of

 this room? Do you see a supernatural army storming the

 Castle gates to my rescue? Whatever I might have tried,

 I failed!'

  

 She was lying; Erminet knew it as surely as she knew

 the Sun would rise tomorrow. 'Did you?' she said softly.

 'Or does that wound on your arm tell only half the story?'

  

 Cyllan frowned, then looked quickly at her left wrist.

 The livid mark had been treated with a healing salve, but

 its ferocity was undiminished. She flexed her fingers and

 remembered Yandros's knowing, unhuman eyes as he

 bent to touch his lips to her wrist. Excitement and a sick

 fear churned in her - then it was real; it had truly hap-

 pened . . . Chaos had answered her summoning . . .

  

 Slowly she drew her arm close against herself, as

 though to protect the scar the Chaos Lord had inflicted

 from Sister Erminet's scrutiny. As odd, not quite

 rational smile distorted her mouth.

  

 'Whatever story it tells or doesn't tell,' she whispered,

 'you can't change it. Not you, not Keridil Toln; no one.

 It's too late.'

  

 Erminet felt uneasy, and began to wonder if, in her

 determination to see justice done, she had made a grave

 error. She was in no doubt now that Tarod hadn't made

 a second mistake by putting his trust in this girl. She

 would do anything to save him, no matter what the

 consequences to herself or anyone else, and such single-

 minded devotion could be deadly. Tarod, they said, was

 of Chaos - an accusation he hadn't denied. If it was true,

 then it followed that he might have allies who also owed

 their existence to that same evil; allies who could be

 called upon in an hour of need . . .

  

 She looked at Cyllan again and told herself that the

 idea was nonsensical. Chaos was dead - if Aeoris had

 failed in that task, her own Sisterhood would never have

 been created to keep faith with the memory of such a

 titanic victory. And the girl was no sorceress. She had a

 seeing talent, but that was all. It was love that drove her;

 and Sister Erminet empathised all too well with such a

 motivation.

  

 And so she had to decide between duty and con-

 science. Stickler though she was, Erminet's code of

 honour was peculiarly personal - and whatever the High

 Initiate or her own Sisterhood might dictate, she had

 given her word on one matter, at least. . .

  

 She met Cyllan's angry gaze once more, and said

 without any preamble, 'I have a message for you.'

  

 The girl's defiance wavered, but she wouldn't allow

 herself to ask the question that lurked in her eyes.

  

 Erminet licked her lips. 'He said to bid you remember

 your first visit to the spire . . . and that he took nothing

 you were unwilling to give.'

  

 She knew there would be a reaction, but was

 unprepared for its nature. Cyllan froze, her mouth

 opening as though trying to speak - then her body

 heaved and she broke into agonised sobs, covering her

 face with both hands and crying as though her soul were

 tearing apart.

  

 'Child!' Chagrin made Erminet forget her studied

 acerbity, and she put her arms around Cyllan's shoul-

 ders. 'Child, don't weep!'

  

 Cyllan tried to push her away as a surge of fear and

 grief and desperate longing overtook her. She had tried

 to contain her emotions as best she could, knowing that

 they were the worst form of self-torment; but Tarod's

 words, so carelessly conveyed by this old woman, had

 brought back all the bitterness of the memories which,

 now, were all she had of him. Struggling to find an

 outlet, her feeling could only express itself in two help-

 less, futile and broken words.

  

 'Oh, gods

  

 Erminet cursed herself for not stopping to think of the

 effect her lover's message might have on Cyllan. A

 shared secret, a private jest between them - no wonder

 the girl wept at the ugly circumstances under which the

 message had been sent and delivered. She could easily

 have wept with her.

  

 'Cyllan, listen to me!' Her fingers pressing on Cyllan's

 shoulders were rough, but she knew no other way to call

 her out of the depths of her misery. 'You must listen!'

  

 Cyllan drew a great, heaving breath. Her hands drop-

 ped away from her face, and the eyes that stared into

 Erminet's were wild with loathing.

  

 'Why should I listen to you?' she retaliated fero-

 ciously. 'You're no different from any of them! Tarod

 has never harmed you, but you'll stand by and nod your

 sage approval when they take him to the Marble Hall to

  

 kill him won't you?' She was shaking from head to foot,

 close to hysteria. 'And all the while you keep me locked

 in here, and I love him, and I can't do anything to stop

 this madness, and Tarod's going to die!'

  

 Erminet, horribly moved by the outburst, gazed

 steadily back at her and said, 'Not if I can help it.'

  

 Her words took a moment to register, but when they

 did Cyllan's face froze. 'What. . . '?

  

 'You heard me.' Aeoris help me, she thought, what

 have I said? She'd spoken on impulse, responding to the

 girl's distress and to a discomforting and growing sense

 of injustice in her own mind. When she left Tarod's cell

 she had been angry - partly with herself, partly with him

 for resigning himself to death so passively, but mostly

 with the uncontrolled chain of circumstances which had

 led to the condemnation of a young and vital life. Now

 she understood Tarod's reasoning, and pitied both his

 and Cyllan's plight. Romantic old fool that she was, she "

 wanted to help them - and because of that quixotic urge,

 had let her tongue run away with her. But she wouldn't -

 couldn't - go back on her word.

  

 She made as if to move back, but Cyllan's hand shot

 out and locked on her wrist. Behind the shocked immo-

 bility of her expression, Cyllan's thoughts were in a

 turmoil of stunned astonishment, disbelief and hope.

 This strange old woman had brought her a message

 which could only be from Tarod's own lips - and that

 must mean that Tarod trusted her. Sister Erminet didn't

 want him to die . . . and Yandros had said that help

 would come from within the Castle; that when it came

 she would recognise it ...

  

 'Sister -' Cyllan's voice was hoarse with desperation.

 'Please - can you help us?'

  

 Erminet stood up, pulling her arm free and suddenly

 unsure of herself. 'I don't know . . . '

  

 Cyllan twisted her hands together, hardly aware of

 what she was doing. Almost in a whisper, she pleaded,

 'You have the key to this room. You could let me go free

  

 .

  

 'No.' Erminet took a deep breath. 'I want to help you.

  

 The gods know why, but I've taken a liking to your

 Adept; I pity him, and I pity you. But it isn't easy - you

 must understand that. I can't simply let you slip away

 into the night. If it were to be known that I . . . ' she

 faltered. 'That my sympathies were - against the tide -

 I'd have no defence. And I value my life, albeit that I

 haven't many more years left to me.' A trace of her old

 tartness returned as she smiled. 'I've no wish to meet

 Aeoris just yet - at least, not with such a deed on my

 conscience.'

  

 Cyllan subsided, fighting back her disappointment as

 she acknowledged that Erminet was right. Besides, free-

 dom alone wasn't enough. She had to have the Chaos

 stone if she was to save Tarod and fulfil her pledge to

 Yandros.

  

 She bowed her head nodding. 'I'm sorry, Sister. I

 thought - hoped . . . but I understand.' Through the

 curtain of her hair her expression was intense. 'Will you,

 then, answer me a question?'

  

 'If I can.'

  

 There's a stone . . . Tarod used to wear it in a ring,

 and the High Initiate took it from him when he was first

 captured.'

  

 Erminet remembered the gem. She had seen it on

 Tarod's hand at their earliest encounter; and rumour ran

 that it contained his soul . . .

  

 'I know it,' she said cautiously.

  

 'Do you know where it is now?'

  

 A snatch of conversation, overheard as she went about

 her work in the early aftermath of Time's return . . . 'Yes

 . . . ' said Erminet.

  

 Cyllan's eyes lit feverishly. 'Tell me!'

  

 'Why is it so important?'

  

 Cyllan hesitated, then decided that she had no choice

 but to tell Erminet at least a part of the truth. She

 remembered Yandros's words, and said softly, 'Because

 it must be returned to its rightful owner.'

  

 If the tales concerning that gem were true, then to

 reunite it with its rightful owner could bring ruin on

 them all. Soulless, Tarod was formidable enough . . .

  

 but with the stone in his possession he would be a far

 more deadly adversary. Erminet had to be sure of what

 she was doing. Chaos or no, that black-haired Adept

 was a man of honour. If he gave his word that no harm

 would come to the Castle through him, she would trust

 that promise. Not the girl, though - she'd use the stone

 against anyone, friend or enemy, who tried to thwart

 her. And however just her motive, Erminet couldn't

 take such a risk.

  

 Aloud, she said, 'No. I won't tell you, Cyllan; not yet.'

 And as the girl began to protest she held up a firm hand.

 'I said, no. I don't trust you, girl. And I don't intend to

 put my head on the execution block for your sake.' She

 turned and began to gather up her philtres. 'But I will

 see your Tarod again, and I'll speak with him. If - ' she

 swung round, wagging an admonishing finger, 'and only

 if he gives me his word that no harm will come to this

 Castle through any aid I might give you, then I'll recon-

 sider what you've asked of me.' She gave Cyllan a grim

 but sympathetic little smile. 'I can do no more.'

  

 It was so little . . . and yet it might be enough. Cyllan

 met Erminet's gaze, and hope flickered in her odd

 amber eyes.

  

 The old woman smiled grimly. 'In the meantime, do

 you wish me to give him any word from you? I've been a

 go-between once; I might as well be one again. Besides,

 he's as suspicious as you are - if I don't bring him some

 word, he'll accuse me of keeping his message from you,

 and I could do without bearing the brunt of his temper.'

  

 In spite of herself, Cyllan couldn't help returning the

 smile. 'Yes . . . say to him that the wound was quickly

 healed.'

  

 ' "The wound was quickly healed".' Erminet repeated

 the words to commit them to memory, then gave Cyllan

 an old-fashioned look. 'Another cryptic riddle! No won-

 der you two are so well suited; you're as bad as each

 other for intrigue. Not that I care what your private jests

 might mean . . . ' Then her expression softened. 'Don't

 worry child. I'll tell him.'

  

 Cyllan nodded, and the look on her face tore at

  

 Erminet's heart. 'Thank you, Sister,' she whispered

 almost inaudibly.

  

 The tawny bird looked this way and that from its perch

 on the master falconer's arm, surveying its audience

 with something approaching disdain in its beady eyes.

 The falconer - a swarthy, hook-nosed native of Empty

 Province - leaned forward and whispered to the bird; it

 screeched in reply, extending its wings, then settled.

  

 The falconer glanced at the High Initiate and smiled

 faintly. 'If your message is ready, sir . . . '

  

 Keridil stepped forward out of the small crowd which

 had gathered in the Castle courtyard. In one hand he

 bore a single sheet of parchment rolled into a small, tight

 scroll. The falconer took it, and with a deft hand

 attached it to a looped thong that dangled from one of

 the bird's legs, ignoring its attempts to peck his fingers.

 His smile broadened to become a vulpine grin.

  

 'Now we'll see if she's learned her lessons well.' He

 whispered to the bird again, and again the creature

 screeched, as though issuing a challenge to some unseen

 enemy. This time it extended its wings to the full, and a

 few of the crowd gasped in surprise at their span. The

 falconer flung his arm high; the bird sprang, the great

 wings cracking the air, and hung for a few moments

 hovering some ten feet above his head. Then with a

 speed that drew further astonished exclamations it

 hurled itself upwards, arrowing into the clear, cold sky

 until it was barely more than a dark speck against the

 blueness. It hovered again - then it was winging away

 South towards the mountains, vanishing in seconds

 beyond the high Castle wall.

  

 A ripple of spontaneous applause broke out from the

 watchers, and Keridil clasped the falconer's gloved

 hand.

  

 'An auspicious beginning, Faramor.'

  

 The swarthy Northerner's face wasn't designed for

 expressing pleasure, and his answering smile was laced

 with embarrassment. 'She's a long way to fly yet, High

 Initiate. But if all goes as it should, the return bird

  

 should arrive by the time the Sun sets tomorrow.' He

 blinked as the tall, chestnut-haired girl who had stood at

 Keridil's side for the small ceremony stepped up and

 bestowed a dazzling if faintly condescending smile on

 him.

  

 'And then it will be no time at all before the whole

 world has heard our good news.' She linked her arm in

 Keridil's possessively. 'Isn't that so, my love?'

  

 Keridil covered her hand with his fingers and

 squeezed it. 'Certainly. You have our thanks, Faramor.'

  

 As they moved away, the falconer was besieged by

 eager questioners - mostly from the ranks of the

 younger Initiates, Keridil noticed with amusement.

 Assuming that this early experiment succeeded, he

 thought, Faramor and his kind would have no shortage

 of apprentices to learn the new skill.

  

 The idea of using birds as messengers was something

 that the High Initiate knew could prove to be a very

 valuable asset to the Circle. Falconers from Empty

 Province had been experimenting during his father's

 lifetime, trying to train the ferocious birds they normally

 used for hunting; but it had taken years and a great deal

 of patience for this first apparent success to be achieved.

 Now, Faramor's bird was winging its way towards

 Chaun, where - in theory, at least - another falconer

 would retrieve it and send his own bird back to the

 Castle with an acknowledgement of Keridil's message.

 From Chaun, he would also despatch other trained birds

 to other provinces to spread the news carried by

 Faramor's hawk. And if all went according to plan, the

 announcement of the High Initiate's betrothal to Sashka

 Veyyil would spread around the entire land in a matter

 of days, rather than the weeks that even relays of the

 fastest horsemen would need.

  

 Keridil had chosen to broadcast this particular news

 mainly to please Sashka, but also - more pragmatically -

 because there could be no harm done if the experiment

 should fail. But he had high hopes, for although much

 depended on the birds' reliability, there was little else

 that could go wrong. Hawks had no natural predators,

  

 and they flew far too high to stray within the range of any

 irresponsible archer on the ground. If Faramor's faith in

 the idea proved sound, it would mean an unimaginable

 change in the ability of all manner of people to commu-

 nicate at long distance. The Circle could reach its own

 Initiates in far-off parts of the world; Sisterhood cots

 could maintain closer contact with one another; Mar-

 graves in need of aid or advice would no longer suffer the

 frustration and sometimes the dangers of waiting . . .

 the possibilities were more than impressive; they were

 astounding.

  

 It was an innovation, and one that was sorely needed.

 In the aftermath of his father Jehrek's death, Keridil had

 promised himself that he would make changes at the

 Star Peninsula. The Circle had stagnated for too long,

 losing touch with the realities of the world beyond these

 Castle walls to become little more than nominal

 upholders of the gods' laws, with a diminishing active

 role in the land's affairs. They had become figureheads;

 and the danger with figureheads was that they could all

 too easily turn into anachronisms. It was time - high

 time - that such a downhill tendency was stopped,

 before it got out of hand -

  

 And suddenly Keridil felt sick as he remembered

 where he had heard such words before.

  

 'You have no good reason to exist!' In his mind he

 could hear the silver voice with its edge of shattering

 malevolence; see the cruelly unhuman face with its ever

 changing eyes . . . Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who had

 stood among the ruined statues of the Marble Hall and

 smiled with pitying disdain as Keridil tried to bind him

 with the Seventh Exhortation and Banishment, the

 Circle's highest rite against recalcitrant demons. He

 might as well have tried to topple the Castle with his bare

 hands . . . and yet he recalled, with a shudder, the

 awesome power that Tarod had conjured so effortlessly;

 power enough to send the Chaos Lord back whence he

 came . . .

  

 'Keridil?' Sashka was gazing at him and frowning.

 'Are you unwell?'

  

 He had stopped walking, he realised, and was sweat-

 ing profusely. Those memories . . . they always seemed

 to ambush him when he least expected or wanted them.

 This was supposed to be a moment for celebration . . .

  

 He took a deep breath. 'I'm fine, love. A chill,

 perhaps.'

  

 'You should take better care of yourself.' Sashka, who

 was warmly wrapped in a fur-trimmed coat over her

 brocade gown, glanced up at the icily clear sky. 'It isn't

 Summer yet, but you haven't so much as a cloak about

 you.'

  

 He laughed, grateful to her for dispelling the darkness

 at the back of his mind. 'You're not my wife yet!'

  

 'I am in all but name.' Her answering smile was faintly

 lascivious. 'And I know some very pleasurable ways to

 warm you . . . '

  

 Frayn Veyyil Saravin and his prim, rake-thin wife

 were crossing the courtyard to intercept them, and

 Keridil squeezed Sashka's hand in an admonitory warn-

 ing. 'Hush! D'you want your parents to overhear us?'

  

 Sashka smiled enigmatically. 'There are none so blind

 as those who don't find it in their interests to see!'

  

 They walked on, as the small crowd began to disperse.

  

 The celebration to mark the High Initiate's betrothal

 was to be an interim measure, a foretaste of the far

 greater festivities amid which the marriage itself would

 take place. Sashka wanted to wed as soon as practicality

 allowed, but for once Keridil had refused to indulge her,

 and at last, knowing when to exercise discretion, she had

 given way.

