The Master

 Book 3 of the Time Master Trilogy

 by Louise Cooper

 Version 1.0

  

  

 Chapter 1

  

 At this early season, the dense forests which covered

 most of the western half of Chaun Province provided

 scant shelter for any traveller. In places the Spring buds

 had burst in isolated explosions of green, and on the

 forest floor bracken and brambles were tentatively

 showing new shoots; but, apart from the occasional

 glowering bulk of a giant pine, most of the woodlands

 trees were as yet leafless.

  

 In a clearing not far from the forest's northerly edge, a

 tall iron-grey gelding foraged disconsolately in the

 undergrowth, the broken reins of its bridle trailing

 behind it and catching on the briars. Its saddle had

 slipped halfway round its girth and one loose stirrup

 banged occasionally on a hind leg, making the animal

 flatten its ears and snap at the unseen irritant while sweat

 broke out on its withers. Though otherwise it seemed

 calm enough, there were tell-tale flecks of foam around

 its mouth and ringing the saddle like scum; and every

 now and again the gelding would pause in its browsing

 for no apparent reason and jerk its head up suspiciously,

 alert for some imagined threat.

  

 In the three hours since its extraordinary and terrified

 arrival in the clearing, the horse had ignored the still,

 slender figure lying sprawled across the protruding roots

 of a giant oak. Strict training had conditioned it not to

 leave its rider - whoever that rider might be - and seek

 freedom; but until the rider showed signs of con-

 sciousness, the animal had no interest in her. With the

 terrors of the last few hours all but forgotten, it was

 content to stay in the relative safety of the wood and

 continue grazing until it should be called upon to move.

  

 The girl, clinging frantically to the gelding's saddle as

 they exploded out of the howling insanity that had

 snatched them in its grip and hurled them here, had been

 thrown from the animal's back as it crashed down,

 screaming, among the undergrowth. She had slammed

 against the oak's gigantic bole and fallen like a shot bird

 to lie unmoving among the roots. Her face, half hidden

 under a tangle of near white hair and the tattered hood

 of a cloak, was drained and sickly, her lips bloodless;

 and a bright scarlet stain had spread from her skull

 across her forehead, mingling with other, older blood-

 stains that weren't her own. But she breathed . . . and

 at last, slowly, she began to stir.

  

 As she returned to consciousness Cyllan had no

 immediate memories of the events which had brought

 her to the forest. At first, dimly aware that she lay on

 hard, cold and damp ground, she thought herself asleep

 in the hide tent which she'd called home during her four

 years as an apprentice drover. But there was no claus-

 trophobic sense of enclosure, no stink and bawl of mill-

 ing cattle, no ill-tempered yelling from her uncle, Kand

 Brialen.

  

 Her droving days were over. A dream - nothing but a

 bad dream. Surely, she was still in the Castle . . . ?

  

 It was that thought which brought clarity back to her

 mind like a hard slap in the face, and involuntarily she

 jerked upright, her peculiar amber eyes opening and a

 cry, a name, breaking from her throat before she could

 stop it.

  

 'Tarod!'

  

 The gelding lifted its head and regarded her curiously.

 Cyllan stared back, bewildered, knowing only that she

 had never seen this place before. Hammers were beating

 in her skull; with a gasp of pain she slumped back against

 the tree trunk, and every muscle protested at the move-

 ment, making her feel as though her body were on fire.

 Her mind struggled frantically to assimilate the imposs-

 ible evidence of her senses. Where was the Castle? What

 had happened to Tarod? They'd found her in the stable

 when she was trying to reach him, dragged her out into

  

 into the black-walled courtyard where the High Initiate

 waited; and then, as the Warp had come shrieking over-

 head, Tarod had appeared -

  

 The Warp. Suddenly, Cyllan remembered, and with

 the memory came a sickness that clutched at her empty

 stomach and made her retch, violently and uselessly,

 doubled up against the tree's unyielding bark. She

 recalled the confrontation in the courtyard, her own

 escape - she had kicked the High Initiate full in the

 stomach, bitten the burly man who held her - and her

 precipitous flight when, trapped and beyond Tarod's

 reach, she had taken the only chance she had and leaped

 on to the gelding's back. She'd had some wild idea of

 riding down anyone who stood in her path, forcing a way

 through to Tarod, but the horse had panicked, bolted -

 and careered out through the Castle gates, straight into

 the path of the monstrous supernatural storm that raged

 in unleashed chaos outside.

  

 Cyllan shuddered as images of the horrors she had

 glimpsed in the split second before the storm engulfed

 her slid past her defences. The mountains, twisted to

 impossible shapes and dimensions; the sea seeming to

 rear in a titanic wall of water towering thousands of feet

 to the ravening sky; wild, monstrous faces manifesting

 from cloud and lightning, serpent tongues darting and

 voices bellowing with insensate agony - then the black

 wall had thundered in to meet her and she knew only

 darkness and madness until she had burst in a howling

 cacophony of noise and brilliance and buffeting pain on

 to a scene that almost smashed her sanity with its sheer

 normality. Then she was hurtling through the air - she

 heard the gelding shriek as it fell - and the tree, solid,

 real, uncompromising, obliterated her consciousness.

  

 At last the spasms in her stomach faded and she pulled

 herself to a less cramped position. She was alive - and

 whatever her predicament, that in itself was cause for

 sobering gratitude. Everyone in the land was brought up

 from childhood with a paralysing terror of the Warps;

 there wasn't a soul alive who hadn't heard the high, thin

 wailing out of the far North, and seen the bands of sickly

  

 colour marching across the sky, that presaged the onset

 of one of the appalling supernatural storms. The Warps

 were a legacy of Chaos, a last remaining manifestation

 of the pandemonium that had once ruled unchecked in

 the world before the rise of Order, and when they came,

 terrifying and unpredictable, every man, woman and

 child took shelter. Those who failed to find it had fervent

 prayers said for their souls by the Sisters of Aeoris, and

 left behind friends and relatives who knew that no trace

 of them would ever be found. Legend had it that the

 wailing scream which accompanied a Warp as it rode

 across the land was the massed lamentation of all those

 lost and damned, borne on the winds of Chaos.

  

 But twice now Cyllan had survived the indescribable

 horror of the storms; twice she'd found herself carried

 across the face of the world by the maelstrom and left

 battered and bruised, but alive, in some distant and

 unknown place. If the legends were credible - and there

 was enough gruesome evidence to prove their veracity -

 then she should be dead, and damned to whatever hell

 awaited the Warps' victims. Yet she lived . . . and the

 knowledge of why she lived made her shiver as she

 recalled the calculating and coldly invincible being who

 had pragmatically chosen to offer her his protection.

 Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who claimed kinship with

 Tarod and whose machinations had sparked off the

 whole ugly chain of events at the Castle of the Star

 Peninsula, had answered her desperate prayers for help

 when there was no other hope left to her. She remem-

 bered the unhuman smile on his beautiful face when, as

 she cowered before him, he had revealed his part in

 preserving her life and bringing her to the Castle when

 the Warp struck in Shu-Nhadek. As the grey gelding

 plunged through the Castle gates and into the storm she

 had screamed his name in a frantic, involuntary cry for

 aid, and it seemed that again he had answered her.

 Cyllan had no illusions about Yandros's loyalty or

 patronage; he protected her because she was useful to

 him, but should she fail in the task he had set her she

 could expect no mercy from him. And she knew - as he

  

 knew - that, now she had turned her face once from her

 fealty to the ruling lords of Order, she would find no

 forgiveness if she ever came to repent what she'd done.

 In casting her lot with Chaos, she had irrevocably

 damned herself in the eyes of her own gods.

  

 Cyllan shivered again, and reached to the neck of her

 grey dress, fumbling at the bodice until she drew out

 something that lodged between her breasts. She hadn't

 lost it in the wild flight from the Castle - and she felt an

 odd mixture of relief and disgust as she looked at the

 small clear, multifaceted jewel lying in the palm of her

 hand and winking a cold reflection of the drab daylight.

 The Chaos stone. A source of power and terror . . . and

 the vessel that contained the soul of the man she loved.

  

 Reflexively her hand closed over the stone, hiding it

 from view. Torn between hatred of the jewel's nature

 and the painful knowledge that without it he was

 incomplete, Tarod had warned her of its influence; an

 influence, he'd said, which corrupted and tainted any-

 thing it touched, or anyone who possessed it. Bitterly,

 she reflected how right he was. The stone had already

 aided her to kill once, firing her with a demonic blood-

 lust that made her revel in the act of murder. The

 stigmata of that deed still remained, in the dried red-

 brown stains that smeared her hands and clothes, and

 she knew how easy it was to fall under that dark influ-

 ence. Only Tarod could exert any control over the stone

 - and he needed it, for without it he was bereft of all but

 a fraction of his power. With the Circle, of which he'd

 once been a high Adept, pledged to destroy him, his life

 would be in danger until the jewel was in his possession

 once more.

  

 If, indeed, he was still alive . . .

  

 It wasn't in Cyllan's nature to cry. Her harsh life had

 taught her the futility of displaying any of the traditional

 feminine weaknesses, but abruptly she found herself on

 the verge of tears. If Tarod lived . . . The last thing she

 recalled before the gelding had bolted was seeing him on

 the steps by the Castle's main door, unarmed and

 pressed by three or four sword-wielding Initiates bent on

  

 cutting him down before he could retaliate. The Warp

 had been howling overhead and she had seen no more of

 him - but surely, surely even his diminished power was

 enough to save him? He could have escaped from the

 Castle - and if he had, he would be looking for her.

 Though where he would begin, with the entire world to

 choose from, was beyond imagining.

  

 Cyllan forced herself to look at the stone again, grim-

 acing as it shone like a malign, disembodied eye through

 the lattice of her fingers. Then, carefully, she tucked it

 back in the bodice of her dress, feeling it settle cold and

 unyielding against her skin. However ambiguous her

 feelings towards it, the stone was a talisman, her one link

 with Tarod, and if such a thing were possible it would

 call him to her. Yandros might not be able to lend her

 direct aid, but the Chaos lord wanted the gem restored

 to Tarod, and if that was her only hope of finding him

 then she would do all she could to further Yandros's

 aim. She closed her mind to any thoughts of what might

 happen beyond that; all that mattered was that she and

 Tarod should be reunited.

  

 But a clearing in a forest in the gods alone knew what

 part of the world was hardly the most auspicious starting

 place for a search. In the short time since she'd regained

 consciousness the light had perceptibly faded, telling her

 that the weather was deteriorating. She had no food,

 water or shelter, and no idea how far she might be from

 the nearest village or even drove road. She couldn't

 judge the time of day; it might be nearing dusk, and the

 forest wasn't a safe place to spend the night - it was high

 time she put aside her speculations and looked to the

 more practical and immediate problems of survival.

  

 She struggled to her feet, and the gelding raised its

 head suspiciously. Brushing debris from her crumpled

 clothes - her skirt was badly ripped at one side, she

 noticed - Cyllan put two fingers in her mouth and gave a

 peculiar, low whistle. The gelding laid its ears back; she

 whistled again, and, reluctantly obeying the summons,

 the animal approached close enough for her to take hold

 of its bridle. As she retightened the saddle and checked

  

 for broken straps, Cyllan was thankful, perhaps for the

 first time in her life, for the four years she'd spent travel-

 ling the roads on ponyback as an apprentice in her

 uncle's drover band. The whistle was a trick she'd

 learned early, and could command the most recalcitrant

 animal; the gelding would give her no trouble, and she

 was inured to long hours in the saddle. With Aeoris - she

 mentally corrected herself, smiling wryly to cover her

 unease - with luck on her side, she should make good

 enough speed to the nearest habitation.

  

 The harness was secure: balancing on a tree root to

 gain height, Cyllan swung herself into the saddle. Peer-

 ing up through the latticed branches of the trees she tried

 to discern the lie of the lowering Sun, but the tiny

 patchwork of sky above was overcast. She sat for a

 moment, considering, then swung the horse's head in

 what intuition told her was a roughly southerly direc-

 tion. Most of the forest belts which crossed the western

 and central parts of the land ran East to West; therefore

 if she rode South she should reach the edge of the

 woodland before long, and from there be able to pick up

 a drove road without too much difficulty.

  

 She didn't know, and didn't care to speculate, what

 might await her on her journey. If Tarod had escaped,

 word would soon be out and the hunt under way for him;

 possibly for her too, though it was more likely that the

 Circle would believe her dead. Somehow, she must find

 him before they did . . .

  

 She touched her heels to the gelding's flanks, and

 urged it forward among the dense, waiting trees.

  

 * * * * *

  

 The singing that drifted faintly from the direction of the

 main hall in the Castle of the Star Peninsula would have

 been a delight to hear, had it taken place under less

 dismal circumstances. The massed women's voices were

 beautiful, their harmonies rising and falling on the light

 evening breeze; but Keridil Toln couldn't for a moment

  

 forget that the Sisters of Aeoris were singing a requiem

 for the son of the man who sat opposite him in his study.

  

 Gant Ambaril Rannak, Margrave of Shu Province,

 listened to the choir with head bowed, one hand unmov-

 ing on the stem of his wine cup. Occasionally he looked

 up at the open window as though expecting to see some-

 thing or someone, and Keridil glimpsed the momentary

 glitter of suppressed rage in his eyes.

  

 At last Gant spoke, quietly, calmly. 'The Sisters' sing-

 ing is very moving. I appreciate the gesture, High Initi-

 ate, on their part and yours.' He blinked; frowned

 painfully. 'I only regret that their anthems can't bring

 Drachea back from the dead.'

  

 Keridil sighed. He had dreaded having to break the

 news that the Margrave's son and heir had been mur-

 dered while under his protection. Gant had arrived with

 his wife and entourage only that day, rejoicing to hear

 that Drachea had single-handedly thwarted the machi-

 nations of Chaos and performed a great service for the

 Circle. His son was a hero - but instead of sharing in his

 glory, the old man had been greeted instead with the

 shock of his bloody and ignominious death. Keridil had

 anticipated ranting, lamentation, accusation; but the

 Margrave's quiet, bitter grief had proved far harder to

 withstand. The Lady Margravine had collapsed and now

 lay in the Castle's best guest suite, tended by Grevard

 the physician; but Gant had refused all offers of seda-

 tives or calmatives, and instead, after seeing his son's

 corpse, had requested a private interview with the High

 Initiate.

  

 Keridil had now told the full story of Drachea's death;

 of how he had disturbed Cyllan, after her escape, in the

 act of stealing the Chaos stone, and of how she had slain

 him. He had wanted to confess to his own sense of

 responsibility for the young man's murder, yet apologies

 seemed grotesquely inadequate; all he could do was wait

 for Gant to say whatever he wished to say. Knowing the

 Margrave, Keridil had little doubt that he'd speak his

 mind.

  

 The singing faded on a final, poignant harmony, and

  

 the Margrave nodded his head as though in approval.

 Then he looked at Keridil again, and this time his eyes

 were iron hard.

  

 'Well, High Initiate. Only one question remains in my

 mind. What is to be done to avenge my son's murder?'

  

 Keridil glanced at the notes which he'd made earlier in

 the day. Though it would bring Gant small comfort, he

 could at least report that he hadn't been idle.

  

 'I've already set matters in train, Margrave,' he said.

 'You may have heard of the recent experiments carried

 out in Wishet and Empty Provinces, with message-

 carrying birds - '

  

 'I've heard of it, High Initiate. In fact, I suggested that

 the idea might be employed in the search for my son

 when he first disappeared.'

  

 Keridil flushed at the older man's tone. 'Indeed . . .

 well, the early experiments were successful enough for

 us to put the idea into practice here at the Castle. We

 have a master falconer visiting us from Empty Province,

 and his birds have proved reliable and far faster than any

 relay of horsemen.'

  

 Gant's eyes lit feverishly. 'Then you can send out - '

  

 'I already have, sir. Three birds were despatched at

 noon today, to carry word of what's happened here to

 West High Land, Han and Chaun. As soon as they land,

 more birds will leave for the other provinces. The news

 should reach the furthest outposts tomorrow, and even

 the High Margrave himself will hear of it within the day.'

  

 Gant's eyes narrowed. 'And the girl - that murdering

 little serpent . . . you've conveyed her description to

 every Margravate? To every militia leader?' His fist

 clenched involuntarily on the table. 'She must be found,

 High Initiate, and she must be executed!'

  

 The Margrave's single-mindedness was understand-

 able in the circumstances, but Keridil had more than

 Cyllan's whereabouts on his mind. Of the two people he

 sought she was by far the less dangerous, and though he

 was determined to bring her to justice he had more

 urgent priorities. Nonetheless, he was well aware that

 Gant must be handled with care; any hint that his son's

  

 murder took second place to other considerations would

 mean more trouble than Keridil could cope with at

 present.

  

 He said, 'Indeed we've circulated her description,

 Margrave; and I'm confident that she won't be able to

 escape the search for long - if she's still alive, which we

 can only surmise. The militia are to be put on full alert,

 and I've asked for the utmost co-operation from every

 province. However, I must add that we're dealing with

 something that could have even greater ramifications

 than Drachea's murder.' He glanced up, saw the older

 man's expression and continued with caution. 'You

 know now what's happened here at the Castle recently,

 how it came about, and who perpetrated it. That per-

 petrator is still at large - and he's a thousand times more

 dangerous than Cyllan Anassan. Please - ' he added

 quickly as Gant seemed about to protest, 'I share your

 anxiety to find the girl and punish her. But I dare not

 neglect the search for Tarod. He's far more than just a

 killer; he's an incarnation of Chaos.' He leaned forward,

 intent. 'Margrave, you've seen and heard for yourself a

 little of the havoc he's capable of wreaking. Can you

 imagine what the fate of all of us would be if such a

 monstrous power of evil were let loose on the world?'

  

 Gant was silent, and Keridil knew his words had

 found their mark. 'I don't want to cause undue alarm in

 the land, especially not at this stage,' he added quietly.

 'But I'd be failing in my duty if I didn't spread the

 warning, and spread it fast. To be brutally honest, our

 world could be facing a danger the like of which has been

 unknown since the fall of the Old Ones. And I'm not

 ashamed to admit to being afraid.'

  

 Had he made a mistake in being so frank? The

 Margrave's face had taken on a pinched, tight look, and

 his gaze flickered uneasily to the window and back.

  

 'High Initiate, I find it hard to believe - ' he coughed

 to clear his throat as his voice cracked involuntarily, 'to

 believe that the Circle, in which resides the power and

 the sanction of Aeoris himself - ' He made the White

  

 God's sign over his own heart but seemed unable to

 finish the sentence.

  

 Keridil sighed. 'I fervently wish that half the tales

 which are told about the Circle's abilities were true,

 Margrave, but the bald fact is that, whilst we might have

 Aeoris's sanction, it would be folly to assume that we

 have his power, or anything resembling it.' His expres-

 sion hardened. 'That's a lesson I've recently learned

 through bitter experience, and to pretend otherwise

 would be to court disaster.' He clasped his hands

 together, the knuckles whitening. 'Without the jewel I

 told you of, Tarod's by no means invincible. But if he

 should find that girl before we do, and recover the stone,

 he'll regain his full power. And that means the power to

 summon back the full forces of Chaos and darkness to

 the world.'

  

 'But surely no man can command such sorcery!'

  

 'No man, no - but this isn't a man we're contending

 with. Tarod is kin to Chaos; born of Chaos. Don't doubt

 his capabilities, Margrave. I once made that mistake.'

  

 Gant shifted uncomfortably on his chair, chagrined.

 'This is far more serious than I realised ... I under-

 stand your concern, Keridil, and I share it.' He made a

 bleak attempt at a smile. 'Inasmuch as you have your

 duty, I also have mine, and I accept that personal con-

 siderations must take second place. How can Shu

 Province aid you?'

  

 Keridil gave silent thanks for the hard edge of innate

 common sense which characterised the older man,

 shored up by twenty years of rigid governorship. As well

 as encompassing the largest and safest sea-port in the

 land, Shu Province also boasted a strong and efficient

 militia, and the Margravate's resources were among the

 best to be found anywhere. Gant would make an invalu-

 able ally.

  

 He nodded. 'I'm grateful for your support, sir, and

 your generosity - and I don't mind admitting I'll need all

 the help I can find, especially in terms of manpower.'

  

 'Indeed. But you must realise, of course, that once

 word of this spreads, although you'll have that help from

  

 every quarter you'll also be running the risk of spreading

 panic throughout the land.' He bit his lip. 'Fear of Chaos

 is deeply rooted in all of us, and the thought that it might

 be summoned back . . . ' His shrug, masking a shiver,

 was eloquent.

  

 'I considered that, but I dare not minimise the peril

 we're in,' Keridil said, recalling the hours of mental

 torment as he struggled to assess the wisdom of the

 decision he'd made. 'People must be told, Margrave. I

 can't, in all conscience, keep back the truth.'

  

 Gant inclined his head. 'Yes ... I see your dilemma,

 and I think I must agree with you. However, to avoid

 hysteria it may be necessary to impose certain strictures

 over and above the laws of our land. In my own province

 for example - '

  

 Keridil interrupted him. 'I'll sanction anything you

 consider advisable that falls within my own jurisdiction,

 sir. And if the High Margrave's consent is needed, I'll do

 my utmost to secure it.'

  

 'Thank you. Speaking of the High Margrave . . . you

 said that one of your message birds is bound for the

 Summer Isle?'

  

 'It is, yes.' The High Initiate hesitated, wondering

 whether it would be advisable to confide fully in Gant;

 then he decided that there could be no harm in it. 'I've

 also sent word to the Lady Matriarch Ilyaya Kimi, at her

 Cot.' He hesitated. 'You may as well know now, sir, that

 I've asked the views of both on the possibility of calling a

 Conclave on the White Isle.'

  

 Gant stared at him, stunned. 'On the ... ' He

 swallowed. 'Surely, Keridil, matters haven't come to

 that!'

  

 'They haven't, no: but they could. And if they do, we

 might have no choice but to sanction the opening of the

 casket.'

  

 Gant made the Sign of Aeoris over his heart again.

 His face had turned the unhealthy colour of putty, and

 he tried not to think about the implications of what the

 High Initiate had said. Every child was brought up on

 the legend of the gold casket which had been Aeoris's

  

 legacy to his world and his followers after the fall of the

 old race, when Chaos was defeated and banished. The

 casket was held in a shrine on the White Isle, a strange,

 volcanic island off the coast of Shu-Nhadek, and

 guarded by a hereditary caste of zealots who were the

 only men allowed to set foot on the Isle's sanctified

 ground. Only in a time of gravest crisis could the High

 Initiate, High Margrave and Lady Matriarch of the Sis-

 terhood of the Aeoris sail to the Isle where, in Conclave,

 they might take the decision to open the sacred relic.

 And if the casket should be opened, it would summon

 Aeoris himself back to the world . . . No, Gant told

 himself desperately; matters couldn't have reached such

 a pass . . .

  

 Keridil watched the changing expressions on the older

 man's face, and could sympathise with his obvious dis-

 tress. The thought of being forced to take a decision that

 had not been faced for thousands of years was enough to

 give him nightmares - but if it had to be done, he knew

 he'd do it.

  

 'Margrave, I believe - and I hope - that the possibility

 is very remote,' he said. 'But it must be borne in mind.'

 He paused, then added: 'At dawn today, I made an oath

 that I won't rest until Tarod has been found and

 destroyed, and I promise you now that I'm as deter-

 mined to see Drachea's killer brought to justice. I mean

 to keep faith with both pledges, whatever the cost.'

  

 For a few moments Gant deliberated, then, slowly

 and with reluctance, he nodded. 'Yes, I understand,' He

 looked up, his eyes bleak. 'And I like to think that, were

 I in your place, I'd have the courage to make the same

 decision.'

  

 Full darkness had fallen by the time Cyllan at last urged

 the grey gelding through a dense thicket and, to her

 surprise, found herself clear of the trees on a ridge that

 overlooked a narrow road. A treacherous but nego-

 tiable bank led down to the track, which gleamed the

 colour of old, pale bone under the night sky, and beyond

 it the brooding mass of the forest stretched away again

  

 into utter blackness. This was no main drove way, only a

 small, neglected tributary which probably carried little

 or no traffic: but a road was a road, and a blessed relief

 after the nightmare of fighting her way through endless

 acres of branches and undergrowth, with the super-

 stitious fear of woods at night all too close to the surface

 of her mind.

  

 The gelding was uneasy, tired and becoming

 rebellious, but Cyllan held it firmly still while she gazed

 around and tried to get her bearings. A single cold star

 hung far away to her right, but the familiar con-

 stellations were being rapidly obscured by a heavy bank

 of cloud driving in from what she guessed was the North-

 West and bringing a chill, dreary wind. The horse

 snorted and shook its head, smelling rain on the wind,

 and a few moments later the first drops stung her face.

  

 Unless she'd judged wrongly the road ran roughly

 North to South, and she turned in the saddle to gaze

 northward, where the pale ribbon vanished among the

 folds of low hills. Far away in that direction - though

 how far, she had no way of telling - lay the Star Penin-

 sula, and the grim Castle where she'd had her last sight

 of Tarod.

  

 Was he there still? She didn't know how much time

 had passed since the Warp snatched her away; if the

 Circle had recaptured him he might now be dead . . .

 She bit her lip hard, fighting down a powerful urge to

 turn the gelding's head to the North and ride it to the

 limits of its endurance until she reached the coast and

 the Castle. That would be foolhardy - the Circle had

 marked her as a murderess, and to ride back into their

 embrace would be to court disaster. All she could do was

 pray that Tarod was alive, free, and seeking her.