  

 Keridil hadn't confided his reason for the postpone-

 ment to her, but it was strong enough to override any

 other considerations. He wanted nothing more than to

 marry Sashka now - but if he did, he would be haunted

 by the spectre of Tarod, and that would be a hard ghost

 to banish. Although he had reconciled his conscience

 where his one-time friend was concerned, Keridil still

 had occasional nightmares, and the thought of going

 ahead with his marriage while Tarod still lived was

  

 something he couldn't face. The death-rite had to be

 prepared - the same gruesome ritual which had been

 thwarted before - and, as High Initiate, he couldn't

 escape the burden of carrying it out personally. It would

 be impossible to prepare for his own wedding with any

 pleasure while that prospect still hung over him . . .

 especially in view of Tarod's own past involvement with

 Sashka. But once Tarod was finally dead, the ugly taste

 would fade and he'd be free to look to the future. It

 wasn't guilt that motivated him, so Keridil told himself

 over and again - it was simply expedient common sense.

  

 And despite the shadow of the pending execution, he

 was determined to enjoy the betrothal celebrations. In

 two days there would be a banquet at the Castle, at

 which the announcement would be officially ratified by

 the Council of Adepts. Sashka had sent a fast rider to her

 home in Han to fetch appropriate clothes and jewellery

 for the occasion, and Keridil would present to her the

 gold ring set with three huge emeralds that for centuries

 had been worn by the High Initiate's consort. Since his

 own mother had died giving him birth, the ring had been

 locked away in its carved wooden box among his father's

 possessions, and the thought that, after so many years,

 there would again be a consort to wear it had delighted

 the Circle, and the Council in particular.

  

 There would, of course, be a good deal of disappoint-

 ment mingling with the congratulations from certain

 quarters. Since he reached adolescence Keridil had been

 the focus of attention from every high-ranking clan with

 an eligible daughter in the land, and recently had come

 close - though unwillingly - to a match with the pretty

 but vacuous Inista Jair, from a wealthy and influential

 Chaun Province family. Jehrek Banamen Toln had

 approved of the liaison, Keridil had dreaded it; though

 had Sashka remained beyond his reach, he might well

 have wed Inista eventually for want of any happier

 option and because Jehrek had wished it.

  

 But his father, he knew, would have approved of

 Sashka. Suitable though Inista Jair might have been as a

 daughter-elect, Sashka had the breeding and strength of

  

 character to fit her perfectly for an exalted position. Her

 beauty, her sophistication, her intelligence all promised

 to win her many friends. No clan could take insult at the

 thought that one of their own had been passed over for a

 less favourable candidate.

  

 Sashka's parents had joined them by now, and as they

 reached the main doors Keridil excused himself and left

 the others to continue on into the Castle while he turned

 along the pillared walkway towards the library and the

 Marble Hall. Reaching the door that led down from the

 courtyard, he stood back to allow three servants, each

 dragging a heavily laden sack, to emerge. The staircase

 beyond was filthy with dust in which the prints of a

 myriad feet could be seen, and Keridil eyed the bulging

 sacks before speaking to the first of the three men.

  

 'How's the work progressing?'

  

 Sweating, the man straightened and touched a finger

 to his brow respectfully. 'Well, sir. Perhaps another

 three or four days, and it'll be complete.'

  

 Thanks be to Aeoris, Keridil thought. He nodded,

 smiled, and moved on down the stairs. A few more days,

 and the seven black statues which had stood in the

 Marble Hall throughout the Circle's history would no

 longer exist ... it chilled his blood to think that, for

 century upon century, the Initiates had believed those

 seven titanic figures to represent Aeoris and his six god-

 brethren, mutilated beyond recognition by the old race

 when they transferred their allegiance from Order to

 Chaos. That belief would have continued, had Yandros

 not revealed, with careless malice, that the revered

 images were those of Aeoris and his kin's seven dark

 counterparts - the old, sinister gods of Chaos, carved by

 their corrupt servants before the forces of Order sent

 them to oblivion. Keridil had ordered the destruction of

 the statues, and for two days now an army of the Circle's

 higher Adepts - who were the only people allowed, by

 ancient tradition, to set foot beyond the silver door- had

 been toiling to break up the huge figures, reducing them

 to rubble which servants then hauled from the Castle

 and threw over the edge of the stack into the sea. When

  

 the task was complete, a series of complicated rituals

 would be required to purify and rededicate the Marble

 Hall before the taint of Chaos could finally be

 eradicated.

  

 As he approached the library, Keridil reflected bit-

 terly that the legacy Tarod had left the Circle would take

 far longer to die than its perpetrator. Recent events had

 taught the Adepts that the centuries hadn't diminished

 the need for constant vigilance against the dark forces,

 and it had been a hard lesson. The peace that pervaded

 the Castle now was no more than a veneer; danger and

 turmoil still lurked beneath the surface, and would con-

 tinue to haunt them until both Tarod and the stone were

 finally destroyed.

  

 He entered the library vault, lost in his uneasy

 thoughts. A few Initiates sat in isolated corners, study-

 ing books or manuscripts, and muffled sounds drifted

 from the distant Marble Hall as the Adepts went about

 their work. Keridil headed towards the low door in the

 alcove - then started as someone plucked at his sleeve.

  

 'High Initiate . . . ' Drachea was standing at his

 elbow, and Keridil tried to keep irritation from his

 expression as he stared down at the young man. Grateful

 though he was to Drachea for the service he had per-

 formed - and he couldn't deny that without him, the

 Castle's inhabitants would still be languishing in limbo -

 Keridil couldn't help a growing dislike for him. Drachea

 had begun to presume on the position in which he found

 himself; he dogged Keridil's footsteps, bombarded him

 with questions concerning his plans for Tarod and

 Cyllan, and was too ready at the least opportunity to

 offer his own opinion as to what should be done with

 them. Only two days ago Keridil had come close to

 losing his temper when the Heir Margrave had tried to

 insist that Cyllan, too, should face execution as soon as

 Tarod was despatched, arguing that a promise made to a

 demon had no validity and that the High Initiate would

 be right to break it for the sake of safety. Keridil, well

 aware that Drachea wanted personal revenge on the

 girl, had curtly reprimanded his temerity in questioning

  

 the High Initiate's judgement, and the young man had

 retired to his room to sulk.

  

 Now though, the reprimand was apparently forgotten

 as Drachea said, 'High Initiate, I wonder if I might crave

 a few minutes of your time?'

  

 Keridil sighed. 'I'm sorry, Drachea; I'm very busy -'

  

 'I'll take no more than a moment, sir, I assure you!

 I've been wanting to speak to you before my father

 arrives from Shu Province, on a matter which is crucial

 to my own future.'

  

 He was going to prove persistent . . . resignedly,

 Keridil waited for him to continue. Clasping his hands

 behind his back, Drachea said, 'As you know, sir, I am

 my father's eldest son, and therefore destined even-

 tually to become Margrave of Shu. However, although

 I'm very sensible of my position and my duty, I have for

 some years felt that my aptitude lies in a different

 direction.'

  

 Keridil stroked his own chin. 'Our duty doesn't always

 correspond to what we might desire, Drachea. Some of

 the responsibilities of my own position are ones I'd

 prefer not to have to shoulder, but - '

  

 'Oh no; it's not the responsibility,' Drachea inter-

 rupted him. 'As I said, it's a question of aptitude. I'm

 sure that I could assume the Margravate without diffi-

 culty; but I feel that in doing so I'd be . . .'He hesitated,

 then smiled hopefully. 'Perhaps wasting a potential that

 could be put to better use.'

  

 Keridil looked at him. 'You know your abilities better

 than I do, of course - I don't quite see how I can be of

 assistance to you.'

  

 'Ah, but you can, High Initiate! In fact, there is no one

 else who has the authority to grant or refuse my request.'

 The young man drew himself up into a formal stance. 'I

 wish to ask, sir, that I might be considered as a candidate

 for the Circle.'

  

 Keridil stared at him, astonished, then realised that he

 must have been a fool not to have anticipated this.

 Suddenly all Drachea's dogged persistence was

 explained - and, too, his anxiety to plead his case before

  

 the arrival of Gant Ambaril Rannak, his father. The

 Margrave, Keridil imagined, would not be pleased to

 hear of his son's ambitions - and the idea of Drachea

 qualifying as a Circle Initiate seemed more than a little

 far-fetched. Though psychic analysis wasn't his forte,

 Keridil was a shrewd enough judge of character to know

 that the young man stood little chance of passing even

 the lowest of the Circle's many inaugural tests.

 Drachea's motivation had far more to do with self-

 aggrandisement than with any desire to serve the gods;

 and Keridil also suspected that his mind wasn't stable

 enough to cope with the rigorous application needed to

 become an Initiate. He seemed to think that his position

 alone would qualify him for admission - and it would be

 a hard task to explain to him why this was not so.

  

 Keridil couldn't face that task in his present mood: he

 had more important matters on his mind than one arrogant

 youth's presumption, and it would do Drachea no harm

 to remain in suspense for a while. Aloud, he said,

  

 That's not something to which I can give you an

 answer now, Drachea. As you've already admitted, you

 have responsibilities - and of course, your father would

 have to be consulted.' He smiled. 'I'd be failing in my

 own duty if I were to interfere in his plans for you

 without so much as a by-your-leave. And for a young

 man in your place, it's a change that can't be undertaken

 without a good deal of forethought.'

  

 'I've thought about it, sir! In fact, I've thought about

 little else since I was a child.'

  

 'Nonetheless, you must curb your impatience.' Aware

 that he'd have to offer the young man some sop, how-

 ever small, if his own life wasn't to be made intolerable,

 Keridil added, 'When your father arrives, I'll discuss the

 matter with him. I'm sure he'll be agreeable to your at

 least being interviewed by the Council of Adepts.'

  

 Drachea flushed with pleasure. 'Thank you, High

 Initiate!'

  

 Keridil inclined his head. 'And now, if you'll excuse

 me . . . ' He moved towards the alcove door, but

 Drachea followed.

  

 'Sir, I wonder if I might accompany you to the Marble

 Hall?' he asked eagerly. 'I'd enjoy the chance to witness

 the destruction of those monstrous idols!'

  

 The High Initiate's face hardened. 'I'm sorry; that's

 not possible. The Marble Hall is closed to all but the

 higher Adepts.'

  

 'But . . . ' Drachea looked affronted. 'I hardly think

 such a rule applies in my case, sir. After all, it was in the

 Marble Hall that I helped you to - '

  

 Keridil had had enough. Well aware that he was about

 to lose his self-control, he said sharply, 'One of the first

 lessons that a Circle candidate learns, Drachea, is not to

 question an order of the High Initiate.' He nodded

 curtly. 'I'll speak to your father, as I promised, but I can

 confer no further favours. Good day to you.'

  

 He walked away towards the door, leaving Drachea

 staring after him with a mixture of chagrin and indigna-

 tion on his face.

  

 Chapter 14

  

 Sister Erminet unlocked the door of Tarod's cell and

 paused on the threshold for a few moments to let her

 eyes adjust to the gloom before securing the door behind

 her.

  

 'Adept. . . ?' Even as her vision improved there was

 no sign of him. Then she saw a tall, gaunt shadow

 leaning against the opposite wall.

  

 Tarod raised a hand and ran his fingers idly over the

 dank stone surface. 'There was a window here once, by

 all accounts,' he said. 'You can feel the outlines of the

 mortar where a new stone was used to block it.'

  

 His voice sounded flat, remote. Erminet advanced

 into the room. 'Doubtless it was filled in to protect the

 food stores against rats.'

  

 He smiled thinly at her and examined a smear of dirt

 on his fingers before wiping his hand carelessly on his

 shirt. 'Doubtless.'

  

 Looking at him as he moved to slump down on the

 heap of old sacks and rugs that was all this cell provided

 by way of a couch, Erminet judged that his will - or what

 remained of it - was rapidly fading. Despite their pre-

 vious conversation, he seemed to have shrugged off all

 hope in the same careless way that he shrugged off the

 thought of his impending death. He was grimy,

 unshaven, and his mind seemed to match his physical

 state, giving her the uncomfortable feeling that, though

 for the first time she had something concrete to offer

 him, it might have come too late.

  

 Tarod watched her as, too discomforted to say more,

 she busied herself with her now familiar bag of

 nostrums. Erminet was wrong in believing that he had

  

 lost hope; but since her visit of the previous day he had

 been savagely trying to crush the spark out of existence,

 telling himself that to believe in miracles was a thankless

 and fruitless exercise. The Sister might well have seen

 Cyllan, and might well have brought a response to his

 cryptic and very personal message; but beyond that

 there could be nothing. Even to convey the message had

 been a kind of cruelty; better if he'd given Cyllan the

 chance to forget him now, rather than prolong her suf-

 fering. And he, with the spark of hope firmly under

 control, would drink the narcotic potion Erminet gave

 him, and sleep away the hours, and move another day

 closer to dying ... it didn't really seem to matter.

  

 But the prospect of the death that awaited him trig-

 gered off another chain of thought. Instinct told him that

 something was afoot in the Castle, and though he had

 neither the will nor, in his present condition, the ability

 to discover its nature, imagination had led him to an all

 too obvious conclusion. And even without a soul, he was

 still human enough to dread it.

  

 He said, hoping that his voice carried a convincing

 degree of bored disinterest, 'There seems to be a good

 deal of activity in the Castle.'

  

 Erminet's bird-bright gaze fastened on his face. 'What

 would you know about that?'

  

 He shrugged, perversely pleased by her surprise. 'My

 senses aren't dead yet.'

  

 Her mouth pursed as though in disapproval. 'Well,

 they certainly don't lead you astray. There's all manner

 of upheaval - masonry being hurled around as though

 the whole place were being rebuilt, experiments with

 messenger birds . . . and of course preparations for the

 banquet following the High Initiate's announcement - '

 she stopped.

  

 'Announcement?'

  

 Erminet scowled. She hadn't intended to let that

 slip . . . ' Of his betrothal,' she said with some

 reluctance.

  

 'Betrothal.' Tarod's dark eyebrows lifted slightly.

 'Ah. And need I ask who - '

  

 'You need not. Sashka seems to think that the name of

 Veyyil Toln will suit her very well.' She watched him

 intently to see how he would react, but his face was

 impassive. Slowly, carelessly, he raised his hands and

 studied them, then touched the ruined silver base of the

 ring on his left index finger.

  

 'A pity,' he said at last. 'Had circumstances been

 slightly different, it might have been amusing to kill her.'

  

 Erminet was shocked by the unhuman detachment in

 his voice, and admonished uneasily, 'You shouldn't har-

 bour such vengeful thoughts. They're unhealthy - and

 the little bitch isn't worth it.'

  

 Tarod's green eyes met hers, coolly candid. 'I've no

 interest in revenge, Sister. It would simply be amusing;

 nothing more.' He smiled. 'As it is, I wish them joy of

 each other.'

  

 'I wish I knew whether or not I could believe you.'

  

 The smile widened slightly, but there was little

 humour in it. 'Does it matter? I'd have thought the

 consideration was academic.'

  

 'It may not be,'

  

 Even in the gloom the sudden awakening of a new

 light in Tarod's eyes was unmistakable. He leaned for-

 ward, and the hope which he thought he'd succeeded in

 stifling came surging up again. 'You've seen Cyllan -'

 His voice was a harsh whisper.

  

 Now or never . . . Erminet's conscience was horribly

 split between duty and instinct, but she'd known even

 before she came here that instinct would win.

  

 'Yes, I saw the girl,' she said, dropping her own voice

 as if afraid of being overheard. 'I gave her your message.

 It made her cry, but I gave it to her nonetheless. And I

 made her a promise.'

  

 Tarod waited silently for her to continue, and she

 cursed his ability to keep his feelings so firmly under

 control. He was making her task no easier . . .

  

 'She wants the stone,' she went on at last. 'The stone

 from your ring ... I wouldn't tell her where it's kept,

 because I don't trust her.'

  

 'What do you mean?'

  

 Erminet looked at him candidly. 'I mean that I don't

 trust her not to use any means at her disposal to free you.

 She'd kill the entire population of the Castle if she could,

 for your sake.'

  

 Tarod laughed softly, and the old woman grimaced.

  

 'Oh, I can sympathise with her feelings - but I won't

 be a party to any wrongdoing. I could release her, but

 she won't flee the Castle; not without the stone, and not

 without you. And if I tell her where the stone is hidden,

 she'll find it ... and she'll use it.'

  

 Still Tarod said nothing, and Erminet prompted

 uncomfortably, 'There's more to that stone than I know,

 isn't there? Perhaps more than anyone knows, save you

  

 »

  

 He sighed, the sound echoing oddly in the dark room.