  

 She pressed her heels to the gelding's flanks and set it

 slithering down the steep bank towards the road. The

 rain was falling more heavily by now and the animal

 slipped several times on the wet grass; below, the track

 had taken on a slick sheen. Reaching the bottom of the

 slope Cyllan turned the horse southward, urging it

 ahead, and as it settled into a steady, ground-covering

  

 trot she pulled her cloak more closely about herself in an

 effort to keep out the worst of the wet. To either side the

 forest hissed as rain lashed the undergrowth, and the

 night took on an unreal edge; black silhouettes of trees

 flanking and looming with only the cold white ribbon of

 the road ahead to provide a narrow, mesmeric focus.

 The muffled sound of her mount's hoofs seemed to echo

 her own heartbeats, and she began to feel an uneasy

 prickling in her scalp, as though a sixth sense warned her

 that some unseen shadow followed in her wake. She

 shook the thought off, aware that it was triggered by

 tiredness and the tricky illusions of the dark. Nonethe-

 less, there were real risks in plenty on such a road as this,

 and she couldn't - daren't-stop in this lonely stretch of

 nowhere, at least until morning broke.

  

 The gelding checked suddenly, breaking the hypnotic

 rhythm of its hoofbeats and startling her back to

 wakefulness. Even as she realised that she had been on

 the verge of falling asleep in the saddle, another sen-

 sation assailed her - a sharp stab of instinct that urged

 her to look back over her shoulder. And this time, it was

 no product of an overworked imagination. Her lungs

 and throat felt stifled and, aware that she was having to

 force herself not to shiver uncontrollably, Cyllan cau-

 tiously turned her head.

  

 There were four of them; black, formless shapes in the

 gloom behind her, shadowing her track and slowly clos-

 ing. For an instant a terrible image leaped into Cyllan's

 mind - tales she had heard of ghouls and demons, dead

 things that left their dismal graves to pursue the unwary

 traveller - then, faintly on the wind, she heard a restless

 metallic jingle as a horse chafed at its bit, and realised

 that her followers were made of flesh and blood.

  

 Brigands. Irrational fear had clouded her mind to the

 threat of attack from a physical and all too human quar-

 ter - but the mounted men now closing on her were real

 enough. A woman riding a good horse alone at night

 would be easy prey, and could anticipate nothing

 beyond a slit throat, if she were lucky . . .

  

 The gelding was dancing sideways, sensing something

  

 amiss. It was possible - just possible - that she could

 outrun her pursuers; though the thought that they prob-

 ably rode fresh horses while her own mount was near-

 exhausted chilled her to the bone. But she couldn't stand

 and fight them - flight was her only hope of survival.

  

 She held the gelding back, trying to calm it and give

 the brigands the impression that she was, as yet,

 unaware of their presence behind her. But they were

 moving closer . . . now she could hear a faint after-echo

 of hoofbeats that weren't those of her own horse. Care-

 fully, she reached to her throat and with shaking, fum-

 bling fingers unpinned the clasp that held her cloak. As

 she did so she felt the Chaos stone dig sharply against her

 breast, and the unwonted reminder of its presence

 brought her a flicker of comfort. If Yandros, highest lord

 of Chaos, watched over her, then surely he would aid

 her if he could . . . She gathered up the reins, settled

 herself more securely in the wet saddle, pressed her

 thighs and knees as hard as she could against the geld-

 ing's flanks; then gripped the unfastened clasp so that

 the pin protruded from between her fingers -

  

 The gelding sprang forward with a shriek of protest as

 the clasp-pin jabbed through its hide behind the saddle

 cantle. Cyllan crouched over its neck, clinging desper-

 ately and precariously and praying that she wouldn't

 lose her grip and fall. Behind her, new sounds cut

 through the night; men cursing, the sudden thunder of

 many more hoofs as the brigands spurred their mounts

 into the chase. Cyllan lashed the gelding's withers with

 the looped reins, screaming at it to gallop faster. It laid

 its ears back, eyes rolling, but she felt the powerful

 muscles beneath her bunch to greater effort. The road

 ahead veered crazily, trees seeming to fly past them, and

 she tried not to think of what might happen if some night

 animal should suddenly skitter across their path.

  

 Sweat laced the gelding's neck and flanks; sensing its

 rider's fear it was racing flat out, but even so Cyllan

 could hear the brigands closing on her. Her mount was

 exhausted, the last of its stamina draining fast - its

 utmost efforts wouldn't be enough to save her. Almost

  

 sobbing with terror, she lashed it again and again, all the

 while knowing that she had only minutes, at most,

 before they'd be on her.

  

 'Yandros!' The name broke from her throat in a crack-

 ing scream, a last cry of defiance. Ahead, the corpse-

 white ribbon of the track bent sharply, seeming to

 plunge back into the forest, and a wild hope surged

 suddenly in Cyllan. If she could reach the trees she might

 still elude them - however slight, it was a chance!

  

 The gelding careered round the bend in the track,

 sliding dangerously - and then it was rearing and skid-

 ding on the treacherous ground as the brilliant glare of

 torches sprang out of the dark and rough voices shouted

 a warning.

  

 Cyllan felt the animal's hoofs sliding from under it;

 she pitched forward, clutched wildly at a handful of

 mane and somehow stayed in the saddle. Then the geld-

 ing regained its feet, she saw a blade flash in the hot

 light, heard someone swearing. Hands took hold of her

 as the horse slithered to a halt and all but fell, and she

 was helped from its back to collapse to her knees on the

 sodden ground. Through her confusion she was aware of

 other horses shouldering past her, back on to the road

 down which she'd come; then at last she was lifted to her

 feet and found herself looking into the astonished gaze

 of a middle-aged man.

  

 'Aeoris preserve us, it's a woman!' The words were

 punctuated by the crackling and spitting of the torch

 flames as the rain tried, vainly, to extinguish them. More

 faces loomed, grotesque in the flaring glow, and some-

 one made a great fuss of opening and proffering a small

 metal flask. Cyllan accepted it gratefully, her throat too

 dry for speech, and took a good-sized mouthful of the

 warming, burning spirit.

  

 There, now.' Concern laced the speaker's voice.

 'You're safe now, lady. Our men'll catch those murder-

 ing devils, and they'll hang by morning.'

  

 A Chaun Province accent. . . Cyllan tried to express

 her thanks, but her lungs were straining for air and still

 she couldn't speak. Someone took her arm to steady

  

 her, and another asked anxiously, 'Are you harmed,

 madam? Can you tell us what happened to you?' The

 deferential manner of his question made Cyllan realise

 that the men had taken her for a woman of some quality.

 Her clothes, together with the obvious good breeding of

 the horse she rode, had created an impression that was

 very far from the truth, and shock made her want to

 laugh. She took a grip on herself, aware that she'd be

 well advised not to disillusion them - to disclose her real

 identity could be very dangerous. But it would be a hard

 deception to maintain. She'd need to invent a plausible

 story, and she felt in no condition for quick or clever

 thinking now.

  

 Dissembling, she made a pretence of being about to

 faint - as most well-bred women would have done in

 such straits - and instantly the men were solicitous and

 apologetic, helping her to the side of the track and

 insisting that she sit down. She smiled wanly at them and

 whispered, 'Thank you . . . you're very kind.'

  

 'It's nothing, lady - but what of your companions?

 Surely you weren't riding alone?'

  

 The idea was unthinkable to them, and Cyllan

 realised that they'd also have seen the bloodstains on her

 clothes, and the fact that her horse wore a saddle

 designed for a man. She swallowed. 'No -I - there were

 six of us. My. . . my brother and I, and-four servants.'

 And, anticipating the next question, she added, 'One of

 our pack-horses cast a shoe, and we were forced to make

 camp for the night in the forest. We were attacked, and -

 one of my brother's men died defending me.' She bit her

 lip, hoping that the grief and fear she had tried to inject

 in her voice was enough to convince them. 'In the con-

 fusion, my brother threw me on to his horse and set it

 galloping away.' She looked up at the questioner, her

 amber eyes wide. 'I don't know what became of them

 all . . . '

  

 They believed her, at least thus far, and one said with

 determination, 'We'll find them, lady, be assured of it!'

  

 'If they live,' another commented under his breath.

  

 'Quiet, Vesey.' The first speaker gave him a withering

  

 look. 'The lady's suffered enough without your gloomy

 predictions.' He turned back to Cyllan. 'We'll send

 searchers out immediately, and in the meantime two of

 us will take you to Wathryn town - it's but a short ride

 from here.' He rose stiffly to his feet. 'Gordach, Lesk -

 you'll act as escort for the lady. Take her to Sheniya Win

 Mar at the High Tree tavern, and I'll join you there

 later.' Holding out a hand to Cyllan he bowed cour-

 teously. 'We'll have news for you by morning, madam; I

 promise.'

  

 Cyllan nodded slowly and thanked him, then let her

 escort help her on to the gelding, which stood at the side

 of the road with its head hanging in exhaustion. She

 assured them she could ride unaided, but the older of the

 two men insisted on taking the reins and walking at her

 mount's head while the other rode by her side, short

 sword drawn and resting across his lap. The circle of

 torchlight fell behind, and Gordach - her younger com-

 panion - assured her that they'd be in no danger without

 light; the town was barely a mile away and besides the

 rain was clearing; any time now they'd have one or both

 Moons to guide them. He was a talkative youth and kept

 up a flow of chatter as the horses plodded on. Cyllan

 learned that her rescuers were part of a volunteer militia

 formed by order of the Province Margrave in an attempt

 to stem the rapidly increasing deprivations of the brig-

 and bands. Every town of reasonable size had such a

 force now, Gordach told her, and no less than fourteen

 outlaws had been brought to justice and executed in

 their own district alone. And now with this latest news

 from the North there'd doubtless be yet more work for

 them to do.

  

 Cyllan's skin crawled uneasily and she said, 'Latest

 news . . . ?'

  

 Gordach smiled proudly. 'It was brought in by courier

 only an hour before we left on our patrol, lady. We must

 be one of the first towns, beyond the Province capitals,

 to have word of it.' He paused for emphasis, then leaned

 towards her and whispered confidentially, 'News from

 the Star Peninsula!'

  

 Cyllan's fingers tightened on the gelding's reins and

 she buried her hands in the animal's mane lest Gordach

 should see them shaking. Trying to keep her voice even,

 she said, 'I've heard nothing of it.'

  

 'No - if truth be told, none of us knows the details as

 yet. The courier arrived exhausted, and his message

 won't be broadcast till morning. But I believe,' Gordach

 smiled at her again, clearly hoping to impress her, 'that it

 concerns a dangerous killer who has escaped the Circle's

 custody together with his accomplice!'

  

 So the hunt was up . . . Cyllan licked lips that were

 suddenly dry, and Gordach talked happily on.

  

 'We'll learn the details at dawn, and hopefully we'll

 have a description of the two. I've heard that the news

 was brought from West High Land by messenger bird -

 if that's true, then it's a wonderful innovation, for the

 message must have reached our Margrave in hours

 rather than days.' He shifted eagerly in his saddle, grip-

 ping the sword across his lap, 'I hope the wanted man

 comes to Chaun Province - we'd earn a great accolade if

 we could be the ones to apprehend him!'

  

 Cyllan didn't reply, and the man who walked at her

 horse's head looked back over his shoulder.

  

 'Hush your noise, Gordach. The lady's in no mood for

 your babbling-begging your pardon, madam, but if he's

 not told, the boy will rattle on until his tongue drops

 out!'

  

 Cyllan nodded, but still didn't trust herself to speak.

 Gordach fell silent, and when she looked up again she

 saw that they were nearing the town. The hunched

 silhouettes of buildings showed against the sky ahead,

 one with a soft halo of light glowing from a window

 despite the late hour. As they approached, an unseen

 watcher issued a sharp challenge out of the darkness and

 Lesk answered gruffly. Halting Cyllan's horse he hur-

 ried forward alone, and she heard a brief exchange of

 words as her presence was explained before Lesk came

 back and led the horse on. A man muffled in a heavy

 cloak touched a finger to his brow politely as they

 passed, and they rode on into the town.

  

 Though not large by inland standards, Wathryn was

 clearly a prosperous and busy place. Acres of forest had

 been cut down as what had begun as a simple timber-

 men's settlement grew, and Wathryn now boasted sev-

 eral merchants' houses of impressive size, a justice

 house where courts were held and local business con-

 ducted, and a paved market square. Now though, all was

 quiet, although Cyllan could hear the sound of a mill-

 race somewhere near by where a small river had been

 tamed.

  

 'Almost there now, lady,' Gordach told her,

 undaunted by Lesk's disapproving scowl. The horses'

 hoofs echoed loudly as they reached the market square,

 and now Cyllan could see a long, low building fronting

 the square, with a stylised painting of a spreading oak

 tree adorning its facade. A single light glowed in a

 downstairs window, and Lesk stepped up to the door,

 hammering on it with a heavy fist.

  

 'Sheniya! Sheniya Win Mar! It's Lesk Barith - I've a

 guest in need of your hospitality!'

  

 A minute later the door creaked open, and a plump

 middle-aged woman peered out, her eyes widening

 when she saw Cyllan and her escort.

  

 'Aeoris preserve us, what's this at such an hour? Lesk

 Barith, have you lost your wits?'

  

 Lesk explained briefly, while Cyllan sat mute on her

 gelding trying to quell a rising sense of dread that threat-

 ened to suffocate her. The news of her escape was

 abroad, and there was a price on her head - by morning,

 the townsfolk would be able to match her face and all too

 distinctive hair to the description of the hunted mur-

 deress. She desperately wanted to flee, turn her horse

 about and run while she still could; but both she and the

 animal were exhausted - to flee would damn her

 immediately, and she couldn't hope to outrun a pursuit.

 She had at least a few hours' grace - better to keep up

 her pretence and wait for an opportunity to leave

 unnoticed ... if the opportunity was to be found.

  

 Sheniya Win Mar had by now heard the bare bones of

 Cyllan's story, and her natural instinct took over from

  

 indignation at the disturbance. She soundly berated

 Lesk for keeping the lady waiting while he prated, then

 as soon as the girl was helped down from her mount she

 bustled forward.

  

 'There now, madam, we'll soon have you warmed and

 comfortable! What you must have suffered; it doesn't

 bear thinking about - but you're safe now. Come; come

 in, and let me find you the best chair . . . '

  

 Cyllan heard the clatter of the gelding's hoofs as Lesk

 took it away. She resisted the impulse to look back

 longingly over her shoulder and, taking a deep and

 nervous breath, allowed the tavern-keeper to lead her

 inside.

  

 Chapter 2

  

 The hawk was hardly more than a speck against the

 uneasy sky, a tiny shape arrowing its way eastward on

 the prevailing wind. It was unlikely that any casual

 observer on the ground would even have noticed it, but

 the man who sat in the lee of a rocky outcrop on the

 slopes of the hills bordering Han and Empty Provinces

 had seen the bird appear over the horizon, and now

 watched its rapid progress with narrowed green eyes.

  

 Why the hawk should have aroused both his interest

 and a measure of disquiet Tarod couldn't tell; but there

 was something purposeful about its flight, as though it

 travelled on some mission above and beyond the call of

 instinct. And the fact that it had come out of the North-

 West - the direction of the Star Peninsula - could well be

 significant.

  

 The bird was all but lost to sight now and he shifted his

 position, stretching one leg to ease a touch of cramp and

 leaning back against the outcrop. The morning was chill,

 but as yet he was in no mood to resume his own journey;

 he'd walked nearly all night and, as well as being phys-

 ically fatigued, he needed time to consider his next

 move.

  

 Tarod had departed the Star Peninsula in a spectacu-

 lar manner that he had no anxiety to experience again.

 Before he left, he had sworn to Keridil that he had no

 quarrel with the Circle; but he believed the High Initiate

 would take no heed of his word. Keridil wanted revenge

 for those who had died - and he also wanted the Chaos

 stone. That gem lay at the hub of this whole ugly affair,

 and Tarod had to force back the chilly mingling of

 longing and loathing that always assailed him when he

  

 thought of it. Much as he might prefer to deny the fact,

 he needed the stone - it was a vital and integral part of

 him, for it was the vessel for his own soul. And without it

 he could only ever hope to be half alive.

  

 But the stone was a curse as well as a lifeline, for it

 shackled him to an inner self whose essence originated in

 pure evil - and therein lay the dilemma which had

 haunted Tarod since he had first discovered the gem's

 nature. Yandros, Lord of Chaos, had awoken in him

 memories of a past so ancient that it almost defied

 imagination, and he couldn't deny that that past had a

 terrible lure. Yet to acknowledge the stone's true power

 and realise his full potential would be to turn his back on

 all that he had ever held sacrosanct. He had been a high

 Adept of the Circle, a chosen servant of the gods of

 Order - Chaos was anathema to him. And yet he owed

 his existence to those same malign powers . . .

  

 It was a paradox he couldn't resolve, and now it was

 further complicated by the knowledge that he also owed

 his life to Yandros. Had it not been for the Chaos lord's

 intercession through Cyllan, he would have been con-

 signed to the grisly death ordained by Keridil, and the

 stone would have fallen into the Circle's hands. That

 wouldn't accord with Yandros's scheme - Tarod was

 well aware that the malevolent lord still meant to use

 him as a vehicle for his plans to challenge the rule of

 Aeoris and the gods of Order, and Yandros believed

 that, at the final test, the ancient affinities would defeat

 any barriers Tarod tried to set against them.

  

 He shivered inwardly at that thought, for he knew that

 with the stone in his possession again it would be all too

 easy to succumb to its pervasive influence. And though

 he wanted to survive, the thought of surviving as a pawn

 in Yandros's deadly game turned his blood cold.

  

 Yet he dared not leave matters unresolved, and in the

 wake of his flight from the Star Peninsula he had realised

 that there was only one course of action open to him.

 When the stone's nature had first been revealed to him -

 and it seemed a long time ago now - he had pledged to

 take the jewel to the White Isle far in the South, and to

  

 give it into the safe keeping of the one entity powerful

 enough to combat Yandros's power . . . Aeoris him-

 self. The conflict with the Circle, and all that followed,

 had made him doubt the wisdom of that decision, but

 now he saw no other way open to him. He had served

 Aeoris faithfully, whatever Keridil might say to the

 contrary - only the White Lord himself could finally

 resolve his terrible dilemma and relieve him of the

 stone's burden.

  

 But to reach the White Isle would be a fruitless

 achievement unless he could find Cyllan . . .

  

 Tarod's eyes narrowed with a sudden, sharp pain.

 He'd been trying not to think of Cyllan, aware that in

 spite of what his instincts told him he had no evidence

 that she was still alive. When the Margrave's horse had

 bolted into the maelstrom of the Warp with her on its

 back, his wild despair had found an outlet in rage. But

 now that his mind had had time to calm and reason, he

 realised that if Yandros had manipulated events in his

 own favour once, he could do so again - and Cyllan's

 well-being was very much in the Chaos Lord's interest.

 Intuition told him that Cyllan lived; and he believed

 that, if she could keep her freedom, she would travel

 South to Shu-Nhadek, knowing that he too would be

 making it his goal.

  

 But there would be dangers on the road, not least

 from the Circle themselves. There must be a price on

 Cyllan's head as well as on his own, and Keridil would

 stint nothing in the search for them both. Cyllan had the

 Chaos stone but it was of little value to her, while he,

 without it, was seriously hampered. He had used all the

 power he could muster to escape from the Star Penin-

 sula, and the exertion of energy had been almost too

 much for him - he had had to trust to his ancient affinity

 with the Chaotic origins of the Warp and let it carry him

 where it would, and while he had survived the experi-

 ence it had utterly drained him. The Circle might expect

 him to use his sorcery to discover Cyllan's whereabouts

 and to transport himself instantly to her side; Tarod

 knew that without the soul-stone his powers weren't up

  

 to such a feat. He was little better off than a high-ranking

 Initiate, and would need all his physical resources to

 compensate for the loss of his sorcerous potential if he

 was to find Cyllan before the Circle did.

  

 He smiled wryly to himself, aware that as yet he'd

 made a poor show of attending to his own physical

 needs. He'd had no rest since his spectacular departure

 from the Castle, and carried no food or water, nor any

 coin to buy them with. Although some game inhabited

 these sere hills and he was a passing fair shot with a

 crossbow, he couldn't conjure a crossbow from thin air.

 His only resources were the clothes he stood up in, an

 Initiate's gold badge, and whatever small measure of

 power might be left to him.

  

 He shifted his position again and gazed up at the sky.

 Behind a pall of restless cloud the Sun was marching

 towards the low meridian of a northern Spring. The

 wind was beginning to bluster as it backed to a more

 northerly direction, and on the horizon, where the hills

 rose higher and more barren towards the gloomy min-

 eral mines of Empty Province, the cloudbank was

 stained an ugly purple, presaging rain. He judged that it

 would be several hours before the first squall reached

 him, and in the meantime the change in the wind meant

 that his rock alcove was better sheltered. He'd be well

 advised to rest before continuing his journey; he was

 close to exhaustion, and sleep was more imperative now

 than sustenance. Besides, these bleak hills with their

 old, deserted roads were a safer resting place than any

 he'd be likely to be find once he reached the more

 populous farmlands.

  

 The rock made a hard and uncomfortable bed, but

 Tarod settled himself as best he could, wrapping his

 heavy cloak more tightly round his body. The wind,

 gusting, moaned like a faraway voice from a half-forgot-

 ten dream in his mind, and within minutes he was asleep.

  

 Instinct roused him seconds before the sounds of hoofs

 and heavy breathing impinged on the wind's lonely

 mourning. His green eyes snapped open - and he found

  

 himself staring at a monstrous silhouette that blocked

 out half the restless sky. A strong, animal smell

 assaulted his nostrils and he tensed with shock, not

 knowing whether the apparition was mortal or some-

 thing out of a chasm of nightmare.

  

 A throaty laugh grated and the monstrosity moved,

 splitting apart to resolve itself into the shapes of two

 mounted - and indisputably mortal - men.

  

 The sleeper wakes.' The accent was guttural, and

 Tarod suspected that it had its origins in the far North of

 Empty Province. He didn't like its overtones. 'Welcome

 back to the world, friend. And isn't it an honour to have

 such good companions to greet you?'

  

 Behind Tarod someone sniggered, and he turned his

 head quickly to see three more horsemen behind him.

 The one who had laughed was a pockmarked, vacuous-

 faced youth of 16 or 17; the others older men but no

 more savoury, and Tarod realised that they were - could

 only be - a band of brigands.

  

 He sighed and leaned his head back against the rock,

 closing his eyes once more. He had nothing about him

 worth looting, so it was likely as not that these evil-

 looking ruffians wouldn't give him much trouble; but

 their unwonted arrival was an irritation.

  

 The leader, a snake-thin individual festooned with a

 bizarre assortment of stolen trinkets over a filthy fur

 coat, sniffed loudly. 'Our friend doesn't seem to appre-

 ciate our generosity in stopping to pass the time of day

 with him.' He inched his horse forward and prodded at

 Tarod with the toe of one boot. Tarod opened his eyes.

 'On your feet, friend.'

  

 Tarod stared at him. 'Are you addressing me?'

  

 The youth sniggered again and the leader made a

 mock bow. 'Your pardon, sir, if I gave offence! But I see

 no one else to address.'

  

 The other men laughed uproariously and their leader

 grinned at the approbation. His horse inched closer still

 and the others followed his example, so that Tarod was

 tightly encircled.

  

 'Maybe he's got a legion of demons hidden in his

  

 pocket, Ravakin,' one suggested. 'Maybe that's who he

 thought you were talking to!'

  

 Ravakin smirked, showing a mouthful of decayed

 teeth. 'Maybe he's got a horse and bags stowed up his

 sleeve, more like it. Maybe he'd like to show 'em to us,

 as a token of comradeship and goodwill.' For the second

 time a toe prodded Tarod in the ribs. 'Come on, friend.

 Where are your belongings?'

  

 Evenly, Tarod said, 'You see them with your own

 eyes, friend.'

  

 'The traveller has a sense of humour.' Ravakin leered.

  

 A heavy-set man beside him chuckled. 'D'you think

 he'll be as entertaining with a fire lit under him?'

  

 'He'll be a damned sight more talkative. No man in his

 right mind walks these hills if he wants to stay alive - he's

 got a mount somewhere. And he'll tell us where it is.' He

 licked his lips. 'By the time we've entertained him a

 while, he'll be begging to tell us.'

  

 He obviously intended the words to sap Tarod's con-

 fidence, and was chagrined when the black-haired man

 only smiled faintly. Frowning, he gestured to the bur-

 liest of his companions. 'Search him. See what he's got

 about him.'

  

 'Don't trouble yourself.' Tarod rose with a swift, lithe

 movement that startled them. He threw his cloak back

 and his voice was deceptively gentle. 'I have no coin, no

 possessions, nothing that would interest you, gentle-

 men. If you wish to search for a horse, do so with my

 blessing. You won't find one, for I don't own one.'

  

 The youth piped up in a voice that was only half

 broken. 'He might be speaking the truth, Ravakin.

 We've seen nothing, and you couldn't hide a worm in

 these barrens -

  

 'Shut your clatter!' Ravakin snapped viciously. 'He

 hasn't walked without horse or provisions into the mid-

 dle of nowhere! Amit, Yil - we'll give our friend here a

 little lesson in neighbourliness to loosen his tongue.' As

 he spoke he urged his horse forward so that its flank,

 brushing by, knocked Tarod off balance. At the same

  

 moment two of the others closed their mounts in, spin-

 ning him back towards Ravakin, their hoofs kicking up

 the dust in a choking cloud.

  

 'Hold, Rav!' The sudden exclamation brought the

 brigand leader up short. 'What's that under his cloak?'

  

 'What?' Ravakin's sly, acquisitive eyes focused on

 Tarod, but Amit, who had spoken, recognised the dis-

 tinctive symbol before his leader did.

  

 'Damn us all, Rav, he's an Initiate!'