 'I've never denied what I am, Sister Erminet; nor have I

 denied the nature of the stone. Without it, I'm only half

 alive; yet it's more than a receptacle for ... well, my

 spirit, for want of a better word.'

  

 'Your soul?'

  

 'If you like. Whether it's an evil gem or not depends on

 how you view such things. But the Circle can't control it,

 even with me gone.' He looked up at her, and his eyes

 burned intensely. 'Cyllan's right. I need it, if I'm to survive.'

  

 It was what she had expected to hear, and Erminet

 nodded with some reluctance. 'Then I'll ask just one

 thing of you.'

  

 'What is it?'

  

 'Your word on a single question. Either you're a man

 of honour, or I'm a fool - and I think I've learned sound

 judgement in all my years. If Cyllan is released -

 escapes, shall we say - and she retrieves that stone and

 brings it to you . . . what will you do then?'

  

 It was a question Tarod hadn't dared to ask himself

 during his imprisonment. Once, he had held an idealistic

 belief that the stone must be destroyed, even if it meant

 his own annihilation - but the humanity that was so

 paradoxically tied to the stone, and which had been lost

 with it, had wiped that slate clean. Cyllan had added her

 own influence, albeit one that he welcomed, and Tarod

  

 no longer knew what his ultimate goal would be. All he

 knew - and knew without a shadow of uncertainty - was

 that he wanted to live.

  

 He lowered his gaze. 'I'd become what I once was. I'd

 be - complete.'

  

 'Yes,' said Erminet. 'I know.' She wouldn't allow

 herself to ask for the assurance she needed. It must come

 from him, unprompted, or it would be worth nothing.

  

 A long silence ensued. Then, at last, Tarod said,

 'Vengeance would achieve nothing, Sister. I don't crave

 it - I like to think I'm above such emotions, even if that

 sounds like arrogance. If the stone was in my possession

 once more - ' Now he looked up again, and Erminet

 read a terrifying message in his eyes. He could, if he

 chose, destroy the Castle and all who dwelt within its

 walls. He could erase them from the face of the earth, and

 laugh off any power short of that of Aeoris himself that

 tried to stop him. And that would only be the beginning

  

 The fire faded from his look, and she let out her breath

 with a sharp exhalation. 'If the stone was in my posses-

 sion,' Tarod said gently, 'Cyllan and I would leave the

 Star Peninsula, and neither you nor anyone else here

 would ever hear of us again.'

  

 'And what would you leave behind you?'

  

 'The Castle. The Circle. As they are, with not a soul

 harmed by my hand.'

  

 Aware that she was at a crossroads, with no retreat

 offered to her, Erminet said, 'Do I have your word on

 that, as an Adept?'

  

 'No.' He smiled. 'I'm no longer an Adept, Erminet.

 But you have my word.'

  

 She twisted her hands together, licked her lips and

 wished that her throat wasn't so dry. That's good

 enough for me.'

  

 'Then -'

  

 Erminet didn't let him say what he'd been about to.

 'I'll tell her where the gem is kept,' she said, so quietly

 that Tarod could barely hear her. 'And if I should forget

 to lock the door of her room behind me, when the

  

 good people of the Castle are sound asleep in their beds...'

  

 He smiled. 'No one will ever know the truth.'

  

 I hope not, Erminet thought, and nodded. 'There's a

 banquet in two nights' time; it's probably the only safe

 chance there'll be. She'll come to you then.'

  

 He rose, but didn't approach her. 'I don't know what

 to say to you. Thanks are so inadequate . . . '

  

 'I want none. I've enough of a burden to carry without

 your gratitude to add to it!' Erminet was near to tears

 without knowing why, and to counteract the emotion

 she raked him with a contemptuous glare. 'In the mean-

 time, I'll bring you water to wash with, and a blade to

 shave yourself. If you confront the girl looking as you do

 now, she'll change her mind and I'll have risked myself

 for nothing!'

  

 It was the first time she had heard Tarod laugh unre-

 servedly and wholeheartedly. When at last it subsided,

 he said solemnly, 'I wouldn't have that, Sister. Not for

 the world.'

  

 Her cheeks reddened. 'So be it, then.' She glanced

 down at her bag. 'I've prepared a further dose of the

 drug that's supposed to keep you quiescent. I'll leave it

 here — but I don't want to know whether you take it or

 not.'

  

 'If anyone chooses to visit me, they'll find me as

 stupefied as ever.' Tarod smiled. 'You'll be seen to have

 done your duty.'

  

 Erminet nodded quickly. She poured the prepared

 concoction, pressed the cup into his hands and made to

 leave. At the door she paused. 'Ah ... I all but forgot.

 She said to tell you that the wound was quickly healed.'

  

 'Yes. I thought she might say that . . . bless you,

 Sister Erminet. I'll never forget what you've done.'

  

 She returned the look almost sadly, he thought.

 'Good fortune go with you, Tarod.'

  

 He listened to the heavy key turning stiffly in the lock,

 and to the sound of Erminet's footsteps diminishing

 along the passage. When all was silent again he let out a

 pent-up breath, and felt a new strength flowing through

  

 him. He had hope where there had been nothing - hope

 of life, hope of a future. He could hardly yet believe it

  

 Sinking down on to the heaped rugs again, Tarod

 closed his green eyes and forced his muscles to relax, to

 ward off the excitement that threatened to overtake

 him. He must stay calm, expect nothing . . . the path

 from this moment to freedom was still a long and haz-

 ardous one, and rather than allow himself to indulge in

 speculation, he'd be better advised to conserve his

 energy lest some unforeseen trouble might occur. Even

 without the Chaos stone he had power, and the Circle's

 attempts to weaken him had had less effect than Keridil

 hoped - but he was by no means invincible. He must

 make contingency plans . . . and make them quickly.

  

 Turning his head and opening his eyes again, he

 reached for the cup which Sister Erminet had left. For a

 moment he weighed it in his hand; then with slow delib-

 eration he poured its contents on the floor. The liquid

 mingled with the detritus on the flagstones, forming a

 dark pool which gradually spread and faded as it soaked

 into the porous stone. If need be, he could put on a good

 enough show of stupefaction for the Circle . . . and he

 needed all his senses intact now.

  

 Settling himself as comfortably as he could, and aware

 of the rapidity of his pulse which no amount of will could

 control, Tarod closed his eyes once more as his mind

 began to reach out tentatively towards the future.

  

 Cyllan knew that some untoward event was taking place

 in the Castle. Watching from her window - there was

 little else to occupy her during the daylight hours - she

 had seen the bustle of activity increasing since early

 morning, and her first horrified thought had been to link

 it with the High Initiate's plans for Tarod's execution.

 But as the Spring day declined into a pleasant if chilly

 Sunset, it became obvious that this was a celebratory

 rather than a solemn occasion. People in their finest

 clothes converged on the main doors from all parts of the

 Castle, the tall windows of the main hall blazed with

  

 light, and as darkness fell she heard faint strains of music

 in the distance.

  

 As the courtyard emptied, Cyllan left the window and

 sat on her bed, relieved from her immediate fear yet still

 fretting with impatience. It was three days since Sister

 Erminet had made her promise; three days during which

 the old woman had not been to visit her, and Cyllan's

 initial hope was fast turning to despair and anger.

 Surely, unless she was the victim of some complex

 scheme or joke, there should have been word by now?

 Several times during the agonising wait she had been

 tempted to try calling on Yandros a second time, but

 memory of his warning had stopped her. He had said he

 couldn't come to her again . . . she had no choice but to

 be patient. And to look to Aeoris for an answer to her

 prayers was hardly appropriate . . .

  

 The music was louder now, and it irritated her; in her

 present predicament it seemed an intrusion and an

 insult. The Castle revelled while she waited, fear and

 uncertainty gnawing like rats at her stomach ... it

 fuelled the anger that was growing inside her, made her

 want to strike out, yet gave her nothing to strike against.

 The tension she felt was almost unbearable - and when a

 key turned unexpectedly in the lock of her door, she

 jumped as though under the onslaught of a physical

 blow.

  

 Sister Erminet came in. Her face was pale and taut,

 but she managed a quick, wry smile as she closed the

 door quietly at her back.

  

 Cyllan sprang up from the bed. 'Sister - '

  

 Erminet put a finger to her lips. 'Quiet, child. There's

 no one about, but no point in tempting the fates.'

  

 Lowering her voice, Cyllan asked, 'What news do you

 have of Tarod?'

  

 'He's well enough, if not exactly prospering.' Erminet

 paused, studying the girl's face. 'I gave him your reply to

 his message, and asked for his word on the safety of this

 Castle, as I said.'

  

 'And . . . ?'

  

 'He gave it.' Quickly, as though afraid of changing her

  

 mind, Erminet unlooped one of the keys that hung from

 her belt and held it out. 'This will unlock his door. I can't

 take the risk of releasing him myself. And you'll find the

 jewel in the High Initiate's study, locked away in a box

 he keeps in his cupboard.' Her gaze wavered. There's a

 banquet about to begin, to celebrate Keridil's betrothal

 to Sashka Veyyil. I doubt if you'll ever have a better

 opportunity to find the Castle deserted.'

  

 Very slowly Cyllan reached out and took the key.

 Then, catching Erminet completely by surprise, she sud-

 denly and impulsively flung her arms round the old

 woman's neck, hugging her tightly. She couldn't express

 what she felt, but the mute gesture was far more eloquent

 than any words. Flustered, Erminet extricated herself.

  

 'Now, don't be so foolish!' she scolded, trying to cover

 the fact that she was touched. 'You've a long way to go

 yet, and this is no time to indulge in emotion.' She stood

 back to study Cyllan critically. 'That gown, for example.

 The colour's dangerously distinctive, and with your hair

 it makes you too recognisable.'

  

 Cyllan frowned down at herself. The dress was the

 one that Tarod had given to her, and she didn't want to

 relinquish it. 'They brought me fresh clothes,' she said.

 'But I don't want them.'

  

 Erminet, however, was adamant. 'Want or no, you'll

 change your attire now, or look forward to being recap-

 tured! Here.' She examined the garments which had

 been left for Cyllan on Keridil's orders. 'This will do -

 it's neutral enough.' She held up a dove-grey woollen

 skirt with a darker long-sleeved top. For a moment

 Cyllan seemed about to protest, then she shrugged her

 thin shoulders and reluctantly slipped off the red gown.

 While she changed, Erminet instructed her as to Tarod's

 whereabouts and made her recite the directions twice

 over to ensure she had memorised them, then finally

 handed her a short black cloak with a hood.

  

 'This will hide your hair well enough. Keep to the

 shadows, and if anyone approaches you, walk the other

 way as quickly as you can without drawing attention.

 Are you ready?'

  

 Cyllan nodded.

  

 'Very well. I will leave first - I'm expected at the

 banquet, and there might be comment if I'm late. When

 all's quiet, make your way across the courtyard. It's unlit

 now; safer than the corridors.' She gave her charge one

 last look, then nodded. 'I wish you luck, child - even

 more for my sake than for yours. Aeoris help us all if you

 fail.'

  

 Cyllan remembered her encounter with Yandros, and

 smiled. 'I won't fail, Sister Erminet.'

  

 She stood back, watching as the old woman opened

 the door and peered out into the corridor. They

 exchanged a last glance, Erminet smiled conspir-

 atorially, then she was gone. Cyllan waited, counting

 every painful heartbeat and hardly able to believe that

 what had happened wasn't a dream from which she

 would wake at any moment. Then, when she could hear

 no sound beyond the door, she crossed the room and

 slipped out into the passage. Erminet had disappeared

 towards the main stairs; Cyllan paused to pull the cloak's

 hood over her hair, then turned in the opposite direction

 towards a secondary flight which would, she had been

 told, lead her by a circuitous route to a side door of the

 courtyard.

  

 And as Cyllan hastened away, the light of one of the

 wall-torches illuminated the rich velvet clothes and bril-

 liant jewels of someone who stepped out of a side pas-

 sage . . .

  

 Sashka had been taking her time, despite her mother's

 pleas, in preparing for what was to be her triumphant

 night. She had changed her mind and her gown three

 times before finally deciding what to wear, then had

 spent an hour under the careful hands of a trusted ser-

 vant while her hair was coiled and dressed. At last her

 parents had been forced to leave without her, and she

 had spent a few private and pleasant minutes luxuriating

 in anticipation of the evening. She would be the focus of

 all attention, elevated in a single night to a status that

 every eligible woman in every province would envy, and

 Sashka was determined to make the most of it. Let the

  

 guests await her arrival - she'd make that much more of

 an impression when she finally did grace them with her

 presence.

  

 At last, judging the moment to be right, she rose and

 made to leave, scorning the proffered arm of her father's

 steward and telling him curtly to stay behind and mind

 his place. There would be a guard of honour waiting to

 escort her to the main hall; she needed no one else.

  

 And so she had left her suite of rooms and walked at

 leisure towards the stairs. And, as she was about to

 emerge into the main corridor, Sister Erminet had

 walked briskly across her path.

  

 Sashka instinctively drew back, irritated. She

 despised Sister Erminet, and the thought of having to

 walk with her and make at least an attempt to be civil

 soured her mood. Fortunately, however, the old woman

 hadn't seen her ... so she waited until the quick

 footsteps had diminished before emerging into the

 corridor.

  

 It was sheer chance which made her pause as she

 started towards the stairs, and look back over her shoul-

 der. And she was just in time to see a small, cloaked and

 hooded figure turning out of one of the rooms at the far

 end and hurrying away.

  

 Sashka frowned. Something about the figure struck a

 chord in her memory, but she couldn't place it. Yet. . .

 wasn't that the room where the Eastern girl, Tarod's

 little drover slut, was kept? Sashka's instinct for trouble

 assailed her, and she licked her lips speculatively. It was

 a ridiculous idea . . . but it would take only a moment to

 be sure.

  

 Glancing about to make sure she was unobserved, she

 picked up her skirts and ran along the corridor.

  

 The door from which both Sister Erminet and the

 mysterious figure must have emerged stood alone, and it

 was closed. Sashka grasped the latch-ring, turned it,

 pushed - and the door swung open.

  

 The room was lit, but empty. Sashka's gaze took in an

 unmade bed, a plate of food, half eaten - and a red silk

 gown discarded over a chair. Remembering the one time

  

 she had seen Cyllan, when Keridil had tried and failed to

 talk some sense into her head, Sashka recognised the

 dress immediately, and her heart began to pound suf-

 focatingly. The slut had escaped - and Sister Erminet was

 implicated!

  

 A peculiar sense of elation filled Sashka. She could

 raise the alarm now, and within minutes Cyllan would be

 apprehended - but there might be more to gain by

 waiting a while. She felt certain that Cyllan's disap-

 pearance wasn't the result of a simple mistake on

 Erminet's part; the old woman was involved somehow in

 a deliberate plot, and Sashka felt certain that it might

 spring from a desire to spite her personally. Yet without

 direct evidence, she could prove nothing. Better, then,

 if she bided her time for just a little while, until she could

 trick Erminet into saying something that would damn

 her when she was confronted with the truth. The ban-

 quet would provide the perfect opportunity - it would

 also provide as many witnesses as anyone could desire -

 and she herself could secure the double triumph of

 ensuring Cyllan's apprehension, and exposing a traitor

 in their midst.

  

 To aid and abet a minion of Chaos was a serious

 matter . . . Keridil could surely no longer argue in

 favour of clemency for the drover-girl, and the thought

 that Sister Erminet might well suffer alongside Cyllan

 gave Sashka a good deal of satisfaction. As for Tarod

 . . . his hopes of escape would be thwarted, and he'd die

 as Keridil intended. All in all, Sashka thought, a more

 than satisfactory solution . . .

  

 She turned quickly out of the empty room, closing the

 door behind her, and made her way with unhurried

 grace towards the main stairs.

  

 Gyneth Linto, Keridil's steward, leaned to pour wine

 into the two heavily ornamented silver cups that stood

 together at the high table. It was more than thirty years

 since these ancient chalices had been used to toast the

 betrothal or marriage of a High Initiate of the Circle,

 and Gyneth had insisted on taking personal charge of

  

 this duty, despite the fact that some might think it men-

 ial. A silence fell on the assembly as he completed his

 task with a flourish and stepped back. Keridil met

 Sashka's eyes and as one they raised the cups, touching

 the rims together as the entire gathering rose. Every

 gaze in the hall was upon them, and Sashka felt a thrill of

 excitement course through her as, slowly and clearly,

 Keridil spoke the formal words of the betrothal pledge.

  

 'I call on Aeoris to witness this day that I, Keridil

 Toln, High Initiate of the Circle at the Star Peninsula, do

 pledge and bind to you, Sashka Veyyil of Han Province,

 to be protector and provider to you from the day of our

 marriage until my life's end.'

  

 Sashka cast her eyes down, and her measured con-

 tralto carried through the hall. 'And that I, Sashka

 Veyyil, do pledge and bind to you, Keridil Toln, to be

 helpmeet and comforter to you, from the day of our

 marriage until my life's end.'