  

 'Initiate?' The leader gave him a scorching look. 'He

 could be Margrave of the Seven Hells for all I care!' He

 leaned forward in the saddle, and hot breath laced with

 the odours of stale food fanned Tarod's face. 'Maybe

 that's what we'll dub him. Our exalted friend, Margrave

 of the Seven Hells. Come on, Margrave. You're going to

 dance for us till we tire of you, and then we'll see about

 relieving you of that pretty trinket if you've nothing

 better to offer!'

  

 Tarod said nothing, didn't move, and slowly, with

 relish, Ravakin drew a long knife from his belt. His

 thumb played on the hilt. 'Did you hear me, Margrave of

 the Seven Hells? We're going to send you to your own

 domain ... ' He reached out and, with practised

 confidence, touched the point of the knife to Tarod's

 throat, while two of his men started to whistle in crude

 harmony. 'Entertain us, Margrave. Let's see you dance

 to our tune!'

  

 Tarod had stood impassive throughout the brigands'

 taunting, but suddenly anger smouldered in him and

 with it came a resurgence of another, familiar feeling.

 He'd made no move to challenge his assailants, knowing

 he was at a disadvantage and unsure of how much

 power, if any, he could bring to bear against them. But

 the anger had awoken other emotions, and he realised

 that, weakened though he might be, he was still far more

 than a match for such a gaggle of arrogant fools.

  

 'Ravakin.' He spoke quietly but the abrupt change in

 the tone of his voice made the brigand leader frown. The

 knife-blade wavered, and with a contemptuous gesture

  

 Tarod reached up to brush it aside. Ravakin's face red-

 dened with rage and he would have struck out, but his

 horse shifted back, sensing something that, as yet, was

 beyond its master's comprehension. Green eyes met

 Ravakin's faded grey ones, and the brigand leader's

 gaze was held fast.

  

 'I give you one chance,' Tarod said softly. 'Go about

 your business - trouble some other traveller, and leave

 me in peace. You'll have no further warning, Ravakin.'

  

 Ravakin continued to stare at him for a few more

 moments, then he threw his head back and bellowed

 with laughter.

  

 'A threat! A threat, from the Margrave of the Seven

 Hells and no less a personage!' Reassured, his followers

 joined in the laughter. 'No knife, no sword, not even a

 stave about him, and he thinks to frighten me!' The

 laughter died into a hiccup and Ravakin wiped his nose

 and streaming eyes on his sleeve. Then his broad grin

 abruptly changed to an ugly scowl and he said with harsh

 contempt, 'Kill him.'

  

 In their anxiety to ape their leader's every change of

 mood, the men were still sniggering, and were slow to

 react to the command. Before they could make a move,

 Tarod's left hand shot out and clamped over the nose of

 Ravakin's horse; and he spoke a single, alien word.

  

 The animal shrieked and reared and Tarod only just

 ducked aside in time to avoid its flailing hoofs. The

 brigand leader let out a yell of astonishment that

 instantly changed to a cry of terror as the panicking beast

 bucked. He lost his grip and pitched sideways out of the

 saddle, to land with a bone-cracking thump in the dust.

 The horse bolted, and Ravakin's cry became a roar of

 insensate fury as he tried to struggle to his feet, groping

 for his lost blade. He was halfway up when appallingly

 powerful fingers took him by the throat and forced his

 head round at an agonising angle, until, twisted and

 racked with pain, he stared into Tarod's ice-hard green

 eyes.

  

 The men who survived him could never even guess at

 the nature of the horrors that Ravakin saw in that

  

 moment; the illusions Tarod conjured were for him

 alone, and they were born of an ancient, malevolent

 power that delighted in torment. All they saw was the

 dark and malignant aura that flickered into existence

 about the man who, until moments ago, had been easy

 and entertaining prey. Their horses whinnied and

 reared, and above their noise came the sound of Rav-

 akin's scream, an incoherent plea and protest as his

 mind toppled over the brink of insanity. His eyes bulged

 and his face turned purple; his hands clawed desperately

 at the unnameable phantasms that bore down on him,

 and among which the cruelly smiling face of the black-

 haired stranger seemed to burn like fire. He twisted and

 writhed, gargling as his tongue protruded like a bloated

 serpent from his mouth - then the transfixed men heard

 a single, sickening crack, as, one-handed, Tarod broke

 Ravakin's neck.

  

 The brigand band didn't wait to witness their leader's

 final fate. Even as Tarod swung to face them, incensed

 still by rage and anticipating attack from behind, they

 were hauling their mounts' heads around and digging

 frantic heels into the animals' flanks, spurring them

 away and not caring where they fled. Their voices, shrill

 with panic, goaded the animals on, and Tarod was left

 staring after them as the blindness of fury slowly drained

 away.

  

 The brigands' voices and the thunder of hoofs were

 lost to the soughing wind, and he reeled back against the

 rock outcrop, suddenly drained and weak. Not two

 paces away Ravakin lay, tongue out and round eyes

 staring stupidly at a boulder a foot from his nose, and

 Tarod looked down at the corpse with a surge of disgust.

 To do what he had done had been sheer, wanton malefi-

 cence. It would have been simple enough to kill the

 brigand leader, without the need for such savage cru-

 elty; and yet he had been unable to resist the temptation.

 The power had flowed in him, and he had used it... he

 looked at his left hand, and the ruined base of the ring

 that he still wore on his index finger. Even without the

 Chaos stone there was evil in him. With the stone

  

 restored, how much harder would it be to fight such a

 baneful influence?

  

 On the heels of that thought came a barbed feeling

 that he was indulging in self-pity. More important than

 his well-being was that of Cyllan, who carried the Chaos

 stone and had none of his powers to aid her. If he was to

 find her, pragmatism dictated that he must waste no time

 and use whatever resources he had to hand, whatever his

 conscience might argue.

  

 He straightened, moved to stand over the corpse, and

 stirred it with one foot so that it rolled on to its back.

 Ignoring the accusing, sightless stare, Tarod searched

 Ravakin's body. As well as his short sword, the brigand

 leader had carried a sharp and well-balanced knife in an

 embroidered sheath, doubtless the property of some

 earlier victim; and in a pouch under his coat were coins -

 about fifty gravines in all - and a handful of small but

 fairly valuable gemstones. Enough, at least, to enable

 Tarod to maintain an image that would arouse no sus-

 picion in the provincial towns.

  

 He looked up, and saw the dead man's horse standing

 a short distance away, head down and watching him. It

 had obviously been trained to stand when unmounted,

 and once its fear had receded it obeyed that training.

 Tarod raised a hand and snapped his fingers, uttering a

 low, guttural sound. The horse pricked up its ears and

 approached, uncertainly at first then with greater con-

 fidence as he added a silent, mental command to the

 gesture. It was a good animal, a big-boned and powerful

 bay; no brigand in his right senses would use anything

 but a strong and reliable mount, and Ravakin had been

 an expert in his own nefarious way. The horse stood

 passive while Tarod examined its two saddlebags. In

 them he found more coins, a woman's bronze and enamel

 necklace and matching bracelet, and a supply of food -

 dried meat and slabs of a naturally fermented fruit; the

 rations of a man who travelled light but needed good

 sustenance. There was also a wine-skin, three-quarters

 empty but useful for carrying water, and Tarod drank

 the remainder of its contents and ate one of the dried

  

 fruit slabs while he checked the animal's harness, buck-

 led the sheathed knife on to his belt, and finally swung

 himself into the bay's saddle. As the animal raised its

 head and snorted, eager to be away from the outcrop

 with its smell of death, Tarod pulled the necklace and

 bracelet from the saddlebag and dropped them on to

 Ravakin's body, where they fell with a small, cold clink.

 The brigand's followers wouldn't dare to return here;

 with luck, the corpse would be found by men from the

 Empty Province mines and it was possible that these

 ornaments would eventually be returned to their rightful

 owner, if she still lived.

  

 He looked over his shoulder. The rain clouds were

 little more than a mile away now, but he believed the bay

 could outdistance them. Turning the animal's head

 South, he urged it into a canter along the rough track.

  

 Cyllan woke to see the ghostly glimmer of false dawn

 casting the small window of her room at the High Tree

 tavern into pale relief. She turned over in the soft bed,

 huddling deeper under the plentiful blankets, and for a

 few minutes simply stared at the window until her

 awakening senses had fully returned. Then, alarmed,

 she sat up.

  

 She hadn't intended to sleep for so long. Although it

 was still night, the faint shining in the East told her that

 morning wasn't long away, and she had planned to be far

 from Wathryn before anyone else was abroad.

  

 She slipped out of bed, wincing as her entire body

 protested. The fall she'd taken had battered her badly,

 and the full extent of the bruising was only now starting

 to make itself felt. To make matters worse, she'd grown

 unaccustomed to long hours in the saddle during her stay

 at the Castle of the Star Peninsula, and the ride -

 especially the flight from the bandits - had given her

 muscles further punishment. No matter; she must still be

 away. In the wake of what the youth, Gordach, had

 unwittingly revealed to her last night, she didn't dare

 stay in this town a moment past the dawn.

  

 The air was bitterly cold, and Cyllan wrapped one of

  

 the blankets around herself before padding to the win-

 dow and kneeling to peer out. She had been too tired last

 night to take in anything but the barest details of her

 surroundings; all she remembered was a market square

 and the plump, astonished face of Sheniya Win Mar

 when her escort brought her to the tavern door. The

 innkeeper had bustled her into a long, low room where

 brass and pewter gleamed in the light of a banked fire,

 and had brought her warmed towels and a dry robe,

 vastly too big, in which she had sat dazed on an

 inglenook seat while a bowl of hot stew and a cup of wine

 were set before her. Sheniya had fiercely rebuffed Lesk

 Barith's attempts to question her guest, and once the

 man had disconsolately gone the innkeeper lost her

 initial sense of awe at housing such a lady - Cyllan smiled

 wryly at the memory - under her roof, and had kept up a

 stream of comments and reminiscences and opinions,

 which enabled Cyllan to eat her food and say nothing.

 Sheniya, it transpired, was a widow whose two sons had

 long departed the nest, and she had an ample streak of

 motherliness which she now lavished on her guest in full

 measure. At last, having twice almost fallen into the fire

 from sheer fatigue, Cyllan was bundled up a flight of

 steep, narrow stairs and helped into bed in the tavern's

 best room, Sheniya departing with a final, anxious

 injunction that she should be roused instantly should the

 lady find herself in need of anything.

  

 Cyllan stared out over the deserted market square,

 and thought that what she needed was her horse, sad-

 dled and provisioned, and a good head start on the

 pursuit that would ensue when the news from the Star

 Peninsula permeated through to the High Tree tavern.

 As yet, so Gordach had said, only a few local dignitaries

 knew the nature of the message brought by falcon from

 the Circle's stronghold, but when its full content became

 common knowledge she would be in danger. Keridil

 Toln must have given a description of the girl who had

 escaped the Castle after killing the Margrave of Shu's

 son, and her distinctive hair and eyes would be enough

 to damn her at a glance. She couldn't hope to maintain

  

 the hastily concocted story she had told to her rescuers;

 in the chaotic aftermath of the chase it had served well

 enough, but it wouldn't stand up to further investiga-

 tion. If she was to keep her freedom - and, she reminded

 herself grimly, her life - she must flee, while she still had

 the chance.

  

 She was about to move away from the window when a

 shadow that moved suddenly at the far side of the square

 arrested her attention. The stabbing glow of a lantern

 flared between two buildings, and a man, yawning and

 wrapped in a heavy cloak, appeared, crossing the wet

 flagstones towards a monolithic stone slab that stood

 alone at the square's centre.

  

 Cyllan had seen Law Stones in every small town she

 had passed through during her harsh years as a drover.

 They were erected in market-places, harbours, any-

 where, in fact, where people congregated; and on their

 pitted surfaces were displayed documents of vital

 importance to the inhabitants. News of the death of any

 one of the land's three leaders, or of the province's own

 Margrave, would warrant display on the Law Stone, as

 would any new edicts passed by the Court of the High

 Margrave on Summer Isle . . . any information, in fact,

 that was intended for the attention of every man, woman

 and child in the district, or in the whole world.

  

 She licked lips that were suddenly dry as she watched

 the man stop by the Law Stone and take from under the

 folds of his cloak a rolled piece of parchment and a short,

 blunt-headed hammer. Moments later the dull, staccato

 sound of the parchment being nailed to the Law Stone

 cut through the night quiet. The coincidence was too

 strong - that notice could only concern herself and

 Tarod. And when dawn broke, a drum would be

 sounded in the market square to summon all within

 hearing to the Stone, where the details of the notice

 would be read aloud to the townsfolk, so that no one

 would miss the important news.

  

 Not for the first time, Cyllan cursed her own lack of

 learning. She could neither read nor write, and so if she

 wanted to find out what the notice contained she must

  

 wait for dawn and the official announcement. But she

 didn't dare wait. If, as she believed, the parchment

 contained an edict from the Star Peninsula, the province

 militia would have been alerted long before the general

 notice was posted, and by now the hunt must be on.

 Chances were that the men who had saved her from the

 brigands had already been given her description, and

 realised whom they had rescued. The militia might come

 for her at any moment - she must go, and go now.

  

 The watchman, still yawning, had completed his task

 and was walking away, his lantern bobbing like a will-

 o'-the-wisp. Cyllan's eyes were now better adjusted to

 the dark and she looked round her room. To her

 immense relief, she saw the clothes in which she had

 arrived at the tavern laid out neatly over a chair, cleaned

 and dried. Sheniya Win Mar had been better than her

 word; she'd promised the dry garments for the morning,

 but it seemed that her guest's apparent status had been

 an incentive to complete the task before retiring to bed.

 As she discarded the blanket and began to dress, shiver-

 ing, Cyllan reflected wryly that the past few hours had

 given her an undreamed-of glimpse of what life as a lady

 of quality must be like. People hanging on her every

 word, eager to do her bidding and wait on her ... it was

 a pity, she thought with some irony, that she hadn't been

 able to savour such treatment to the full. Now, with the

 full might of the Circle probably roused to find her, it

 was unlikely that such an opportunity would ever come

 her way again.

  

 Carefully, she reached under her pillow and drew out

 the Chaos stone, trying not to be drawn by its solitary,

 winking eye. She thrust it into her bodice - it was a pity

 that the long, full skirt and jerkin were so impractical for

 a speedy, stealthy exit, but there was no help for it - then

 dragged her fingers quickly through her pale hair, and

 tiptoed to the door.

  

 The inn was silent. No tell-tale sliver of light shone

 from under any door, and the steep stairwell lay in

 darkness. Praying that she wouldn't miss her footing,

 Cyllan crept down the stairs, freezing once with heart-

  

 stopping terror when a settling joist creaked somewhere

 in the depths of the old building. After what seemed a

 small eternity she reached the lower floor, and the heavy

 door that stood between her and freedom. The door

 bore a massive bolt, and it was too much to hope that the

 bolt could be drawn silently. It slid back with a grating

 rasp, protesting at long need of oiling, and Cyllan's teeth

 clenched agonisingly together as she listened for an

 answering stir from upstairs. But no sound came; She-

 niya Win Mar, it seemed, slept on. At last, knowing she

 dared wait no longer, Cyllan eased the door open and

 slipped out into the early morning.

  

 The cold struck her instantly; the windless, bitter cold

 of early Spring. In the Castle of the Star Peninsula she

 had had no need of shoes, and the cut-down men's boots

 she had once worn were long lost to the sea. Now, as the

 chill of the market square's stone paving struck up

 through her soles, she would have given almost anything

 to have them back, and, too, the cloak that had gone last

 night during her desperate flight from the brigands. No

 matter; she must do without - there were more urgent

 considerations.

  

 Teeth chattering, she moved along the front wall of

 the tavern, keeping a wary eye on the deserted square,

 until she reached a side alley. Through an arch she could

 just discern the outline of low buildings behind the inn,

 which logic dictated must be the stables. She was half-

 way to her goal . . .

  

 Thankfully, it seemed that Sheniya Win Mar kept no

 stable lad, nor any of the ferocious geese which many

 farmers used as popular and efficient guardians, and

 only a continuing silence greeted Cyllan as she

 unlatched the stable door and glided inside. Dark shapes

 moved uneasily and she saw the white of a rolling eye;

 instinctively she made a low, soft noise in her throat, a

 sound her uncle had taught her to use in calming nervous

 animals. The horses subsided, and she heard a soft,

 contented blowing of breath.

  

 There were only three of them in the stables; a sway-

 backed black mare, a shaggy pony, and the big iron-grey

  

 gelding. Harness was ranged on hooks high on the wall;

 she recognised her own by the mud - and sweat-stains on

 the leather, and set about saddling the gelding. A swift

 check told her that the animal had been well fed and

 watered; giving the saddle-girth a final tug to check its

 security, she backed the gelding gently out of its stall and

 turned it towards the door. As they emerged, the ani-

 mal's hoofs rang loudly on cobbles, striking vivid blue

 sparks, and in consternation Cyllan brought it to a halt,

 staring up at the dark bulk of the tavern. For a moment

 she thought her luck had held - then a lamp flared in an

 upstairs window, and seconds later the curtain was

 pulled aside and a pale, indistinct face looked directly

 down at her.

  

 Cyllan felt bile clogging her throat as she stared,

 appalled, at the face. She heard - or thought she heard;

 she could never be certain - a voice calling out, and it

 snapped her out of the initial shock so that instinct took

 over. She reached up, grabbed at the saddle, and heaved

 —her foot, flailing, found a stirrup and with a frantic kick

 she sprawled astride the gelding's back. It pranced side-

 ways; she gathered up the reins, still struggling to right

 herself, then drove her heels hard into its flanks.

  

 The noise of the big horse careering out of the alley

 was enough to rouse half Wathryn town, but it was too

 late for any attempt at stealth. Cyllan had been seen - all

 she could do was ride for her life. She crouched over the

 gelding's neck, shrilly urging it on and lashing at it with

 the looped reins; they raced out across the market

 square, missing the Law Stone by a hair's-breadth, and

 pounded towards the road. Ahead, a break in the clouds

 showed a glaring, green-purple sliver of light where the

 Sun would rise; Cyllan swung her mount's head to the

 right, cutting away from the road and turning south-

 ward. She expected at any moment to hear the sounds of

 pursuers, but none came; they reached the trees beyond

 the town, and still there were no distant hoofbeats echo-

 ing behind them. At last she allowed the gelding to halt,

 and turned in the saddle, looking back.

  

 Wathryn town slept on. Whether Sheniya Win Mar

  

 had recognised her erstwhile guest or whether she

 thought herself the victim of a horse-thief, she hadn't yet

 roused help - and that was enough to give Cyllan the

 start she needed. Ahead lay the great arable plains of the

 South, and finally, Shu Province itself, where, if he still

 lived, Tarod would seek her.

  

 If he still lived . . . Cyllan touched the place where

 the Chaos stone nestled, and softly murmured a prayer

 that was not directed to Aeoris. Then she settled herself

 more comfortably in the saddle, and urged the gelding

 on into the shelter of the trees.

  

 Chapter 3

  

 'Keridil?' The tall, patrician girl had entered the room so

 quietly that he'd been unaware of her presence until she

 moved out of the shadows to where the High Initiate

 stood by the window. He turned, startled, then smiled as

 she reached up to kiss him.

  

 'You look tired, my love.' Her voice was warm with

 concern. 'You should take time to rest for a while - the

 world won't stop turning while you sleep.'

  

 He smiled again and put an arm about her shoulders,

 hugging her. 'In a while. I'll sleep in a while.' He nodded

 towards the window where the day was brightening.

 'We're still waiting for the first of the messenger-birds to

 return. They've taken longer than I'd have liked; I

 hoped that their news would be disseminated

 throughout the provinces by now.'

  

 Sashka sighed faintly. 'Then there's still no word of

 Tarod's whereabouts?'

  

 'Nothing. We've tried to trace him by magical means,

 of course; and the Seers of the Sisterhood are using all

 their skills. But I know Tarod of old - if he doesn't want

 to be found, it could take more than our Adepts are

 capable of to locate him.'

  

 'You'll find him.' She spoke with such venom that

 Keridil was momentarily taken aback to hear a hatred

 that matched his own. 'You'll find him, Keridil. And

 when you do - ' The nails of one hand dug into the

 opposite palm as she clenched her fingers together.

 When Tarod was recaptured, she would savour his lin-

 gering death. Twice now he'd thwarted the Circle; she

 was determined this time not to be cheated of her

 pleasure in his final demise. And maybe she would

  

 indulge herself by seeing him one last time, to remind

 him that he had once touched her and known her and

 loved her ... A small, pleasurable shiver ran the

 length of her spine, and Keridil, noticing, said solic-

 itously, 'Cold, love?'

  

 'No . . .' She let one hand stray to his hip and pressed

 closer against him, aroused by her own thoughts and by

 memories from the days before Keridil had replaced

 Tarod in her affections. Then, unbidden, the image of

 another girl's face focused in her mind; small, plain,

 angular, framed by unkempt, silver-fair hair - and a cold

 shaft of anger destroyed the burgeoning desire. She

 moved away abruptly towards the window, her fists

 clenching again, and said, trying not to betray her feel-

 ings, 'And what of that peasant girl?'

  

 'Cyllan Anassan?' Keridil watched her, aware of the

 turmoil in her mind and trying to quell a stab of suspicion

 as to its cause. 'He'll be looking for her; I've no doubt of

 that - and she has the Chaos stone. It's imperative that

 we find her before he does.'

  

 Sashka hunched her shoulders like some predatory

 bird. That wasn't what I meant. I know you'll capture

 them, Keridil - I know it. But when she's brought back

 to the Castle - what then?'

  

 He didn't answer immediately, and she turned her

 head to regard him. He returned the look, his doubts

 still not entirely allayed, and said at last: There's a price

 on her head now, not just for abetting Chaos but for

 Drachea Rannak's murder. In all conscience, I couldn't

 decree anything else. But in all conscience, Sashka,

 neither do I like the idea of executing a woman.'

  

 Sashka's eyes narrowed. 'Even a woman who killed a

 Margrave's son and heir in cold blood?'

  

 'Even that.' There was a slight edge to Keridil's voice

 as he added, 'Couldn't you kill, Sashka? Wouldn't you,

 for something you truly believed in?'

  

 'If she believes in Chaos, she deserves nothing better

 than death!'

  

 'I didn't say she believes in Chaos,' Keridil replied

  

 evenly. 'I don't think she does. But she believes in

 Tarod.'

  

 His expression warned Sashka just in time to control

 her reaction, and she realised that the words were a

 challenge. If she argued, if she showed emotion or

 anger, Keridil would suspect the truth - that much of her

 hatred of Cyllan was rooted in jealousy. She herself had

 spurned and betrayed Tarod in favour of the High Init-

 iate, but the knowledge that Tarod's feelings had like-

 wise turned to someone else was almost more than she

 could tolerate. Especially so when that someone was a

 common peasant-drover with neither beauty nor breed-

 ing in her favour. Now, of all times, she mustn't allow

 Keridil to so much as glimpse the truth . . .

  

 Her face composed, she paced slowly across the room

 towards him and laid a hand on his sleeve. Her fingers

 traced a sensuous pattern on his arm. 'You're right, of

 course,' she said softly, conciliating and thankful that

 she now knew her lover well enough to reveal what she

 wished to reveal, hide what she wished to hide. 'It is hard

 to condemn out of hand. If, for instance, I were defend-

 ing you - '

  

 He laughed at the idea, but the tension faded. 'I hope

 there'll never be need for that!'

  

 She cast her eyes down and raised his hand to her lips

 to kiss it, her tongue licking lightly at his skin. 'Still, if

 such a time were ever to come . . . ' Her teeth nibbled

 at his fingers. 'If you needed me ... ' She let the

 ambiguous suggestion hang unfinished and was gratified

 after a moment to feel his arm slip around her waist and

 pull her towards him.

  

 'If -' Keridil began, then stopped at the sound of a

 commotion in the courtyard. He swung round towards

 the window, looked out -

  

 'A bird! One of the messengers has returned!' His

 hold on her changed its nature and he kissed her quickly,

 nothing more than a salute, before releasing her

 altogether. 'Love, forgive me - I must see what it

 brings!' And before she could speak he ran from the

 room, the door banging behind him.

  

 Sashka stared at the door, then spat out a curse which,

 from the lips of a girl of gentility and breeding, would

 have made her mother faint dead away.

  

 The hawk was from Southern Chaun. Keridil recognised

 the distinctive seal of the Matriarch herself, Sister Ilyaya

 Kimi, as he pushed his way through the gathered

 onlookers. The Castle's falconer detached the message

 from the bird's leg and gravely handed it to him, while

 the bird fluttered its wings and settled on its master's

 wrist, tired but still ready to lash out at anyone who

 made an unwary move. Keridil walked a discreet dis-

 tance away, and as he broke the seal on the tightly rolled

 parchment he saw Gant Ambaril Rannak approaching

 through the small crowd.

  

 'High Initiate.' The Margrave had witnessed the

 hawk's arrival from his window, and his tired eyes were

 hungry and haunted. 'There's news . . . ?'

  

 'A letter from the Matriarch of the Sisterhood.'

 Keridil didn't unroll the parchment, despite the other

 man's obvious eagerness. 'I think it unlikely that she'll

 have tidings of our fugitives. I'm sorry.' He tried to

 soften the words with a sympathetic smile. 'The moment

 we do hear word of Drachea's assassin, I'll send for you.'

  

 Gant nodded, swallowing his disappointment and

 remembering, with an effort, that letters sent between

 two of the land's three prime rulers were no concern of a

 mere provincial Margrave. 'Of course . . . thank you,'

 he said. 'When I saw the bird, I simply wondered . . . '

 He straightened his shoulders a little. 'I'll return to my

 wife.'