  

 For a moment there was silence, as Keridil and Sashka

 each held their cup out to the other, and both drank

 from the other's chalice. It was a signal for the

 assembled guests to follow suit, and every man and

 woman raised their drinking vessels.

  

 'Keridil and Sashka!' The toast was taken up, rippling

 through the hall in a swell of sound and interspersed with

 a few cheers from younger and bolder Initiates. Sashka's

 beautiful face smiled beneficence on the crowd, and the

 musicians in the high gallery began to play again now

 that the small ceremony was over, while servants hur-

 ried forward to begin serving food to the guests.

  

 The feast was to be an informal affair. Since his

 father's death Keridil had, by slow and careful degrees,

 begun to make changes in much of the Circle's more

 esoteric practice. Remembering from his own childhood

 and adolescence the stultifying boredom of ceremonial

 banquets - endless speeches, hours spent stiff and

 uncomfortable on a hard bench, protocol demanding

 that he speak only to his nearest neighbours - he felt the

 use of too much ceremonial unnecessary, and was deter-

 mined, as gently as possible, to persuade even the older

  

 Adepts to his way of thinking. Tonight's celebration was

 the ideal opportunity - it was very much his personal

 festivity, had no direct link with Circle ritual, and he

 would offend no one by dispensing with the more fam-

 iliar formal traditions. And so, as the guests began to

 eat, they also began to move and mingle around the hall,

 and the swell of conversation and laughter almost

 drowned out the subtle background of music. A steady

 stream of people made their way to the high table to

 offer congratulations to Keridil and Sashka, and among

 their number was Sister Erminet, who approached with

 a small group of Sisters who had arrived from West High

 Land that morning. Faramor the hawk-master's experi-

 ment had proved successful, and as a result Kael Amion,

 the elderly Senior at the West High Land cot, had sent a

 deputation of the women in her charge to the Castle to

 bring her personal good wishes.

  

 Sashka disguised her amusement behind an artificial

 yawn as the Sisters approached. Erminet was smiling,

 but her eyes betrayed her, and Sashka believed she

 detected jealousy in their disdainful coldness. She

 forced down a desire to laugh. If all went well, Sister

 Erminet would have cause to regret her attitude before

 too long . . .

  

 'High Initiate.' Erminet clasped Keridil's hand. 'A

 very gratifying occasion. On behalf of Lady Kael Amion

 and the Sisters of West High Land, may we offer warm-

 est congratulations.'

  

 Sashka gave Keridil a faintly pitying glance as she

 realised he was taken in by Erminet's unctuous manner.

 He thanked the old woman with great courtesy, and

 then Erminet turned to the girl at his side.

  

 'My dear Sashka. This is a wonderful day for us all at

 the Cot - the Lady is very proud of you.'

  

 Sashka smiled sweetly. 'Thank you, Sister; I'm very

 gratified by such praise.' Her voice oozed modesty, and

 Erminet nodded and made to move on. But before she

 had taken a step, Sashka added, as though the thought

 had just occurred to her, 'Oh - Sister Erminet ... I

 don't wish to raise an unhappy subject, but . . . ' Her

  

 eyelashes flickered, though her gaze was steady, 'I

 gather that you are now in charge of both the prisoners

 held here at the Castle.'

  

 Keridil frowned, surprised, but if Erminet was dis-

 concerted she didn't show it. 'Yes,' she said evenly, 'I

 am.'

  

 Sashka smiled again. 'It's just that ... I'd so much

 appreciate your assurance that all's well and there's no

 danger of any trouble.' She reached out and took

 Keridil's hand. 'I'm sure the High Initiate will think me

 foolish, but I'd enjoy tonight so much more without the

 fear that something might go amiss.'

  

 Erminet hesitated. She knew full well that Sashka had

 no fear of Tarod, Cyllan or any other living creature, but

 couldn't imagine what her motive for such an uncharac-

 teristic question might be. Keridil, however, came

 unwittingly to her aid.

  

 'My love, there's no need for any doubt,' he said,

 smiling fondly at Sashka. 'I understand your feelings in

 the circumstances, but I can give you my assurance,

 there's not the smallest chance of any threat to our

 happiness.' He looked up at the old woman. 'Isn't that

 so, Sister Erminet?'

  

 Erminet inclined her head. 'Indeed, High Initiate.'

 She glanced at the auburn-haired girl. 'I looked in on the

 girl Cyllan not half an hour ago, and the Adept - the

 former Adept, I should say - a little earlier. Both are

 secure - in fact, the girl was sleeping when I left her. You

 have my assurance of that.'

  

 Sashka smiled. 'Thank you, Sister. Your assurance is

 all we could ask.'

  

 When Erminet and the other Sisters had moved on,

 Keridil said in Sashka's ear, 'It's not like you to be

 nervous, love. Why are you so troubled?'

  

 She gave a little shrug. 'Ohh . . . perhaps I'm super-

 stitious, Keridil. Forgive me - I'll be well enough now.'

  

 'Sister Erminet's more than capable.'

  

 'I know.' Sashka smiled sweetly at him in the way she

 knew could disarm him without a word spoken. 'Oh, I

 know.'

  

 Cyllan heard the strains of dance music as she ran on

 silent feet through the maze of passages that permeated

 the Castle like a warren. In trying to avoid the main hall

 she had misjudged her own knowledge of the corridors,

 and had taken two wrong turnings before finally emerg-

 ing uncomfortably close to the double doors that stood

 between her and the banquet.

  

 Slipping into an alcove that masked her with its shad-

 ows, she stopped to catch her breath and get her bear-

 ings. Thus far, luck had been with her - she had

 encountered no one in the courtyard, and the one

 woman servant who had hurried past her as she crossed

 the entrance hall had paused only to bob a curtsey to the

 cloaked and hooded figure whom she had clearly taken

 for a late-arriving guest. But luck, Cyllan knew from

 bitter experience, had a habit of running out when least

 expected. If she was to fulfil her task, she must tread

 with the greatest of caution.

  

 She had already made up her mind to steal the stone

 from the High Initiate's rooms before she made her way

 to the cellars where Tarod was imprisoned. In honesty,

 she had to admit that she would only feel safe when the

 jewel was in his hands; and while she might be no more

 than an anonymous figure to anyone she chanced to

 meet, he was known to the entire populus of the Castle

 and would be recognised immediately should he be

 seen.

  

 The music, muffled beyond the heavy hall doors, was

 a light, lilting dance tune, underpinned by a murmur of

 many voices. The celebrations were at their height, and

 Cyllan dared waste no more time. Peering cautiously in

 both directions and seeing the corridor empty, she left

 her hiding place and hurried away in what she hoped was

 the direction of the High Initiate's apartments.

  

 Her instincts proved true this time - and the outer

 door was unlocked. She suffered an agonising moment

 as she pushed the door fractionally open, half expecting

 to be challenged from within - but the suite of rooms was

 unlit and empty.

  

 A box, locked in his cupboard, Sister Erminet had said

  

 . . . Cyllan moved cautiously across the floor, skirting

 the massive table that dominated the room, and found

 the ornately carved cabinet a little to one side of the

 fireplace. The handle refused to give when she turned it,

 and swearing under her breath she began to search for

 something that would force the lock. Her search was

 hampered by the darkness, but she had nothing with

 which to make a light even had she dared to. Groping

 across the table she knocked over an inkstand which fell

 with a crash, splattering its contents across table top and

 floor. Cyllan froze, sweat breaking out on her skin, but

 the noise brought no one to investigate, and after a

 minute or so she resumed her hunt.

  

 The table-top yielded nothing of any use, and it was

 only when she turned her attention to the drawer set

 beneath it that she found the knife. It was a wicked

 blade, glinting like wet slate in the dimness as she drew it

 from its sheath, but it would suffice well enough. There

 was no time for finesse, and she gouged out the lock of

 the cupboard in three fierce movements, wrenching the

 door back and feeling inside for her quarry.

  

 A glass bottle, a sheaf of papers . . . and the box.

 Cyllan drew it out and put it on the floor, crouching over

 it as she prised at the lid with her blade. Like the

 cupboard it was locked, but it was made of soft pewter,

 lead lined, and gave at her second attempt. She lifted the

 lid ... and stared with a chilling fascination at what

 confronted her.

  

 The Chaos stone lay alone in the box, and it glowed

 with an inner light of its own; a cold, dim radiance that

 spilled on to Cyllan's hands and turned them ghostly

 grey. For a moment she baulked at the idea of touching

 it - but then she gathered her courage, reached into the

 box, and her fingers closed around the gem. An unnerv-

 ing sense of elation filled her as she felt its hard contours

 against her palm; her arm tingled and, just for a brief

 instant, she felt a heady sense of power, as though some

 unnameable force had flooded her mind from the stone's

 depths. She took a grip on herself - she was by no means

 triumphant yet, and jubilation must wait - and hastily

  

 shut the box, putting it back in the cupboard and closing

 the ruined door as best she could. With the stone in her

 left hand she picked up the knife once more. She'd keep

 it, at least until both she and Tarod were safe . . .

  

 Finding her way to the door, she bumped noisily

 against a chair, but again the noise was insufficient to

 raise an alarm. She waited until her heart stopped

 racing, then eased the door open . . .

  

 The passage awaited her, seeming brilliant after the

 dark room. Cyllan stepped out -

  

 And a figure moved across her path.

  

 Cyllan's eyes widened in horror. She tried to dodge

 back into the High Initiate's apartments, but it was too

 late - he had seen her, stopped, recognised her as the

 hood fell back to betray her distinctive pale hair - and

 she found herself transfixed by the stunned stare of

 Drachea Rannak.

  

 Wo . . .' Cyllan croaked the word, her voice unrecog-

 nisable even to herself. 'No . . . Yandros, no!'

  

 Drachea too had sworn aloud, and his hand went

 immediately to the short sword he had lately taken to

 carrying. He had slipped away from the banquet, bored

 and, he had to admit to himself, more than a little jealous

 of the High Initiate, and had been pacing moodily along

 the corridor at the very moment when, by sheer chance,

 Cyllan had emerged with her prize. Now he faced her, and

 as the initial shock which had frozen them both faded

 Cyllan saw realisation and alarm dawning in his eyes.

  

 'Gods!' The sword rattled from its scabbard. 'You

 bitch, how did you - oh, no!' He brought the blade up in

 a wild, slashing movement as Cyllan made a desperate

 dive for freedom, and she reeled back against the wall to

 save herself from its shearing arc.

  

 'Oh, no!' Drachea said again, harshly. 'Not this time,

 you demon - not this time!' And over his shoulder he

 yelled, 'Help! Servants, here - quickly!'

  

 The Chaos stone pulsed suddenly hot in Cyllan's

 hand, and a storm of bitter ferocity surged into life

 within her. Drachea had thwarted her once; he had

 brought about Tarod's downfall - but not again! Never,

  

 never again! Like a vision seen in the instant of a bolt of

 lightning her mind pictured Yandros's proud, sardonic

 face, and his eyes seemed to reflect the colourless radi-

 ance of the gem -

  

 Drachea started as her left hand came up, and a

 sudden glare of light sprang from between her fingers.

 On the verge of shouting the alarm again the words stuck

 and died in his throat, and when he tried to draw breath

 his lungs seemed to fill with ice. He swayed, staggered -

 Cyllan took a pace forward, brandishing the stone like a

 weapon, and her face illuminated by the gem's glare was

 mad, insensate. Drachea tried again to yell out; his voice

 broke in a cracking scream, and as the sound of it echoed

 through the passage Cyllan sprang at him, the knife in

 her right hand flashing up in a deadly stroke that took

 Drachea in the stomach and sheared through to his

 breastbone. His scream choked off into a bubbling howl

 of pain and he doubled over, spinning around and

 almost falling on his own sword. Seeing him down,

 Cyllan's senses gave way to an explosion of rage and she

 hurled herself on him a second time, the knife-blade

 hurtling down and biting deep into his shoulder. She was

 beyond all reason, driven by something she could

 neither comprehend nor control; something that awoke

 an insane, unhuman craving to kill, destroy, avenge -

  

 A shriek that was neither her voice nor Drachea's cut

 through the madness in her head, and she jumped back

 as though jerked by a rope. Two servants, a man and a

 woman, had come running in answer to Drachea's bel-

 lowed summons, and had rounded the corner to be

 confronted by the sight of what seemed to be a white-

 faced demon, face and hands spattered with blood,

 hacking with a gore-soaked knife at the struggling

 Drachea. The woman fainted dead away and the man

 stared at Cyllan, jaw gaping, gathered his breath to yell

 at the top of his voice -

  

 Sanity came back with a violent jolt. Drachea lay

 between Cyllan's feet, dead or dying. The Chaos stone

 was ice-cold in her left hand, the knife slick and slippery

 in her right; her clothes a mess of new crimson stains. . .

  

 Cyllan's stomach heaved, and, galvanised by nothing

 more than animal instinct, she turned and ran. The

 corridor veered crazily before her, and at her back,

 diminishing yet thundering like drums in her head, she

 heard the servant's high-pitched, frantic voice yelling a

 desperate alarm.

  

 Chapter 15

  

 The music from the gallery was loud enough to mask any

 commotion from beyond the heavy doors of the dining-

 hall, and from slow and formal set pieces the players had

 now progressed to lighter but more vigorous dance

 music. A few couples had taken the floor already, and

 the dancing would increase as the night wore on, con-

 tinuing until the small hours when hot mulled wine and

 biscuits would be served before the revelry ended.

  

 At first, Keridil didn't notice the two men who

 entered the hall and began to push their way urgently

 through the throng towards him. He was making con-

 versation with Sashka's father, while at the same time

 privately reflecting on the success of the evening - and

 only when Sashka touched his arm and said, in an odd

 voice, 'Keridil . . . ' did he look up and see them

 approaching.

  

 The looks on their faces were enough to tell him

 something was wrong, and as they reached him he rose

 to his feet. Curious onlookers strained to hear the brief,

 whispered conversation, but even Sashka was none the

 wiser when Keridil hurriedly proffered his apologies and

 strode out of the hall with the two men at his heels.

  

 The servant who had raised the alarm was sitting with

 his back against the corridor wall, face hidden in his

 hands and shaking as though he had the palsy. A steward

 crouched beside him, speaking in low, urgent tones,

 while another man, grey-faced, was attempting to cover

 a body with his cloak and hide it from view. There was

 blood on the floor, on the wall, and spreading through

 the cloak in a dark, ugly stain.

  

 'Wait.' Keridil spoke to the man as he was about to

  

 cover the corpse's face. The servant drew back, and the

 High Initiate stared down at the victim.

  

 He didn't need Grevard to tell him that Drachea was

 dead. The young man's eyes were half open and sight-

 less, and blood still trickled from his mouth, though

 by the looks of it, Keridil reflected grimly, there must

 be little enough in his body left to be shed. Whoever

 had killed him must have attacked him as though pos-

 sessed ...

  

 Feeling sick, he signed to the servant to cover the

 body once more, and turned to face the steward.

  

 'Does anyone know who did this?' His voice was low

 and dangerous.

  

 The steward got to his feet. 'Pirasyn here witnessed

 the whole thing, sir, and I think he recognised the killer.

 But it's hard to get any sense out of him.'

  

 Keridil nodded and squatted on his haunches in front

 of the distressed man. 'Pirasyn. It's Keridil Toln. Listen

 to me - you must help us, if you can. Try to remember

 who it was you saw attacking the Heir Margrave.'

  

 The man looked up and swallowed, and Keridil tried

 to smile reassuringly. 'He'll be apprehended, never fear.

 But we'll hunt him down all the quicker if you can

 identify him to me now.'

  

 Pirasyn swallowed again, then shook his head. 'Not

 him . . . '

  

 'Not whom?' Keridil was puzzled.

  

 'Him.' the man repeated. 'Not him. Her. The girl-the

 one who aided the demon. White hair. Yellow eyes.

 And that face . . . ' He covered his eyes again and

 started to sob.

  

 A liquid sensation clutched at Keridil's stomach and

 slowly he straightened up. Cyllan? It wasn't possible -

 she was safely locked up! He'd had Sister Erminet's own

 assurance not an hour since . . . But impossible or no,

 he also had Pirasyn's testimony . . . and a terrible

 intuition to add weight to it.

  

 He swung round to the two men who had summoned

 him. 'Get up to the room where, that girl's kept - check

 that she's still there. And hurry!'

  

 They left at a run, and as their footfalls diminished

 Sashka appeared from the direction of the main hall.

 'Keridil? What's to do?'

  

 He went to her, catching her by the shoulders and

 halting her before she could see the carnage. 'Love, you

 shouldn't have followed me.'

  

 She gazed levelly back. 'When you're pulled from my

 side by some obvious crisis, do you expect me to sit and

 meekly await your return? I want to be of help - please,

 tell me what's amiss.'

  

 Keridil sighed. 'I didn't want to expose you to this, but

 . . . Drachea Rannak has been murdered.'

  

 Her lovely eyes widened in shock. 'Murdered? Here,

 outside your own apartments?'

  

 The words brought him up short; it hadn't occurred to

 him that there might be more than coincidence involved in

 the location, but now he began to wonder. And if Pirasyn

 had spoken the truth, there was one obvious motive . . .

  

 He took a torch down from its bracket on the wall and

 opened the door to his rooms - then Sashka heard a soft

 oath escape his lips. She ran after him as he disappeared

 inside, and found him staring at the detritus which

 Cyllan had left. Spilled ink, scattered papers -

  

 'Keridil, look!' she said harshly. The cupboard door-

 the lock's been smashed!'

  

 Keridil saw it, and ran across the room. He snatched

 the pewter box from its shelf, and even before he opened

 it the broken lid told him what he would find.

  

 'It's gone,' he said.

  

 The stone . . . ?'

  

 Keridil nodded. The mystery was beginning to piece

 itself horribly together, and as Sashka peered into the

 empty box he said softly, venomously, 'Cyllan . . . '

  

 'What?'

  

 Briefly, he told her what Pirasyn claimed to have seen.

 She had never seen him so angry before, though he did

 his best to control the rage in him, and she made no

 attempt to mollify him. Rather, she thought, it would

 serve her purpose the better if his fury could be chan-

 nelled ...

  

 'Keridil,' she said as he was about to return to the

 corridor, 'Keridil, I was thinking . . . '

  

 'What is it?' He was more curt than he had intended,

 but she seemed not to notice.

  

 'About Sister Erminet . . . she told us that the girl

 was safely locked away. She gave us her word on it. I

 think she was lying to us.'

  

 He frowned. 'I don't understand you. Whyever

 should Sister Erminet lie?'

  

 'I don't know. But . . . well, I thought I must have

 been mistaken, but now I'm not sure.' And she told him

 of the hooded figure she had seen leaving Cyllan's room

 in Erminet's wake. As she related her story - though

 making no reference to the fact that she had checked the

 room herself - Keridil's jaw muscles tightened and his

 hands clenched.

  

 'If she's in league with them . . . ' he said at last.

  

 'It's possible. Isn't it possible?'

  

 He was struggling to be fair, not to let anger cloud his

 judgement, but the evidence was hard to ignore. Sashka

 wasn't a liar . . . and Cyllan could surely not have

 escaped without help . . .

  

 From outside the door he heard running footsteps,

 and a voice calling his name. Quickly he took

 Sashka's hand and led her out, in time to confront the

 two men he had sent to check on the girl. They were

 sweating and breathless, but their message was clear

 enough.

  

 'She's gone sir! The room's been left unlocked!'

  

 Keridil's mouth set in a narrow line. 'Very well.

 Organise as many searchers as you need, and make sure

 each one is armed. Tell them to gather in the dining-hall

 as soon as possible - we'll comb the Castle from end to

 end until she's found! I want the main gates guarded -

 oh, and set two men to watch that demonic lover of hers!

 It's ten to one he's behind this, and that she'll try to

 reach him. Whatever else happens, she mustn't succeed

 in that! Do you understand?'

  

 'Yes, sir.'

  

 Then get about it, quickly!' And as they hastened

  

 away he turned to Sashka, his face grave. 'I'm sorry that

 this has to ruin our celebration, love.'

  

 She shook her head. 'It doesn't matter. The girl must

 be found - that's far more important. But . . . what

 about Sister Erminet?'

  

 'Ah . . . yes. I wish I could be sure . . . '

  

 Sashka nibbled at her lower lip. 'As yet, no one in the

 dining-hall knows what's amiss, Sister Erminet

 included. Perhaps if, before you break the news to them,

 she could be - invited to repeat her assurance?' She cast

 her gaze down. 'I know it's a devious thought, Keridil,

 but if we do have a viper in our midst, surely a little

 trickery is justified?'

  

 She was right; and Keridil thanked the gods for her

 common sense. 'Very well. It's a shrewd suggestion, and

 we'll follow it. Though the gods know, I find it hard to

 credit that she should be a traitor.'

  

 Sashka shrugged. 'Erminet was always unpredictable.

 At the Cot we lived in fear of her moods and fancies . . .

 and besides, we should remember that as well as guard-

 ing Cyllan, she's been responsible for tending to Tarod

 these last days.'

  

 'You mean that she might be under his sway? I hardly

 think so - he's been kept drugged; I doubt if he can

 control his own mind, let alone influence another's.'

  

 'We may have underestimated him.'

  

 It was possible . . . and it could explain Erminet's

 perfidy.

  

 'Well, there's only one way to be sure,' Keridil said.

 'Let's return to our guests.'

  

 Their entrance was greeted with relief and a great

 many curious questions. Keridil soothed anxieties with

 the promise of a full explanation, then sought out Sister

 Erminet, who - suspiciously, it now seemed to him - sat

 alone at a table and appeared disinterested in the furore.

  

 'Sister Erminet.' He smiled as he approached her. 'I'm

 sorry to intrude on you with a medical matter, but -'

  

 She looked up quickly, and he thought he detected

 relief on her face. 'Medical matter?' she said. 'Has

 someone been taken ill?'

  

 'In a manner of speaking. It concerns one of your

 charges, and I'd like to clear up a little confusion.'

  

 'Ah . . . ' said Erminet warily.

  

 'The girl, Cyllan -I believe you said she was sleeping

 when you left her; is that correct?'

  

 People were gathering round them . . . Erminet

 hesitated for a moment, and it was clear she was discon-

 certed. 'Did I? Perhaps so ... yes, I believe she was.'

  

 'And you did take care to lock the door behind you

 when you left?'

  

 Now the old woman's face was unhealthily pale, but

 she rallied herself and smiled at him.

  

 'Naturally, High Initiate. I have the key here at my

 waist, as always.' She held it up, but her hand wasn't

 quite steady. 'It never leaves my person.'

  

 It was all Keridil needed. Leaning forward, he said

 softly, but ferociously. 'Then can you explain to me,

 Sister, how it was that Cyllan was able to leave her

 locked room, and commit cold-blooded murder in this

 Castle not fifteen minutes ago?'

  

 The little colour that remained drained from Erminet's

 face, leaving it the shade of dried cement. She tried to

 rise, but her legs wouldn't support her, and her expres-

 sion would have damned her without a word spoken.

  

 'Oh, gods . . . she didn't. . . she couldn't have . . . '

 She covered her mouth with one hand.

  

 Keridil called forward two Initiates. 'Please conduct

 Sister Erminet Rowald to her room, and see that she

 doesn't leave until I send for her personally.' And to

 Erminet he added, 'I believe, Sister, that you have been

 guilty of an act which I would have thought unthinkable

 for one of your calling. I hope you'll prove me wrong,

 but I have very strong doubts. You'll have your chance

 to speak when Cyllan Anassan has been apprehended.'

 He nodded curtly to the old woman, and signed for the

 Initiates to lead her away. Shocked silence fell on the

 hall as they passed through the crowd to the door, then

 Keridil picked up an empty wine jug and banged it down

 hard on the table to call their attention. Every face in the

 vast room turned towards him.

  

 'My friends,' Keridil said, the anger still tingeing his

 voice, 'I'm sorry to have to draw the evening's festivities

 to a premature close, but I have a very grave announce-

 ment to make, and I would appreciate the co-operation

 of every able-bodied man and woman here tonight.'

  

 Beside him Sashka sank on to a convenient chair, her

 eyes cast down, and the faintest of smiles on her face.

  

 *****

  

 She was lost. Her terrified, headlong flight from the

 scene of the grisly encounter with Drachea had taken

 her deep into an unlit and remote part of the Castle,

 where only endless black walls and silence confronted

 her. Blind instinct had led her down twisting flights of

 stairs and along narrow passages, until at last she was

 certain that her pursuers - if pursuit there had been -

 were left far behind. Then she stumbled to a halt, and

 collapsed exhausted to the cold stone floor.

  

 Slowly the broken fragments of what had happened

 were beginning to form a coherent recollection, as the

 blankness of stark fear was succeeded by a peculiar

 calm. She had killed Drachea. In dark moments as she

 sat alone in her locked room she had often craved the

 chance to take vengeance on him, and her imagination

 had run riot. Now the fantasy had become reality, and

 the reality was bloody and ugly and shocking. Yet she

 couldn't feel remorse . . . her hatred of Drachea was

 too strong, the desire for retribution too great.

  

 With an inward shiver she remembered the Chaos

 stone coming to life in her hand, the blazing glare of cold

 light that had transfixed Drachea where he stood. The

 stone had given her the opportunity she needed to strike

 - and it had also fed on her hatred, focusing it into a lust

 for destruction and mayhem that had eclipsed her

 reason and turned her into a savage assassin. The stone

 was quiescent now, nestling in her left hand. Her fingers

 ached from gripping it, and she had to prize them open

 in order to look at the gem where it lay in her palm. It

 seemed nothing more than a simple jewel, yet her flesh

  

 tingled as she felt an echo of the sensations it had

 awoken in her. She was beginning to understand Tarod's

 ambiguous feelings, part loathing and part need,

 towards it ... he was right; it was a deadly gem. And

 now she realised why Yandros had agreed to aid her.

  

 Quickly, half afraid that the stone might affect her

 further if she continued to hold it, she thrust the jewel

 into the bodice of her dress. Her hand came away

 smeared with crimson, and she realised that she was

 spattered from head to foot with Drachea's blood. The

 sight of it brought a lurch of physical revulsion and for a

 moment she thought she would be sick; but the spasm

 passed as cold logic took over once more.

  

 What was done was done, and right or wrong she

 didn't regret it. Drachea was dead - no one could survive

 such a savage attack - and she had kept her freedom, at

 least for the moment. But the hunt would already be up,

 and the chances were that her identity was known. She

 couldn't hope to evade capture for long while she

 remained in the Castle confines, and once she was

 caught there would be no second chance, and no

 reprieve this time. She would die, hanged or more likely

 beheaded, and Tarod would die too.

  

 She had to reach him. She had to give him the Chaos

 stone, and plead with him to use it, if necessary, to save

 them both. Without his strength and power to aid them,

 the net would close and they'd be lost; they needed the

 stone, however deadly it might be.

  

 Unsteadily Cyllan got to her feet, smoothing down

 her dress and ignoring the stains. The knife she tucked in

 her sleeve, unwilling to relinquish it lest she should need

 it again. Luck — and Yandros - had been with her once,

 but she dared not rely on them a second time. If she

 could keep to the Castle's unpopulated corridors until

 she found her way to the cellars where Tarod was

 imprisoned, well and good - but she would kill again if

 she had to, to reach her goal.

  

 She pulled the hood of the short cloak up over her hair

 once more, and set off along the passage.

  

 Cyllan had no way of telling how much time had passed

 before, at long last, she reached a place where steep

 stairs led down into the Castle's foundations, and knew

 she was close to her goal. From Sister Erminet's instruc-

 tion she recognised the way to the storage cellars and

 began to hasten down the flight, until a sudden uneasy

 intuition made her pause. It might have been imagina-

 tion, or a deceptive echo from somewhere, but she

 fancied she'd heard a sound from below, as though a

 foot had shuffled on stone. Holding her breath, and

 thankful for the dark clothes which helped her to merge

 with the shadows, she advanced a cautious pace, then

 another, until she reached the foot of the stairs. Here a

 narrow tunnel crossed her path, and, flattening herself

 against the dank wall, she peered round, holding the

 cloak hood close against her cheek.

  

 Tarod was in the third cellar along, so Sister Erminet

 had said. And there, outside that very door, were two

 men. One leaned against the wall, hissing softly through

 his teeth while he whittled at a small piece of wood with

 the blade of a vicious-looking knife; the other sat gazing

 at the tunnel roof, seemingly lost in his private thoughts.

 But their apparent lack of attention was belied by the

 long-bladed, powerful sword that each bore at his hip.

 They had been set to guard the cell, and Cyllan knew

 that she had no hope of avoiding them should she try to

 reach Tarod.

  

 Slowly and quietly she withdrew back into the dark-

 ness, her mouth dry with fear and anger. She was too

 late - the hunt was up for her, and she should have

 known that Keridil's first action would be to set a guard

 on Tarod's cell. They must by now have discovered that

 the Chaos stone was missing, and that would be enough

 to redouble their efforts to find her. Silently she cursed

 herself- by losing her way she had wasted precious time,

 and the High Initiate had thwarted her. Despair tied her

 stomach in knots of fury and frustration - she had to get

 word to Tarod somehow, let him know that she was free,

 for until he could be certain, he'd do nothing that might

 jeopardise her. But the chance was lost. She couldn't

  

 even reach one of the storerooms and hide there in the

 hope that the guard might change and Tarod be left

 unattended for a few minutes; the instant she stepped

 out from the stairs she'd be seen and apprehended. And

 she couldn't remain here, indecisive - she was too

 exposed; all it would take was one man to start down the

 stairs from above and she'd be trapped. And after what

 had happened to Drachea, they'd probably run her

 through without a second thought . . .

  

 Wraithlike, she turned and crept away up the stairs,

 back in the direction from which she'd come. Her mind

 was gnawing frantically at her predicament, but she

 could see no possible answer. Yet she had to find a way-

 she had to ...

  

 A small shape moved across her path and she started

 violently, biting her tongue and almost losing her foot-

 ing on the steep flight. The shape, too, paused, then

 raised its head and uttered a soft, querying cry. Cyllan's

 thundering pulse slowed as she recognised it for one of

 the telepathic cats that inhabited the Castle. She had

 already encountered two on her way here, felt their

 tentative probing into her mind. Their telepathy was a

 little like that of the aquatic fanaani, though of a lower

 order, and as she was about to move on past the creature

 Cyllan felt the delicate strands of its thoughts penetrat-

 ing and mingling with her own. She hesitated - and

 suddenly, in her inner vision, she saw a blurred image of

 Sister Erminet's face. The cat mewed, urgency in its

 tone . . .

  

 'What is it, little one?' Cyllan whispered, afraid that

 the echoes of her voice might carry to the tunnel below.

 'What are you trying to tell me?'

  

 She had bent down, and the cat reared on its hind legs,

 crying again. Cyllan's heart started to pound and she

 crouched, trying to steady her thoughts and open her

 mind to the creature's attempts to communicate.

  

 'Tell me, little one, 'she said softly.'I'm listening . . .'

  

 The Imp, Sister Erminet's adopted pet, knew that it

 had found the one it was seeking. It had left the old

 woman's room by its usual route, through the window

  

 and along a dizzying maze of incredibly narrow ledges to

 the ground, then, following instructions which it only

 barely comprehended, had headed for the cellars.

  

 It was only the fact that the cat liked the Castle's

 underground rooms with their plethora of unexplored

 crannies and fascinating scents that had persuaded it to

 carry out the mission with which it had been entrusted -

 that, and the unmistakable urgency in its human friend's

 attempts to communicate. It had been curled asleep on

 her bed when she returned, and had resented being

 disturbed. But a combination of determination and

 blandishment had won through, and the cat's curiosity

 was aroused. The old woman wanted it to find someone,

 and the creature's mind formed a picture of another

 human, coloured grey and pale yellow, and of amber-

 hued eyes that were just a little like its own. And the

 cellars ... it liked the cellars. And so when finally the

 old woman had refused to feed it, and refused to speak

 to it any more, it had reluctantly padded across the

 room, sprung up to the window-ledge, and slipped away

 into the night.

  

 Now, it had found the object of its search, and

 immediately it sensed a mind with which it could com-

 municate far more easily than it had ever done with

 Sister Erminet. And that mind needed help of a kind

 which, the cat understood smugly, it alone could give. A

 hand reached out towards it, stroking its hard little head,

 and the human began to project an image of someone

 the cat knew . . .

  

 Cyllan didn't comprehend the cat's connection with

 Sister Erminet, but she understood enough of its nature

 to grasp at this slender hope as a drowning man might

 clutch a driftwood spar. She couldn't reach Tarod - but

 the animal could. No one would think to stop a cat if it

 passed by on some secret exploration. And if she could

 make it understand the message she wanted it to convey,

 and persuade it to find its way to Tarod, there was a

 chance - more than a chance, she prayed fervently - that

 Tarod would pick up enough of that message from the

 creature's strange, capricious mind to realise what was afoot.

  

 She dropped to her knees and gazed into the cat's

 eyes, opening her thoughts to its mental scrutiny. It was

 curious; that was a good beginning. She projected an

 image of Tarod's face and saw its whiskers twitch with

 interest, then tried, though whether the cat could under-

 stand such human concepts she didn't know, to ingrain

 in it the idea that she was free.