  

 Keridil walked with him to the main door, then, as the

 Margrave climbed the stairs to the upper floors, he

 hurried back to his study. Sashka rose from his chair as

 he entered.

  

 'What is it?' There was a keen edge to her tone.

  

 'A message from Sister Ilyaya Kimi.'

  

 'The Matriarch?' For a moment Sashka's eyes

 widened; as a Novice in the Sisterhood she had been

 taught to revere their supreme head as little less than

  

 wisdom incarnate, and, however exalted she might be as

 the High Initiate's betrothed, the habit died hard. As

 Keridil sat on the edge of the table and opened the

 letter, she made no attempt to look over his shoulder as

 she might otherwise have done, but watched, tense,

 while he read in silence. And within moments she knew

 something was amiss.

  

 Keridil read the crabbed, curlicued script with its over

 elaborate phrasing several times, half hoping that he had

 failed to interpret the words correctly. But there could

 be no mistake; the question that he had raised with such

 trepidation had been answered.

  

 Ilyaya Kimi was now in her eighties and infirm, but

 her mind - barring her eccentricities and a tendency to

 fits of petulance - was as sharp as ever. Receiving the

 High Initiate's message, she had seen immediately the

 danger inherent in spreading the news of Tarod's escape

 - although she agreed wholeheartedly with Keridil's

 belief that the truth couldn't be withheld. Briefly, and

 with an insight that made him shiver, she outlined her

 view of the hysteria which could take hold throughout

 the provinces once the alarm had been raised. Chaos

 was every man and woman's ancestral nightmare, a

 legacy from a past that, though long forgotten, refused

 to die. And there was, she stated, only one course of

 action which, in her view, the High Initiate must take.

  

 Keridil let the hand holding the parchment fall to his

 side, and rubbed at his eyes with the thumb and fore-

 finger of the other. He wished to all the gods that his

 father, Jehrek, were still alive. Jehrek had had the

 wisdom and judgement that sprang from years of experi-

 ence, and his son desperately needed that wisdom now,

 to help him. If only he hadn't died . . . And something

 in Keridil's soul turned black as he remembered that it

 was Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who had taken the old

 man's life . . .

  

 'Keridil?' He had all but forgotten Sashka's presence

 in the room, and looked up with a start, as though a

 ghost had spoken. She was watching him, dark eyes

 wide, one hand reaching tentatively towards him.

  

 'Keridil, what is it? What does she say?'

  

 Jehrek was no longer here to help him . . . but

 Sashka would. And however wrong it might be to con-

 fide in anyone outside the Circle, however strongly the

 Council of Adepts might disapprove, Keridil needed to

 share this burden with her.

  

 He took hold of her hand and said, quietly, 'Sister

 Ilyaya Kimi has formally asked me to call the Conclave

 of Three.'

  

 Sashka stared at him, stunned. She understood, he

 knew; but now that the first words were out he had to

 speak the rest. 'She asks me to inform the High Mar-

 grave, and to begin the preparations. He paused, then:

 'She confirms what I feared most, Sashka . . . that our

 only hope of defeating Chaos is to sail to the shrine on

 the White Isle, and open the casket of Aeoris.'

  

 *****

  

 The townsfolk who had gathered in the small square

 fronting the justice house of Vilmado were too intent on

 their own business to pay much attention to the auburn-

 haired stranger who rode in on a shaggy, unkempt pony

 with another trailing resentfully behind her. The after-

 noon was waning, the Sun slanting in a blood-ruby glow

 that cast long shadows, and an irritable wind had risen

 from the North-East, biting through clothing and

 reminding everyone that Summer was still a long way

 off.

  

 Cyllan halted beside a low, shambling row of roofed-

 over market stalls and slid from the leading pony's back,

 slapping its nose hard as it tried to bite her. There

 seemed to be a meeting in progress in the square; a man

 in official regalia stood on the steps of the justice house,

 flanked by others wearing hastily assembled military

 garb and carrying an assortment of weapons. The official

 was speaking to the crowd, occasionally stretching out

 both hands in a calming gesture as his restless listeners

 began to shout in reply, but Cyllan was too far away to

 hear what was being said. She turned to the first of the

  

 covered market stalls, where a tall, thin woman stood

 arms akimbo, frowning at the throng.

  

 'What's to do?'

  

 The stallholder stared down her long nose, her look

 unfriendly. 'Enough to disrupt my trade and send me

 home with an empty pocket, that's what.'

  

 She didn't seem anxious to elaborate, so Cyllan

 asked, 'Is there an inn near by which might have a room

 free?'

  

 'An inn?' The woman stared at her again, making no

 secret of the fact that she was assessing the stranger and

 contemptuous of what she saw. 'Try the Two Panniers.

 That's where drovers and their like usually go.' She

 nodded towards a narrow alley. 'At the far end of that

 street.'

  

 Cyllan thanked her and led the surly ponies away.

 Dank shadows closed round her as she entered the alley,

 and the smells of the lane gutter mingled with the barely

 more appetising odour of soured food. She found the

 Two Panniers easily enough - not prepossessing, but it

 fitted the image she now presented - and tied the ani-

 mals to a ring in the crumbling wall. Then, on the verge

 of stepping over the threshold, she paused as fear

 clutched at her stomach and made her queasy.

  

 What if she were recognised? Two days had passed

 since her flight from Wathryn; chances were that the

 Circle's message concerning her escape had by now

 spread throughout the land, and the crowd at the justice

 house were even now being told of the servant of Chaos

 with a price on her head. She'd been safe enough on the

 road, encountering no one but the occasional band of

 drovers and one small tithe-caravan, but here in a town

 she was dangerously exposed. And if she should be

 suspected -

  

 She checked the train of thought, sternly telling her-

 self she was being foolish. She couldn't hope to avoid

 every town and hamlet on her journey southward; she

 needed to mingle with people if she was to hear any

 rumour of Tarod or clue to his whereabouts. Besides,

 she reminded herself, Keridil Toln's search was for a girl

  

 with long, pale blonde hair, riding a well-bred grey

 gelding. An auburn-headed drover in charge of two

 surly ponies would merit no more than a single glance.

  

 The thought gave her courage; but nonetheless her

 legs felt weak as she pushed open the rickety door of the

 Two Panniers and stepped inside.

  

 The tavern-room was empty but for a gangling pot-

 boy, who looked up as she entered. His eyes took in a

 plain girl in a man's cut-down trousers, hide coat and

 riding boots, her red-brown hair twisted into a rough

 knot at her neck. She smiled tentatively; he grinned

 back.

  

 'Avnoon.'

  

 Cyllan glanced round the room, took in the sluggish

 fire, the empty tables. There was a smell of food,

 thankfully more pleasant than the stinks outside. She

 approached the bar and said, 'I'll have a mug of herb

 beer, and a platter of meats and bread if you have them.'

  

 The potboy nodded. 'Got plenty. Twill be crowded

 when that there meeting's done in the square.' He was

 still looking at her and her skin began to crawl - until she

 realised that his scrutiny was hopeful rather than sus-

 picious. He grinned again. 'Got some fresh spiceroots,

 too; new harvest. I can get you a plate of 'em to go with

 the meats.'

  

 'Yes - thank you.'

  

 He hurried round to usher her to a table near the fire,

 then, remembering his master's constant exhortations,

 his face clouded. 'You got the money?' he asked.

 'Innkeeper says I can't serve no one without the money.

 Quarter-gravine.'

  

 Cyllan felt in her belt-pouch and pulled out a coin.

 The lad took it, bit it, then nodded his satisfaction. 'I'll

 fetch your order.'

  

 As he loped away, Cyllan leaned her head back

 against the rough wall and closed her eyes, letting the

 fire's small but welcome warmth suffuse through her. So

 far, so good - she was safe to rest awhile and ease her

 hunger. And, for a time at least, the new disguise would

 serve her.

  

 The drover-band with whom she'd bartered to

 exchange the Margrave's gelding for some old clothes,

 two broken-down ponies and ten gravines in coin had

 asked no questions, content to spit and close palms on

 the deal. Cyllan knew she'd sold the horse for under half

 its value; the ponies were all but worthless, and the

 gelding would fetch a good forty or fifty gravines from

 the right buyer, but the fact that the bargain had been so

 much to their advantage would ensure the drovers'

 silence. Her uncle had conducted enough shady business

 in his time for Cyllan to know the ways of drovers all too

 well; there'd be no danger there. She'd bought the hide

 coat and boots from a travelling clothman, and had

 completed her disguise in the woods the following morn-

 ing, when she stripped the young, copper-brown bark

 from a bellflower bush, pulped it in the water of a small

 pool and, gasping at the cold shock, washed her hair

 thoroughly with the mixture to stain it auburn. The

 coloration wasn't permanent; she'd have to hide her hair

 from the rain and the bark's effects would wear off

 within a week or so, but until then it would suffice.

  

 She'd made good progress thus far - barring her close

 brush with disaster in Wathryn - but she knew that as she

 advanced further into the well-populated South the

 journey would become ever more dangerous. She was

 now, as far as she could tell, in the borderlands between

 Chaun and Prospect provinces, and the land was becom-

 ing kinder; flat, arable country crossed by major drove-

 roads, but without the dense forests of the North to

 provide concealment. Last night she'd camped on open

 ground beside a tributary of one of the great western

 rivers, only summoning the courage to light a fire when

 the night became too cold to endure without; during the

 previous day she'd widely skirted two hamlets, and had

 forced herself to ride into Vilmado this afternoon simply

 because to avoid it would have meant a wide and difficult

 detour. And the further South she rode, the more towns

 she encountered, the greater the risk of being captured.

 She had to find Tarod - but she'd heard no word of him,

 and still had no idea where in all the world he might be.

  

 Last night, warmed by her fire but unable to sleep

 through fear of being caught unawares by brigands or

 even a local farmer, she'd tried to use her own simple

 form of geomancy to make contact with Tarod. But

 without her precious bag of stones the attempt was a

 failure, and even with the pebbles Cyllan doubted if she

 would have fared any better. She didn't have the skill for

 such a task, and now even her hope that Tarod would

 use his own powers to find her was waning. If he had

 tried - if he was capable of trying - then she hadn't the

 psychic wit to hear him.

  

 At last she had taken the Chaos stone from its hiding

 place and looked at in the flickering glow, turning it over

 and over in her hands and feeling it pulse as though it

 had a life of its own. Gazing into its multifaceted depths,

 she'd imagined that it became an eye staring back at her,

 and that beyond the eye she could glimpse an echo of

 Yandros's smile ... or Tarod's. But the illusion lasted

 only a moment, and after that the stone was dull again.

 Later, as dawn broke, she had roused from an uneasy

 doze thinking she heard a faraway high, elemental

 scream that heralded the coming of a Warp - but that,

 too, was an illusion. Yet, she told herself, if Yandros was

 trying to aid her in her search, he would surely -

  

 Her thoughts were interrupted by the potboy's return.

 He placed two plates and a brimming mug on the table

 before her, then hovered, shifting from one foot to the

 other and clearly hoping to strike up a conversation.

 Well, she could lose nothing by talking, Cyllan thought;

 taverns like this were the source of a good deal of well-

 informed gossip, and potboys renowned for their

 willingness to repeat what they'd heard to anyone pre-

 pared to listen. But before she could speak an encourag-

 ing word, the sound of feet tramping down the alley

 outside drew their attention. There was a rumble of

 rough voices, a pony - probably one of her own -

 squealed, then the door burst open and a dozen or so

 men came in, with a few women following behind.

  

 The man who headed the group - short but brawny,

  

 and sweating despite the East wind - stopped and

 glowered at the potboy.

  

 There's two ponies tethered outside. What did I tell

 you about letting any dirty rag-tag use my hitching ring

 without so much as a by-your-leave?'

  

 The potboy flushed scarlet and jerked a thumb at

 Cyllan, though he was too mortified to speak. The

 innkeeper stared at the girl, whom he hadn't noticed

 before, then grunted. 'Yours, are they?'

  

 'Mine.' Cyllan had met too many belligerent tavern-

 owners in her time to be cowed by the man's manner.

 She smiled without humour. 'And I've paid for my

 food.'

  

 The innkeeper grunted again, a tacit acceptance and

 as near to an apology as she'd get from him. The potboy

 said, 'Shall I draw you some beer, master?'

  

 'No.' The innkeeper glowered at him. 'You're to get

 along to the justice house. They want every able-bodied

 man or lad who wasn't at the meeting, and they want 'em

 now. I'd say you count as able-bodied, even if you're not

 able-brained.'

  

 One of the women - around Cyllan's age but black-

 haired, her mouth painted crimson and her arms fes-

 tooned with cheap bracelets - laughed shrilly, and the

 potboy flushed again. 'At - at the justice house? Now?'

  

 'Now! You're not deaf as well as stupid, are you? Go

 on; move those spindle shanks!'

  

 The lad bolted, and the moment he was out of the

 door one of the men slammed and bolted it behind him,

 then, to Cyllan's surprise, quickly made a sign against

 evil. The innkeeper's wife, meanwhile, had hastened

 behind the counter, but instead of drawing ale for the

 company she was rummaging in a store-cupboard.