  

 'Tell him . . . ' She mouthed the words silently to

 reinforce her urgent thoughts. Tell him, little one. I am

 free. I am free!'

  

 The Imp closed and opened its brilliant eyes in a long,

 slow blink. If the gesture meant anything, Cyllan

 couldn't interpret it. Then it uttered its peculiar little cry

 again, tail flicking - and before Cyllan could stop it or

 speak to it again it had turned and loped away, melting

 into the darkness, and was gone.

  

 She sat back against the wall, not knowing what to

 think. She couldn't judge whether the cat had under-

 stood the message she had tried to instil into its mind;

 and if it had, whether it would choose to convey it or,

 with the perversity of its kind, would be distracted by

 some new interest and forget its mission. But she silently

 thanked Sister Erminet for her ingenuity and kindness in

 sending the creature to her. It was a slender chance, but

 it might succeed . . . and it was all the more imperative

 that she should find a hiding place where she would be

 safe until she knew whether the cat had reached Tarod

 with its message. If it did, he would find her. Somehow,

 he would find her . . .

  

 The stairway was silent, the deep shadows still. Cyllan

 rose to her feet and began to climb again, alert for the

 smallest sound or sign of movement. If she could find a

 sanctuary before dawn broke she could wait in safety, at

 least for a while, and soon enough she would know. The

 waiting would be torment . . . but now, at least, the

 spark of hope had been rekindled.

  

 Tarod woke from an uneasy sleep with the echo of a

 dream in his mind, and for a moment his senses were

  

 confused. Then, as his vision cleared, he remembered

 where he was.

  

 He hadn't intended to let himself sleep . . . tonight

 was the night of the banquet, and Sister Erminet had

 told him that it was her one opportunity to release

 Cyllan. Yet there had been no word; and he surmised

 that by now the night must be well advanced. There

 were so many possible pitfalls in Erminet's plan that he

 feared something might have gone wrong, and the fear

 gave him a sharp, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 Tense, he rose, flexing stiff muscles, and paced as far as

 the cell's confines would allow, railing against the lack of

 a window that prevented him from seeing the sky and

 judging the hour.

  

 An empty cup stood on the floor - Erminet had main-

 tained the charade of bringing him the regular dose of

 the drug ordered by Grevard, to avoid arousing suspi-

 cion - and in the gloom he kicked it over, so that it rolled

 noisily across the bare stone. As it came to rest, a hiss

 sounded from the shadows where the cup lay, and Tarod

 swung round, his green eyes narrowing. Something

 moved - and a small, silver-grey cat emerged from

 behind a pile of discarded sacks. Its coat was streaked

 with dust and there were cobwebs on its whiskers. It

 paused, then looked up at him and mewed what sounded

 like a resentful protest.

  

 'Imp . . . ' Recognising the creature, Tarod spoke

 softly, squatting down and holding out a hand. The cat

 approached with caution and sniffed his fingers, then

 suffered him to brush the offending cobwebs from its

 face, shaking its head and sneezing. Then it sat down

 and, infuriatingly, began to wash itself.

  

 Tarod watched it speculatively. Pitted though these

 ancient walls were with cracks and crevices, it was no i

 mean feat for even such a small and agile animal to find

 its way through from the next cellar; and he suspected

 that the cat must have some ulterior motive for paying

 him a visit. In the past, he had had a way with most

 animals that enabled him to influence them; the most ill-

 tempered horse had been malleable to his will, and the

  

 telepathic cats - though less easy to command - were

 very receptive to his thoughts. Whether he still

 possessed those skills he didn't know . . . but he had

 already sensed an urgent imperative lurking in the cat's

 mind which, perversely, it was choosing to ignore, and

 he had no time to waste in waiting.

  

 'Imp.' This time his voice was less cajoling, and the cat

 looked up quickly, pink tongue protruding slightly from

 its mouth. Tarod focused his mind, relieved to find that

 much of the old steel sharpness was there only waiting to

 be unlocked, and held the creature's gaze. Its slit pupils

 dilated to black orbs and he searched its alien con-

 sciousness, seeking the motivation which had brought it

 to him.

  

 An image: distorted but recognisable . . . an old,

 wizened face that abruptly shifted and became younger,

 startlingly familiar. A pale nimbus that was the cat's

 concept of human hair; eyes with an amber-gold light

 to them . , . and a sensation; not a word, not even an

 idea, but a fundamental, primal emotion. Freedom.

 Freedom . . .

  

 The cat was trying to tell him that Cyllan had escaped.

  

 Tarod felt his pulse rate quickening until he could

 hear the rhythm of his own blood in his ears. If he had

 interpreted the creature's consciousness rightly, and if

 the message it brought was true, then why had Erminet

 sent the cat to tell him? His cell was unguarded, or so he

 believed - the old Sister had said that Cyllan would have

 the key and would come to him.

  

 He straightened, uneasy. Something was wrong.

 Even if Erminet had secured Cyllan's release - and he

 didn't entirely trust the confused images in the cat's

 mind - something was preventing her from reaching

 him, and until he could be sure she was safe, he dared

 make no move. Moreover, without the soul-stone he

 was still vulnerable. Freed from the influence of the

 narcotic, he had regained his full wits and much of his

 former strength, but he didn't know how far his powers

 would extend. Certainly he was by no means the sor-

 cerer he had once been . . .

  

 He looked at the cat again. It hadn't resumed its

 interrupted wash, but was still staring at him, doubtless

 picking up the surge of emotion that was running

 through him. As their gazes met it yowled, loudly, and

 he crouched down again.

  

 'Quiet, little Imp.' His hand reached out and caressed

 its head as he mentally calmed it. 'I understand you. But

 it isn't enough. I dare not - ' And he stopped, as a key

 grated in the lock of the cellar door.

  

 The Imp hissed, and darted into a corner out of sight.

 Tarod turned, still half crouching, taken by surprise as

 hope and suspicion vied for precedence - then the door

 swung open and he was staring into the face of a burly

 man with an Initiate's badge at his shoulder.

  

 'Aeoris!' The word broke out between the Initiate's

 clenched teeth. 'Brahen, here! This devil's supposed to

 be unconscious, but - '

  

 He got no further. Tarod had no time to make a

 conscious decision, and instinct, coupled with a sudden,

 violent resurgence of the anger he had spent so many

 days trying to quell, took over. In one swift, fluid move-

 ment he was on his feet and his left hand came up in a

 gesture as familiar to him as breathing, summoning and

 focusing a power that swept from the depths of his

 consciousness like a striking Warp. Light glared crimson

 in the cell, throwing walls and roof and piled debris into

 stark and shocking relief, and as the bolt struck him the

 Initiate shrieked, his body a mad silhouette of flailing

 limbs in the bloody instant of the lightning flash. Dark-

 ness crashed down as the glare vanished, and Tarod had

 time to glimpse a huddled, motionless shape on the floor

 before a flare of poorer, natural light danced in the

 doorway as the second guard snatched up a torch and

 ran in from the passage.

  

 By the flickering light of the brand he held, the surviv-

 ing guard saw a sight which made his stomach churn in

 fear. His companion lay broken like a discarded doll by

 the cellar wall; while Tarod - who should by rights have

 been lying senseless on his pallet - stood like a dark

 angel of death, his eyes glittering and murder in his look.

  

 Stunned, and incapable of thinking clearly or wisely,

 the guard brought his sword rattling out of its sheath.

 Tarod tensed like a hunting cat - he was unarmed, and

 the bolt of energy he'd conjured had sapped him; there

 was no time to rally himself for a second. Instead, he

 sprang.

  

 The Initiate hadn't expected such an attack, and he

 brought his sword up clumsily, hampered by the blazing

 torch in his other hand. So fast that he had no time to

 react, Tarod's right hand shot out and snatched the torch

 from him; then with a savage swing of his arm he slashed

 the burning brand across the man's face. The guard

 howled in agony and spun around, dropping his sword

 and clapping both hands to his eyes. Tarod knew the

 blow had been enough to disable him, but the fury had

 taken hold and was unstoppable. He snatched up the

 sword - it was a heavy weapon, deadly in strong hands -

 and as the guard staggered yelling in a crazy zig-zag

 across the floor, Tarod swung the sword as a woodsman

 might swing an axe. A jarring shock ran through his

 arms and shoulders as the blade bit flesh and bone, and

 the Initiate's body crashed, decapitated, to the floor.

  

 Tarod's breathing was harsh against a silence broken

 only by an unpleasant liquid sound as the corpse's blood

 drained away on to the flagstones. He let the sword drop

 with a clashing echo and backed towards the door,

 unmoved by the sight of the two dead men. At his feet

 the torch blazed sporadically; he stamped the flame out

 and darkness returned to cloak him.

  

 He had broken his promise to Erminet. The thought

 occurred to him in a detached way, and he regretted it.

 Not the deaths of the two Initiates - he had no illusions

 about their willingness to kill him, if he hadn't struck

 first. But he had given his word that he would harm no

 one, and he didn't like the necessity of going against it.

  

 Yet the thing was done . . . he'd gain no advantage

 by feeling remorse now. Quietly he moved out into the

 passage, closing the cellar door behind him. This place

 was too deep in the Castle's bowels for the guard's

 shouts to have been heard, and for the moment it

  

 seemed unlikely that he would encounter anyone else.

 Well and good; it gave him the time he needed. The fact

 that Keridil had set men to guard him where before

 there had been none proved that something had gone

 awry with Erminet's scheme, and he guessed that

 Cyllan's absence had been discovered and the alarm

 raised. Were the Circle still searching for her, or had she

 been recaptured? She was unfamiliar with the Castle's

 maze of rooms and corridors, and Tarod knew that she

 couldn't hope to evade a full-scale search for long. He

 had to find her - and, with or without the stone, he had

 to get her out of the Castle.

  

 Erminet, he thought, was his best hope. If the hunt

 was up for her, Cyllan would be too frightened and too

 preoccupied for him to reach her mind and guide her.

 But Erminet might know her whereabouts.

  

 Tarod knew every stick and stone of the Castle, and

 could make his way through it without encountering one

 of Keridil's search parties. He also, for the time being,

 had the advantage that as yet the Circle was unaware of

 his escape. If he could reach Erminet before the two

 dead guards were discovered, the odds in his favour

 would increase . . .

  

 He started to move noiselessly away along the pas-

 sage, then hesitated and, on an impulse, turned back

 and re-entered the cellar. The smell of blood made his

 nostrils flare as he stepped through the door; he avoided

 the headless corpse and moved to stand over the Initiate

 he had blasted. The man was dead enough, but the body

 relatively undamaged, and Tarod bent down to unfasten

 the hide cloak the guard had worn as a protection against

 the damp cold of the cellars. Beneath it, an Initiate's

 badge gleamed gold; he unpinned it and fastened it to his

 own shoulder, smiling faintly as he realised how long it

 had been since he wore a similar emblem. Then he cast

 the cloak around himself-it was hardly a disguise, but it

 made his black shirt and trousers a little less distinctive -

 and left the cell to its silence and the stench of death.

  

 Chapter 16

  

 Tarod emerged from the maze of passages below the

 Castle by a route known only to the more adventurous of

 those who had grown up within its confines. The court-

 yard was dark, but the Moons had set and in the East the

 stars were beginning to fade, telling him that dawn was

 little more than an hour away. For a moment he stayed

 hidden among the leaves of the overhanging vine which

 grew rampant over the ancient black walls, savouring

 the sweetness of clean air after his confinement. Then he

 cautiously moved out of the vine's shelter - and hastily

 stepped back again as a nearby door opened and three

 armed men came out. They passed by only three paces

 from where he stood motionless, but though he hoped to

 overhear something that would give him a clue to how

 Cyllan fared, they didn't speak. As soon as they were

 gone, Tarod moved away, keeping to the deep shadows.

 He didn't know where Erminet's room was located, or

 even if she would be there, but guessed that she would

 have been assigned one of the guest suites normally

 reserved for more senior Sisters in the East wing.

  

 As he crossed the now empty courtyard towards a

 small door that led to another of the minor and little-

 used passages, he realised that there was indeed

 unprecedented activity in the Castle. Although lights

 blazed from the main hall there were no sounds of a

 celebration in progress, and the sporadic flicker of

 torches from various windows on the building's different

 levels suggested that many people were moving about.

 He smiled, faintly amused by the thought that Cyllan

 had caused such a furore and ruined Keridil's celebration,

 then, gaining the door, slipped inside and headed for a

  

 flight of spiral stairs that would take him to the guest

 wing.

  

 It seemed that the search wasn't concentrated in this

 section of the Castle; logical enough, as Keridil would

 have no wish to alarm his guests unnecessarily, and

 Tarod reached the corridor he wanted without encoun-

 tering anyone. The Sisters' rooms were at the far end,

 and the only way to reach them was to walk the length of

 the lit passage in full view of any casual observer who

 might emerge from one of the other suites. Tarod cast

 the hide cloak back enough to expose the purloined

 Initiate's badge, then, trying not to think of what he

 might be forced to do if challenged, stepped out into the

 corridor.

  

 He was halfway along when a tell-tale gleam of light

 from a side passage ahead made him stop in his tracks.

 There was no chance to turn, nowhere to hide himself-

 and a moment later a girl of some sixteen years or so

 hurried out of the passage and, seeing him, squealed and

 almost dropped the lantern she was carrying.

  

 'Oh!' Her eyes widened as she stared up at him, then

 her surprise matured into alarm as she recognised the

 Initiate's badge. She tried to bow after the fashion of the

 Sisters, but it was a clumsy and inexperienced attempt.

  

 'Oh, sir -I beg your pardon! I was returning to Sister

 Erminet; I wasn't neglecting my post, sir, but the Sister

 very much wanted another light, and there was no one

 else to send because they're all so busy searching . . . '

 Her garbled apology tailed off under Tarod's steady

 scrutiny and she blushed scarlet, stammering out, 'I'm

 sorry, sir . . . '

  

 Tarod had seen the gauzy white veil that covered the

 girl's hair, and realised that she was a Novice in the

 Sisterhood. He had never set eyes on her before . . .

 and she hadn't recognised him. Aware that he might

 turn this to his advantage, he nodded curtly. 'No one

 would chastise you, Sister-Novice, for obeying the

 orders of your senior . . . you are, I presume, under

 Sister Erminet's tutelage at West High Land?'

  

 'Well ... I was to have been, sir. But of course, I

  

 doubt if I will be now, after what's happened. I came

 with the party conveying the Lady's congratulations to

 the High Initiate.' Gaining confidence, she smiled at him

 shyly. 'I've only been a Novice for two months, sir, and

 I'm very grateful for such a privilege.'

  

 After what had happened . . . Unwittingly, the girl

 had given away the truth, at least in outline. Tarod said,

 'I'm glad you're sensible of it, Sister-Novice. But I hope

 you're also aware of your duty. You seem very young

 and inexperienced for such a responsible task.'

  

 The girl reddened again. 'There was no one else, sir.

 What with the search for the prisoner who escaped . . .

 but I understand what I must do.' She looked up at him,

 hoping for approbation. 'I've not let anyone see the

 Sister without authority, as I was told.'

  

 'Indeed. And what else were you told?'

  

 Fortunately for him, the child was naive enough to

 think that she was being tested. As though repeating a

 catechism, she said, 'Not to engage in conversation with

 the Sister, sir, on any matter other than her immediate

 needs. I. . .' She hesitated. 'I was told she has betrayed

 the Sisterhood and the Circle, sir. And that she is to be

 questioned and possibly . . . tried.'

  

 Gods; so they'd discovered what Erminet had done

 . . . Alarmed, but keeping his face expressionless,

 Tarod said. 'That's knowledge you should keep to your-

 self, Sister-Novice. I want to hear of no gossiping among

 the other girls, do you understand me?'

  

 'Yes, sir.' The girl licked her lips nervously. 'Should I

 return to my post now?'

  

 The child was easy enough to dupe; he could think of a

 way to get rid of her once he was face to face with

 Erminet. Aloud, Tarod said, 'You should; but I want to

 see for myself that the Sister is still where she should be.

 If all's well, count yourself lucky - and don't desert your

 duties again, whatever the reason!'

  

 'No, sir. I'm sorry, sir . . . ' In an agony of shame and

 terror, the girl made another inept bow and hastened

 away along the passage, the lantern shaking in her hand.

 She stopped at the furthest door, fumbled inexpertly

  

 with a key, and at last persuaded it to turn in the lock. A

 soft glow spilled out, and Tarod gestured curtly for the

 Novice to remain where she was while he entered the

 room.

  

 Erminet lay on her bed, asleep. Glancing over his

 shoulder to make sure that the girl hadn't misun-

 derstood his order and followed him, Tarod crossed the

 room and bent over her, lifting her hand.

  

 'Sister Erminet . . . '

  

 There was no response, and the hand hung limp in his

 grasp. Intuition told Tarod the truth before he looked at

 her face. She was smiling, a small, secretive smile, and in

 a peculiar way she looked younger, the lines on her

 cheeks smoothed and her skin waxy. And on the table

 beside her bed stood several phials from her collection

 of potions, a wine flask, and an empty cup.

  

 Tarod spun round, all caution forgotten, and his

 voiced barked out, 'Sister-Novice!'

  

 The girl ran in, alarmed by his tone. 'S-Sir . . . ?'

  

 Tarod pointed to the small vanity table in one corner.

 'Fetch that mirror! Quickly!'

  

 She almost dropped it in her haste, and as she stum-

 blingly approached Tarod snatched the glass from her

 hand and held it in front of Sister Erminet's face. The

 mirror's surface remained clear while he counted his

 own heartbeats; seven, eight, nine ... He flung the

 mirror aside, hearing it smash on the floor, and the girl's

 squeak of fright fired him with contempt and loathing.

 He turned on her and, in a voice low and savage with

 grief, said, 'Do you know what you've done?'

  

 The girl was shaking like a leaf, one hand to her

 mouth. 'She isn't . . . she can't be, sir, I - I was only

 gone for a few minutes!'

  

 'And a few minutes was enough! She's - she was a

 herbalist, a skilled herbalist! And you deserted her for

 long enough for her to take her own life!' He advanced

 towards her, hardly knowing what he was doing, and as

 he approached the girl gave a cry of distress, picked up

 her skirts and ran, darting out of the room like a

 frightened animal. Tarod stopped, listening to her

  

 running footsteps, his fists clenched at his sides so that

 the nails dug in to his palms. Then, shaking, he turned

 back to the bed.

  

 'Erminet . . . ' He sat on the coverlet and took both

 her hands, as though his voice and his touch could bring

 her back to life. But her eyes remained closed, and the

 fixed little smile was frozen on her face.

  

 She must have known what she was doing . . . and

 she must have chosen a drug that would act too quickly

 for anyone to save her. He took a shred of comfort from

 the thought that she must have felt no pain, but had died

 peacefully and by her own will. But that didn't change

 the cruel fact that she had died because of him.

  

 Tears stung his eyes, and he squeezed the old

 woman's bloodless fingers until his grip all but crushed

 them. Erminet had been a true friend, putting aside duty

 for a more personal loyalty. And this was her reward

 . . . Her deception discovered, she had known what her

 fate would be if she was convicted of abetting him, and

 had chosen to do the Circle's work for them, to give

 herself the dignity of dying, if die she must, in her own

 way and in her own time. And her death, the cruel

 needlessness of it, fuelled Tarod's hatred of Keridil and

 the Circle, and their warped idea of justice. If he could

 avenge her - but she wouldn't want that. She had made

 him promise to harm no living soul in the Castle, and he

 had already broken that pledge by killing two men.

 There must be no more. He owed her that, at very

 least.

  

 Tarod realised that some time had elapsed since the

 Novice had fled from the room, and knew that he must

 go, if he was to avoid being found when the girl returned

 with help. The Circle would understand quickly enough

 when she described the black-haired Adept she had met

 in the corridor, and the hunt would be redoubled as they

 sought him, too. He had little fear of recapture, but it

 would be a grim irony if Cyllan were found before he

 could reach her and Erminet had died in vain.

  

 He folded the old Sister's hands across her breast,

 then bent to kiss her forehead gently. His left hand still

  

 rested on hers - he raised it, then made a small gesture

 over her heart. The gesture was a blessing, but no bless-

 ing that had ever been given by a servant of Aeoris.

 Then he rose to his feet, and swiftly and silently left the

 room.

  

 The High Initiate received the news of Sister Erminet's

 suicide with chagrin and distress - and also, reluctantly,

 with the acknowledgement that her action was positive

 proof of her guilt. But when he heard, from the tearful

 Sister-Novice, of the mysterious Adept whom she had

 encountered and who couldn't be found, the pieces of an

 ugly puzzle fitted together all too well.

  

 Of the four men despatched to check on Tarod, the

 youngest was violently sick when he saw the carnage in

 the cellar and the other three had difficulty controlling

 their stomachs. Keridil heard their reports in the privacy

 of his study, thankful that he had at last persuaded

 Sashka to retire to her parents' suite until morning.

 There could be no sleep for him - especially now that

 Cyllan wasn't the only enemy they had to contend with -

 but at least she had been spared this . . .

  

 'I want the search intensified,' he told Taunan Cel

 Ennas, who was the Circle's most experienced swords-

 man, as they stepped out of the Castle's main entrance

 and stood at the top of the sweeping steps in the sickly

 first light of dawn. 'Double the guard on the gates, and

 make sure they're not opened for any reason without my

 authority.' He hunched his shoulders and stared about

 him at the towering black walls, which seemed suddenly

 oppressive. 'The gods know there are enough crannies

 in this damned place for them to hide in. But we'll find

 them, Taunan. We'll find them, if we have to take the

 whole Castle apart stone by stone!'

  

 Taunan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in an

 attempt to clear his vision. Despite his tiredness he knew

 Keridil was right; there could be no rest until their

 quarry was run to earth. He only wished he could share

 the High Initiate's certainty that they would succeed.

  

 'It's easy to forget that we're not dealing with an

  

 ordinary man, Keridil,' he replied wearily. 'Tarod has

 the cunning of Chaos, and a good many of its powers.'

  

 'Not without the soul-stone,' Keridil reminded him.

 'And we know that's in the girl's possession.'

  

 Taunan grimaced. 'And if they should find each other

 before we find them . . . ?'

  

 'We can't afford to let that happen. We must

 apprehend one of them - and I don't care which - before

 they have the chance to meet. If we fail in that, the gods

 alone know what the consequences might be.' Keridil

 squinted up at the lightening sky. 'I've called a meeting

 of the higher Adepts in an hour, to discuss what occult

 methods we can call on, but before that I -' He stopped,

 his eyes narrowing.

  

 'Keridil?'

  

 The High Initiate took hold of Taunan's arm, and his

 voice was dry with unease when he spoke. Taunan . . .

 look

  

 The older man followed his gaze. 'What is it? I

 don't - '

  

 'Look to the North. And listen.'

  

 Taunan sucked in a sharp breath as he understood,

 and stared beyond the towering bulk of the North-

 ernmost spire. It seemed that another dawn was break-

 ing in the far distance, challenging the true dawn in the

 East; the grey arc of the sky was tinged with a pale, sickly

 spectrum of colour that seemed to be shifting, moving,

 like a vast, dim, slowly turning beam of light. The wind

 was fresh in off the sea, but underlying its faint susurra-

 tion was another sound, far off - a thin, unearthly wail as

 though, hundreds of miles out beyond the coast, a hur-

 ricane was raging and speeding in towards them.

  

 The bands of colour in the sky were intensifying

 slowly but surely, and even as the two men watched a

 vivid slash of orange flickered across the heavens like a

 scar, followed by another, smaller streak of harsh blue.

  

 'It's going to be a bad one . . . ' Keridil said quietly.

  

 Taunan nodded, his throat dry. Even protected as

 they were by the Maze which held the Castle in a frac-

 tionally different dimension from the rest of the world, a

  

 Warp was a terrifying experience; and Keridil was right;

 the flickering colours in the sky presaged an abnormally

 powerful storm. Taunan forced down the mind-numb-

 ing terror of these weird and deadly phenomena which

 he shared with every living man, woman and child, and

 tried to smile.

  

 'I'd defy even Tarod to try to flee the Castle during a

 Warp.'

  

 Keridil glanced at him in surprise, then his face

 relaxed and he, too, smiled. 'You're right . . . and

 perhaps it's the first time in history that the Warps have

 been to our advantage!' He looked up again, and shiv-

 ered. 'Come on. Let's go back inside. Advantageous it

 might be, but that doesn't mean I want to watch it

 coming.'

  

 From her hiding place in a storeroom that adjoined the

 Castle's stables Cyllan saw the first threatening changes

 in the dawn sky, and felt the faint vibration beneath her

 feet that presaged the onset of the storm. The thick

 stone walls blotted out the sounds of the approaching

 Warp, but couldn't protect her from the primordial fear

 that turned her stomach to water as, through a narrow

 window, she watched the bands of colour growing

 stronger, marching out of the North. Sick with fright,

 she crawled into a dark corner and pulled the cloak hood

 over her head, but she couldn't escape; though sight of

 the coming horror was blotted out, the vibration

 increased until it seemed to permeate her bones and

 beyond them to her soul.

  

 She wished she had chosen another hiding place.

 She'd tried to reach the North spire, thinking that per-

 haps Tarod, if he too was free, would look for her there,

 but in trying she had almost run across one of the search

 parties and only a chance piece of good luck and quick

 thinking had saved her. She'd fled to the stable wing as

 the nearest sanctuary, and since then hadn't dared to

 emerge.

  

 Now, even without the Warp to imprison her here, the

 coming of dawn had made it too dangerous for her to

  

 move. If anything the search seemed to have intensified,

 and though she hoped it might be a sign that Tarod had

 escaped, it did nothing to help her immediate predica-

 ment. He'd never think of searching here for her, and

 when a few minutes ago she had tried to focus her mind

 and reach him subconsciously, her own thoughts were

 too confused by fear of the Warp to allow her to

 concentrate.

  

 A door at one end of the storeroom led directly to the

 stables themselves, and beyond it she could hear a res-

 tive stamping and snorting as the Castle's horses sensed

 the approaching horror. Cyllan left her corner and crept

 towards the door, reasoning that, now of all times, no

 one in their right mind would have need of a horse, and

 the company even of animals would be better than the

 terrors of solitude when the storm struck. She tried not

 to glance at the window as she went, but couldn't help

 seeing the strange play of sickly light over her hands and

 clothes. Swallowing the bile which rose in her throat and

 threatened to choke her, she pushed the door open a

 crack and peered through.

  

 Tall, dim shapes moved in the gloom beyond; brown

 and grey and warm chestnut; one black with a wild,

 white eye. The nearest horse, a big bay, saw her and

 stamped back in its stall, ears flattened; she slipped

 through the door and approached it, speaking softly to

 pacify it. These Southern-stock beasts were more kindly

 tempered than the shaggy little Northern ponies she had

 ridden as a drover, and the bay quietened quickly under

 her hands, nudging at her as though grateful for human

 company. Cyllan passed down the line, talking to each

 animal in turn and glad of the chance to divert her mind

 from what was happening outside. At last the horses

 began to settle a little, and she reached the end of the

 line. Here straw bales for fresh bedding had been piled

 in a corner, and she sank down on them, pulling the

 cloak tightly around her body. She could do nothing but

 wait until the Warp had passed . . . shivering, she

 hunched deeper in to the straw and tried not to think

 about the storm.

  

 The spectral bands of blue and orange and green that

 advanced across the sky were rapidly changing to dark,

 evil-looking shades of purple and livid brown when a

 man burst from the watchtower by the Castle gates and

 pelted head down across the courtyard. He took the

 wide steps three at a time, burst through the main doors

 just as a surprised servant was about to set the bars in

 place, and skidded to a halt, gasping for breath.

  

 'Where's the High Initiate?'

  

 The servant, nonplussed, gestured towards the

 dining-hall, and the man raced away.

  

 Keridil was eating a hasty breakfast which his stew-

 ard, Gyneth, had persuaded him to take, when the

 gateman came running in.

  

 'Sir!' the man croaked, his lungs heaving, 'Riders! A

 party, coming across the causeway - '

  

 'What?' Keridil got to his feet, pushing his plate away.

 'Now, of all times? Damn it, the Warp's about to strike!

 Who are they?'

  

 The gateman shook his head. 'Don't know, sir. But

 there's a herald with them, and a retinue - '

  

 Keridil swore. He had enough to worry him without

 strangers needing sanctuary from the Warp at this last

 moment, but he could hardly leave them outside to face

 the coming horror. He turned on his heel and shouted at

 a servant who was putting up the hall's shutters.

  

 'Leave that! Find Fin Tivan Bruall and tell him to get

 to the stables to take in new horses!' And to the gate-

 man: 'Can you get them through in time, do you think?'

  

 The man peered out at the dangerous sky. 'Just about,

 sir, if they don't fall foul of the Maze.'

  

 'Pray they've been here before, then - and hurry!' The

 man left at a run, and Keridil followed, swallowing back

 his terror of stepping through the doors and seeing the

 Warp in its full spate. As he approached the entrance he

 could hear the high, screaming note that accompanied

 the storm, like damned souls howling in agony, and he

 shuddered before, taking a deep breath, he forced him-

 self to walk out on to the steps.

  

 The Castle gates were already opening, swinging

  

 ponderously back with what seemed to Keridil agonising

 slowness. Overhead the sky raged and its insane colours

 tainted the walls and the flagstones, staining Keridil's

 skin so that he and the men who had followed him out

 looked like ghastly apparitions. The Warp would hit

 them within two or three minutes, and though in the

 Castle they were safe enough from its power, no reason-

 ing on earth could stand against the sheer animal terror

 of being beneath one of the supernatural storms as it

 came shrieking overhead.

  

 Now the gates were fully open, and he could see the

 approaching party. They had crossed the causeway from

 the mainland, but were having difficulty controlling

 their horses, which reared and plunged as the riders

 attempted to guide them across the darker patch of

 sward that marked the Maze. But at last the leading

 horse was through, and the others followed, kicked into

 a desperate gallop that brought them clattering and

 thundering under the great arch and into the courtyard.

  

 Seven men - and three women. Keridil's heart sank as

 he recognised the tall, slightly stooped figure dismount-

 ing from the sweating iron-grey gelding while two Initi-

 ates ran to help him. Gant Ambaril Rannak, Margrave

 of Shu Province . . . Drachea's father.

  

 He started down the steps, the Warp momentarily

 forgotten in the face of this unexpected and unwelcome

 arrival. But before he was halfway down, a commotion

 from the stables made him turn. Someone shouting, his

 bellow audible above the mindless yell of the storm -

 and a woman's high-pitched scream of protest.

  

 'High Initiate!' The stentorian voice of Fin Tivan

 Bruall, the head horsemaster, was filled with triumph as

 he and one of his stable boys dragged a struggling,

 hooded figure towards the steps. 'We've got the murder-

 ing little bitch! We've got her!'

  

 A howl from the sky, as though the Warp answered

 Fin's news with a furious protest of its own, drowned out

 all other sound, and Keridil swung his arm in an urgent

 gesture towards the main doors. 'Get those people

 inside! It's about to strike!'

  

 The Margravine and her two maids were screaming in

 terror, their male companions faring little better. They

 stumbled up the steps, while several more Initiates

 braved their fears to take charge of the panicking horses

 as Fin and his boy dragged their captive towards Keridil.

 The High Initiate glimpsed Cyllan's bloodstained

 clothes and her stark white face, grotesquely distorted

 by the whirling spectrum reflecting from the sky, saw her

 mouth twist in a shrieking snarl though he couldn't hear

 the curse she spat at him. Then an instant later the sky

 turned blue-black, like a monstrous bruise, and red

 lightning spat across the heavens as the wail of the storm

 swelled to a howling crescendo.

  

 'Get to shelter!' Keridil's cry was lost in the cacophony

 as a ferocious wind shrieked out of the North and the

 Warp came thundering overhead. Fin kept his wits suffi-

 ciently to hang on to Cyllan, hauling her bodily up the

 steps and cuffing her with a powerful fist when she

 started to struggle again. Keridil turned, started ahead

 of them - and stopped dead.

  

 The voice of the Warp dinned in his ears, the insane

 sky blotting out the rising Sun and plunging the court-

 yard into chaotic darkness. But enough light flickered

 from the violent streaks of colour exploding across the

 face of the storm for him to see the tall, gaunt figure that

 barred his way to the doors. A tangle of wild black hair

 streamed in the gale, and the face, illuminated by a

 violent explosion of green and crimson overhead, was

 demonic. An appalling memory of Yandros, Lord of

 Chaos, smashed into Keridil's brain - this apparition

 was the Chaos lord's dark twin, and a hideous premoni-

 tion of his own nemesis stunned him into immobility.

  

 But if he was paralysed, Cyllan wasn't. She redoubled

 her efforts to escape Fin's grip, and her voice sounded

 shrilly above the Warp as she screamed, 'Tarod!'

  

 Her cry broke the thrall that held Keridil. He sprang

 back, darting down the steps to where Cyllan struggled,

 and snatched his sword out of its scabbard. Tarod came

 after him - then froze as Keridil stopped a pace from

 Cyllan, whose arms were now pinned by the horsemaster,

  

 and touched the point of his blade to her heart. The High

 Initiate's face was wild with fear of the storm and the

 fury aroused by this confrontation; Tarod knew that if

 he made a single untoward move, Keridil would run

 Cyllan through.

  

 The other Initiates in the courtyard had by now

 realised what was afoot and, leaving one of their number

 to manage the Margrave's frightened horses as best as he

 could, came running to Keridil's aid. They were all

 armed, and Cyllan feared that without the stone Tarod

 couldn't hope to defeat them. She had to reach him -

 had to, whatever the risk -

  

 Keridil was taken completely by surprise when, with a

 violence born of desperation, Cyllan brought one foot

 up and out in a savage kick that took him full in the

 stomach. He went down, losing his grip on the sword,

 and Cyllan twisted around to bite Fin Tivan Bruall's

 hand with all her strength. The horsemaster yelled and

 she kicked out again, backwards this time, breaking

 away from him. Her momentum sent her staggering

 down the steps; she turned with the agility of a cat as

 Tarod started towards her -

  

 Three Initiates blocked her path, while two more ran

 at her from behind. Cyllan snarled like an animal, saw

 Tarod grappling with the first of her three assailants, and

 realised that the trap was closing around her. Over the

 shriek of the Warp she heard his voice.

  

 'Cyllan, go! Run - get away from them!'

  

 The High Initiate was on his feet, advancing - Cyllan

 turned and ran, hampered by her skirt and almost falling

 as she reached the foot of the steps. And suddenly she

 was in the midst of a group of milling, panicking horses,

 half of them running free while one young Initiate strug-

 gled to keep the others under control. A tall grey shape

 loomed across her path; she cannoned into the Mar-

 grave's gelding and reflexively clutched at a stirrup to

 stop herself from falling.

  

 'Stop her!' She heard Keridil's yell behind her, and

 the gelding whinnied piercingly. Cyllan didn't pause to

 think - she reached up, gripped a handful of the animal's

  

 mane, and sprang. She landed half over the gelding's

 neck and frantically jack-knifed herself into the high-

 pommelled saddle, hanging on grimly as the beast

 reared in frightened protest.

  

 'Tarod!' Her cry was lost in the cacophony overhead.

 Tarod!'

  

 He saw her, but couldn't reach her; two men were

 attacking him and in the chaos he could barely defend

 himself, let alone spare time for any other consider-

 ation. His mind roiled - power was surging in him,

 fuelled by the insanity of the Warp, but it was wild,

 uncontrollable, he couldn't grasp it. He evaded a wildly

 swinging blade and his left hand locked on his assailant's

 wrist, twisting, crushing - he felt a bone snap, but the

 second Initiate was coming at him again

  

 'Tarod!' Cyllan's cry this time was a shriek of alarm as

 Keridil, who had regained his own blade, ran at her with

 Fin and another man at his heels. The gelding reared

 again, almost unseating her, and snatching at the reins

 she pulled the animal into a side-stepping buck as the

 High Initiate lunged towards her. The blade missed her

 thigh by a hairsbreadth and instead sliced a shallow but

 ferocious gash along her mount's flank.

  

 The gelding screamed. It arched its body, lashing out,

 then, panic stricken, it bolted. Sparks scattered from its

 hooves as it careered across the courtyard, instinct driv-

 ing it to escape the Castle which it saw as the source of its

 terror. Cyllan crouched precariously in the saddle, haul-

 ing on the reins but to no avail - the horse was heading

 for the main gates, and the gatekeeper had deserted his

 post to help his fellows. The gates still stood part open,

 and the gelding galloped under the yawning arch, bolt-

 ing straight for the sward and freedom.

  

 Cyllan saw what lay ahead of her, saw the whirling

 chaos of black light and impossible colours that tore the

 world apart beyond the Maze. She glimpsed the tortured

 crags of the mountains twisting in on themselves,

 moulded by the Warp to hideous illusions, and in terror

 she flailed at the gelding, struggling to stop its headlong

 flight before it was too late.

  

 The horse raced across the Maze - and the scream that

 tore from its throat as it emerged on the far side was

 shredded by a howling roar as the full force of the Warp

 hurtled at them like a monstrous tidal wave. Cyllan felt

 as though her body were being torn apart - darkness

 shot with livid silver fire erupted in her face, and agony

 smashed through every nerve before the world exploded

 in oblivion.

  

 Keridil staggered to his feet, dazed by the force with

 which he'd hit the ground when he flung himself clear of

 the gelding's flailing hooves. As Fin Tivan Bruall ran to

 help him, he stared towards the gates and the maelstrom

 beyond, and his face was grey with shock.

  

 'Aeoris. . .' He made a sign over his heart. 'Fin, she-

 she-'

  

 Fin didn't answer him. He was looking over his shoul-

 der to the steps, and what he saw alarmed him. Tarod

 stood motionless near the top of the flight, and it was

 obvious from his rigid attitude that he, too, had seen

 Cyllan's appalling fate. One of his attackers lay at his

 feet, hunched and moving feebly. The other was backing

 slowly away down the steps, his sword half raised as

 though to protect himself from something no other man

 could see, and he was terrified.

  

 Fin gripped Keridil's shoulder. 'High Initiate . . . '

  

 Keridil turned, buffeted by the screaming wind, and

 his face tightened. Then he started to run, stumbling

 towards the frozen tableau on the steps. Taking their cue

 from him, the remaining swordsmen gathered their

 courage and closed in ... then Tarod turned his head.

  

 If he had ever been human, Keridil thought, his look

 now gave the lie to it. Tarod's face was demented, and

 his green eyes burned with an unholy light. His lips

 moved and he mouthed a word, though in the racket of

 the storm Keridil couldn't tell what that word was. Then

 he raised his left hand - and the High Initiate felt terror

 strike to the depths of his soul.

  

 She was gone. Tarod fought against the knowledge, but

  

 couldn't deny it; it had happened, and he'd been unable to

 prevent it. She was gone - the Warp had taken her, and

 hurled her into whatever unimaginable nightmare waited

 beyond its borders. She might be dead, or alive and

 trapped in some monstrous limbo . . . he had been so

 close to her, and again he'd lost her. And the grief that

 devoured him, far greater than the grief he'd known at

 Themila Gan Lin's death, or Erminet's, was the catalyst

 that finally woke the power in him to its full flood. Cyllan

 was gone, and all he could think of was revenge. For her

 sake he wanted to kill, ravage, destroy anything and

 everything in his path. And the focus of his blazing hatred

 was one man - his one-time friend. His betrayer. His

 enemy . . .

  

 As he gazed like a transfixed animal into Tarod's eyes,

 Keridil felt Fin Tivan Email's presence at his side. It was

 small comfort.

  

 'I tried to stop her.' He barely recognised his own

 voice.

  

 The corners of Tarod's mouth lifted in contempt, but

 he stayed his hand. 'You tried to kill her.'

  

 'No-' And the protest died as Keridil realised Tarod

 wouldn't believe him. He had one chance, he thought;

 just one. Distract him long enough for the other Initiates

 to move in and take him unawares. It was a slender

 hope, and the thought of what Tarod might do if the

 gamble failed turned his stomach to water.

  

 'We've both lost, Tarod,' he called above the gale.

 'You see - she took the Chaos stone. So now your soul's

 gone forever . . . ' He licked his lips nervously. 'I don't

 think even you can prevail against us without that.'

  

 Tarod's eyes narrowed to ferocious slits, and Keridil

 saw that the other men had, as he'd hoped, taken advan-

 tage of this brief respite to close in. One of them made a

 sudden clumsy move; Tarod's head snapped round -

  

 'Take him!' the High Initiate yelled, goaded at the

 same moment by a sudden despairing premonition that

 his warning was too late. 'Take him, before - '

  

 His words cut violently off as a titanic flash of blood-

 red light exploded outwards from where Tarod stood. It

  

 coalesced into the form of a gigantic broadsword, twice

 the height of a man and glowing with a ferocious fire of

 its own, which Tarod held balanced in both hands as

 though it weighed nothing. One of the Initiates made an

 inarticulate noise and staggered back. Lit by the flaring

 glow of the supernatural sword Tarod's face was a mask

 of pure malevolence - then he swung on his heel and the

 blade shrieked in a whistling arc that cut down the two

 nearest swordsmen before they could jump clear. Blood

 spattered Tarod's face and arms as the two severed

 bodies pitched to the ground, and as he came face to face

 with Keridil once more, the incandescent sword glowing

 with a savage hunger in his hands, the High Initiate

 recoiled in sick horror. He had sent two Adepts to their

 deaths - the others now drew back, their gazes locked on

 the monstrous blade - and by the light spilling from the

 sword he saw his own nemesis in Tarod's unhuman eyes.

  

 For a moment the howling thunder of the Warp

 seemed to abate, and in the comparative lull Keridil

 heard the slide of Tarod's foot on stone as he began,

 slowly, to advance. The blade pulsed, shimmered,

 blinding him — then without warning a blast of raw,

 uncontrolled power slammed into him like an invisible

 fist, knocking him backwards so that he sprawled on the

 flagstones. So fast that he had no time to react, Tarod

 sprang down the steps towards him - and as the daze

 cleared from his mind, Keridil found himself staring at

 the monstrous, glittering sword only inches from his

 face.

  

 He bit hard into the flesh of his cheeks, willing himself

 not to give way to the panic that threatened to engulf

 him. The philosophers said that, when death stared him

 in the face, a man recalled the events of his life in a rapid

 flow of dreamlike images. Keridil had no such experi-

 ence - his mind froze to a blank fugue and he could only

 stare helplessly at the blade and the silhouetted figure

 beyond.

  

 From the corner of his eye he saw one of the surviving

 Initiates make a convulsive move in his direction, and he

 flung out one arm in a warning gesture.

  

 'Stay back!' The man hesitated, then obeyed, and

 Keridil let his breath escape slowly between his teeth.

 When he spoke, he was surprised to find that his voice

 was steady.

  

 'Get it over with.' The storm was rising again, but he

 knew his adversary heard him well enough. 'I'm not

 afraid of dying. Have done with it, Tarod.'

  

 Tarod stared down at him. The sword in his hand

 didn't waver, but the madness in his mind was giving way

 to a clearer, colder reason. He could destroy Keridil.

 And if the blade once touched him, the High Initiate

 wouldn't merely die; for the sword was a lethal man-

 ifestation of the very essence of Chaos, a focus for the

 power that flowed through him. Keridil wouldn't merely

 die: he would be annihilated. It would be a just ven-

 geance; a fitting retribution for Cyllan's fate . . . yet

 Tarod held back.

  

 She might be living still. A Warp had brought her to

 this Castle; he himself had survived the hideous

 onslaught of such a storm when he was no more than a

 child. And if she were alive, he could find her . . .

  

 To destroy Keridil would gain him nothing. Too many

 people had already died in this unhappy affair; to add

 one more to the toll would be a bitterly futile gesture,

 and a further betrayal of his oath to Sister Erminet. He

 didn't want revenge. Reason argued that the High Initi-

 ate wasn't wholly responsible for what had happened,

 and now that the insanity which had possessed him had

 passed, the desire for vengeance had gone with it. All

 that mattered was finding Cyllan.

  

 Keridil's eyes widened in surprised confusion as

 Tarod raised the glowing, threatening blade until it no

 longer menaced him. He stared up at his enemy, sus-

 picious and uncertain, not daring to acknowledge a

 spark of hope. Tarod gazed back, and the contempt in

 his green eyes was suddenly mingled with pity.

  

 'No,' he said softly. 'I won't take your life, High

 Initiate. Enough blood has already been spilled here.'

 He renewed his grip on the sword and its brilliant corona

 flared up until Tarod stood wreathed in bloody light.

  

 Overhead, the sky howled and spat a web of silver

 lightning high above the Castle spires, and Keridil felt a

 charge of energy jolt through him as the Warp renewed

 its fury.

  

 'If Cyllan lives,' Tarod said, and despite the roar of

 the storm Keridil heard every word as clearly as though

 it were spoken within his skull, 'I'll find her. And if I do,

 I promise you that you'll hear no more of me.' He smiled

 thinly. 'Once, you refused to accept my word, and you

 betrayed my trust. I hope by now you've learned a lesson

 from that mistake.'

  

 Keridil started to sit up, moving slowly, watching the

 blade in Tarod's hands. He didn't speak; his throat was

 too dry; but his eyes were venomous. Then Tarod raised

 his face to the screaming sky, as though communing with

 the storm's diabolical power. The Warp answered with a

 howling, shrieking crescendo, and Tarod's figure

 seemed suddenly to catch fire, black brilliance shot

 through with sparking silver blazing to life about him.

 The sky erupted in a rolling bawl of thunder, and an

 explosion of white light blasted the courtyard, making

 Keridil yell out in pain and terror as the colossal flash

 seared his eyes. He fell back, flinging an arm up to

 protect his face, struck the flagstones, sprawled -

  

 There was silence. Dazed, Keridil lowered his arm,

 blinking at the dancing after-images which clouded his

 vision. Then, as his sight cleared, he realised with a fresh

 shock that the Warp was gone. The watery grey light of a

 natural dawn filled the courtyard; Eastwards the sky was

 streaked with the first faint rays of the morning Sun,

 while somewhere beyond the stack a seabird cried with a

 plaintive, mewing sound. And Tarod had vanished, as

 though he'd never existed.

  

 Painfully, the High Initiate climbed to his feet. Every

 bone, every muscle, every fibre in his body ached; his

 limbs shook, and when a hand took hold of his arm he

 leaned gratefully against Fin Tivan Bruall's burly sup-

 port. The horsemaster's face was pallid, his mouth set;

 Keridil looked beyond him at the ragged circle of Initi-

 ates who were approaching uncertainly.

  

 'Keridil?' Taunan Cel Ennas was the first to speak.

 His gaze flicked to the bodies of the two men Tarod had

 killed, then he looked away quickly.

  

 Keridil couldn't bring himself to look at the corpses.

 He said tightly, 'Have them covered and taken inside,

 Taunan.'

  

 'What -' the other man began to say, then changed his

 mind, shaking his head helplessly. The half-voiced ques-

 tion, what happened?, was too obvious, yet unanswer-

 able. He turned and stumbled towards the steps.

  

 Others were emerging from within the Castle now,

 and among them Keridil saw the anxious face of

 Drachea's father. All this, and now he had to face

 explaining the death of the Margrave's son and heir . . .

 He shook his head savagely to clear it, but a cold, angry

 bitterness remained. Behind him he heard a clatter of

 hoofs as the milling horses were recaptured and led away

 towards the stables, and - aside from the two dead men

 on the ground - the sheer normality of the scene made

 him feel sick. He should have ignored the demands of

 protocol and tradition; he should have shrugged off the

 opinions of those who insisted that he make a ceremony

 out of Tarod's death, and simply killed him without fuss

 or formality when he had the chance. Now, he had other

 deaths on his conscience. Drachea Rannak, Sister

 Erminet, the two guards in the cellar, two more here in

 the courtyard ... He remembered the pledge Tarod

 had made before vanishing, and cold, cynical disgust

 filled him. He'd no more trust the word of that creature

 of Chaos than he'd trust a poisonous snake. While Tarod

 lived, the Circle and all it stood for were imperilled: he

 had to be destroyed. But how many more lives would be

 lost before this affair was finally over?

  

 And Keridil's blood ran cold at the thought that fol-

 lowed: if it ever would be over. If the Circle could prevail

 against Chaos . . .

  

 He had been moving towards the main doors, but

 abruptly he stopped. He felt steadier now, and his mind

 was as clear as a knife blade. Tarod had bested him - but

 Keridil's heart and soul craved retribution. And for the

  

 sake of the Circle, of the whole world, he'd take it or die

 in the attempt.

  

 He looked up at the sky, which was brightening by the

 moment, and let the full flood of his bitterness and anger

 wash over him. He fingered the gold badge at his shoul-

 der, the double circle with its diagonal lightning flash;

 and spoke so softly that the attendant Fin couldn't catch

 his words.

  

 'I'll destroy you, Tarod,' Keridil whispered with sav-

 age intensity. 'By Aeoris and his six brethren, I swear I'll

 find you, and I'll destroy you. Wherever you are, how-

 ever long it might take, I won't rest until I've erased your

 taint from the face of our world!'

  

 As though in answer to the High Initiate's oath, the

 first vivid ray of the Sun touched the top of the Castle

 wall, casting a pool of light down to the courtyard.

 Keridil felt a peculiar sense of peace steal over him - the

 peace of knowing that he had spoken from his heart, and

 set himself on a right and just course which, come what

 may, he would see through to the end. He had the

 resources of an entire world at his hand; the power of the

 Circle and of the ancient gods it worshipped. Against

 such strengths, Chaos couldn't hope to triumph - and it

 was Keridil's sworn duty to see it crushed and destroyed.

  

 They were watching him still, the silent little group in

 the doorway. Keridil hunched his shoulders, realising

 that he was cold. Then he began to walk purposefully up

 the wide, sweeping steps to meet them.