  

 'Here,' she said, emerging at last with something in

 her hands. 'Hang this at the door, Cappik.'

  

 Her husband stared at her. 'Don't be ridiculous,

 woman!'

  

 'No, no; let her be, Cappik, Can't do any harm, after

 all, can it?' another of the men argued.

  

 With a shrug the innkeeper gave way, and the woman

  

 hung what she carried on the bar of the door. Cyllan

 recognised it as a charm-necklace - a crudely fashioned

 string of small beads, with tiny scrolls of paper tied at

 intervals into the string. Her grandmother in the Eastern

 Flatlands had had one, though they were rare now; each

 scroll had written on it a prayer to Aeoris, and the

 necklace was intended as a powerful amulet against

 demonic forces.

  

 As the woman looped the necklace over the door-bar,

 the atmosphere in the tavern-room underwent a change,

 as though her small gesture had brought into focus

 something which no one had previously been willing to

 admit or face. Tension flowered from nowhere and

 became palpable; the men stared silently at the slowly

 swinging necklace, and Cyllan's psychic senses instantly

 picked up the cold taint of fear. She said nothing, merely

 continued eating, while the landlord's wife poured ale

 for the men with a good deal of unnecessary noise and

 bustle. The sounds were intrusive against the quiet back-

 drop; even the brash girl had fallen silent. Finally mugs

 were passed around, and the beer seemed to revive

 flagging spirits, for talk broke out again though it was

 low-pitched and desultory. Cyllan tried to concentrate

 on what was being said, but could only catch the occa-

 sional word - until a footfall by her table made her look

 up, and she saw the innkeeper standing over her.

  

 He grunted by way of preamble, then said, 'Just came

 in today, did you?'

  

 Cyllan nodded. 'No more than an hour ago.' Her

 pulse quickened, but she gave no outward sign of her

 unease.

  

 'It'll be dark in a couple of hours. Where do you mean

 to go tonight?'

  

 She couldn't fathom the reason for such searching

 questions, and his manner was making her nervous. She

 shrugged. 'I was planning to ask if you had a room

 unoccupied.'

  

 To her surprise, a look of relief spread across the

 landlord's face, and he hitched his stomach up over his

 stressed breeches. 'We have, and if you can pay you're

  

 welcome.' Without waiting for an invitation, he sat

 down opposite her. 'I wouldn't advise anyone to take to

 the roads after dark, not now.' He paused, his shrewd

 grey eyes assessing her. 'You're a drover?'

  

 Cyllan had carefully prepared her story before she

 rode into the town, and she nodded again. 'I'm heading

 to Southern Chaun to meet up with my cousin's band.'

  

 'Easterner, aren't you?'

  

 'Yes. From the Flatlands.' There could be no harm in

 admitting the truth; half the drovers in the world came

 from that province or its northern neighbour.

  

 'Thought so. Knew the accent; we get a lot of 'em

 through here. Where've you been trading?'

  

 'Wishet,' Cyllan lied. 'I had a dozen good blood mares

 to deliver in Port Summer.' She grinned. 'I could have

 done with one of them left over to take me westward,

 instead of those two spavined nags outside.'

  

 The innkeeper guffawed, and she knew that that small

 embellishment had allayed any lingering suspicions he

 might have had. It was disconcerting to realise how

 easily she could slip back into the mannerisms of her old

 way of life, and she reflected wryly that, despite Tarod's

 influence, she was still a peasant-drover at heart; the

 role fitted her like a well-worn glove.

  

 The innkeeper's laughter faded abruptly and he wiped

 his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Wherever you're

 bound, you'll be travelling by day and keeping to the

 main drove roads if you've got a half-gravine of sense.'

  

 Cyllan was suddenly alert. 'Will I? Why?'

  

 'You haven't heard what's afoot?'

  

 She shook her head, and the man grunted, beginning

 to sweat again. He was clearly embarrassed at admitting

 to caring a whit for a stranger's welfare, but the fear that

 lurked poorly hidden behind his eyes drove him to be

 more forthcoming than his nature dictated.

  

 'No,' he said, 'Maybe if you've ridden from Wishet

 the story hasn't reached there yet ... 'He leaned

 forward across the table, pitching his voice low, and

 abruptly the fear in his look blossomed into a real and

 immediate emotion. 'Word's come from the far North -

  

 from the High Initiate of the Circle himself.' He made

 the Sign of Aeoris over his heart, and Cyllan had the wit

 to do the same. 'Two people - if you can call 'em human

 - have escaped from the Circle's justice, and the whole

 land's going to be in a ferment till they're found.'

  

 'Why?' Cyllan asked. 'What have they done?'

  

 The landlord licked his lips uneasily. 'Murder, sor-

 cery, demonology - but that's only the beginning. It isn't

 so much what they've done as what they are.' He glanced

 towards the door with the charm-necklace hanging

 bizarrely on it, then added, making the Sign of Aeoris

 again, Servants of Chaos.'

  

 The words were spoken from the corner of his mouth,

 as though he were terrified of being overheard by some

 supernatural agency. Cyllan opened her eyes wide and

 hoped that her expression of shock was convincing.

 'Chaos?' she repeated in a whisper. 'But surely it doesn't

 exist any more?'

  

 'So we all thought. But the word comes from the High

 Initiate himself. And while these evil-doers are at large,

 we're all in danger.' He shuddered, leaning back and

 giving her a stern, appraising look. 'I wouldn't be a

 drover travelling the roads with those fiends loose in the

 land. Not for all the wine in Southern Chaun!'

  

 'Hey, Cappik! What're you doing, keeping your guest

 to yourself and away from decent company?' A tall,

 swarthy man loomed at the table and shouldered the

 landlord aside to sit down, giving Cyllan a gap-toothed

 grin as he did so. He raised his mug to gesture at her. 'I

 reckon that's what we all need tonight. Decent

 company.'

  

 One by one the others were gathering round, gravitat-

 ing towards the fire. The landlord's wife added new logs;

 they arranged themselves at near-by tables, the women

 rinding room where they could, and Cyllan was soon the

 centre of a good deal of attention. There was no danger

 in their interest; it was merely the natural, idle curiosity

 felt towards any stranger and a chance to divert their

 minds from less pleasant thoughts. Tongues loosened as

 darkness fell and more beer was drunk, and the men

  

 began to speculate on the news from the North and what

 it might mean. Cyllan listened whilst saying little, and

 although the talk became wilder and more exaggerated

 as the ale took effect, she knew that much of her com-

 panions' carelessly professed courage was pure bravado;

 the fear engendered in them, and in the whole town, by

 the news from the North was real and deep-rooted.

 - It was late when she finally climbed the rickety ladder

 of steps that led to the inn's upper floor. Downstairs, a

 few of the bolder drinkers had defied their terrors to

 stumble home through the dark, but most had made

 themselves as comfortable as they could around the fire,

 and the Two Panniers was bolted and barred for the

 night.

  

 Her bed was narrow, hard and not particularly clean;

 but after two nights in the open she was thankful for it.

 Blowing out the candle and pulling the thin blanket up

 around herself, she thought over what she had heard

 tonight.

  

 Tarod was alive. The message from the Star Peninsula

 had banished her doubts, and she held the knowledge to

 her like a precious secret. While he lived and was free,

 she had hope . . . but the High Initiate's decree left her

 in no doubt that the entire land would be in a furore

 searching for him and for her. And the word that the two

 fugitives were servants of Chaos added a deadly ele-

 ment. Fear had been a tangible companion in the tavern-

 room tonight; once word spread, that fear would grow

 like a brush-fire in high Summer.

  

 But, for a short while at least, she was safe from

 discovery. Tomorrow she would move on southward,

 and with luck and the gods - she refused to consider

 which gods - on her side, she might learn more on her

 journey that would help her to find Tarod.

  

 Cyllan settled herself more comfortably in the narrow

 bed. The soul-stone lay hard but warm against her skin;

 she slipped one hand into her shirt and let her fingers

 close round the stone's hard contours as she fell asleep.

  

 Chapter 4

  

 Tarod's horse pranced restlessly beside the last of the

 five timber wagons that rolled slowly along the main

 drove road from Han towards Wishet Province. At his

 side the unfamiliar weight of a heavy sword slapped

 irritatingly against his leg, and he wished he could be rid

 of the thing, and rid of the toiling caravan which for two

 days now had kept him to a snail's pace. Alone, he could

 travel light and fast - but he had given his word to the

 elders of Hannik town, and to break it now would attract

 suspicion that he could well do without.

  

 Two nights ago he had slept in Hannik at an inn almost

 in the shadow of the Province Margrave's residence,

 drawn there by a drover's story that the 'Chaos-Lord's

 accomplice' had been apprehended in the town. Arriv-

 ing, he had found Hannik in an uproar that centred

 around a fair-haired girl caught trying to ply her meagre

 talents as a fortune-teller, and the small tricks Tarod had

 used to disguise himself had unwittingly led him into the

 furore. The gold Initiate's badge - taken from the body

 of a man he had killed in the Castle - and an ability to

 shift, subtly, the image he presented, gave him the per-

 fect identity at a time when no one would think twice

 about encountering a Circle Adept on an urgent jour-

 ney. The town elders had seen the arrival of an Initiate in

 their midst as a gift from the gods, and had asked Tarod

 to preside over the girl's trial.

  

 The bitter disappointment he had felt when he finally

 set eyes on the terrified horse-breeder's daughter from

 Empty Province was still like a knife driving between his

 ribs when he recalled it. Her cell - a room in the justice

 house - was hung about with charms and amulets and

  

 hex-symbols, while the girl crouched sobbing and pro-

 testing her innocence in a corner. The appearance of an

 Adept of the Circle had sent her into a paroxysm of

 terror, and she flung herself at Tarod's feet, begging for

 salvation and absolution. Savagely, Tarod turned on the

 elders and berated them for fools in thinking that such a

 near-simpleton could possibly be the Circle's fugitive.

 They apologised profusely whilst at the same time trying

 to justify their caution, and at last, remembering his

 assumed role, Tarod acknowledged that they had been

 right to follow the High Initiate's exhortation and take

 no chances. The girl was released, and the elders begged

 Tarod to accompany the five wagons that were due to set

 out in the morning, insisting that an Initiate's presence

 in their midst would be a guarantee of safety as well as

 boosting the morale of the hastily assembled militiamen

 who were to guard the train on its journey.

  

 'After all, sir,' the senior elder, an unctuous man to

 whom Tarod had taken an immediate dislike, said, 'No

 minion of evil' (he carefully avoided using the word

 Chaos) 'would dare to make any move against a caravan

 in which an Adept rode.'

  

 Tarod smiled thinly. 'What makes you think these

 fugitives would think of such an act? Their purpose is to

 avoid capture, not court it.'

  

 The elder bristled. 'Even demon-worshippers must

 eat, sir! Wealthy men travel with this convoy; mer-

 chants, ship-owners - with such an evil loose in the land,

 we can take no risks, as I'm sure your High Initiate

 would agree.'

  

 Keridil doubtless would . . . Aware that he'd only

 arouse the old man's suspicions by arguing further,

 Tarod made a careless gesture. 'Very well. I'll ride with

 the caravan until our paths diverge.'

  

 And so for two days he had accompanied the lumber-

 ing wagons and their escort, struggling to check both his

 mount's impatience and his own. They had encountered

 few other people save for a group of militiamen from

 another town, but tension among the travellers was rife,

 and increasing with every mile they covered. By now the

  

 messenger-birds from the Castle had completed their

 work, and there wasn't a settlement of any size in the

 remotest province which hadn't heard the news of the

 fugitives' escape. In Hannik, Tarod had seen a copy of

 Keridil's proclamation, and its content had surprised

 and disturbed him. The High Initiate warned that the

 minions of Chaos were abroad and must be

 apprehended at all costs, before they could achieve their

 evil and deadly aim - to unleash the forces of pan-

 demonium throughout the land.

  

 He hadn't believed Keridil could be so implacable in

 his hatred, or so blind. The High Initiate knew - indeed,

 had known even before his first betrayal of their old

 friendship - that Tarod owed no fealty to Chaos; yet he

 was prepared to twist the truth in any way that suited the

 purpose of recapturing his enemy. And already Tarod

 was seeing for himself the results of Keridil's action. His

 warning had struck home to the countryfolk, stirring

 every deep-rooted superstition, every ancestral mem-

 ory, every formless fear in their minds; and, like dry

 tinder, that fear was catching fire so fast that Tarod

 doubted the ability of any power in the world to stem it.

 Hannik had been just a beginning - how many more

 innocents like the horse-breeder's daughter would fall

 victim to the terror-inspired persecution of their own

 kind?

  

 A sharp, atavistic shiver ran along his spine at that

 thought, as, involuntarily, his mind dredged up an old

 memory. That particular wound had healed during his

 years at the Star Peninsula, but now he could recall

 the macabre event as clearly as if it were happening all

 over again. Himself as a 12-year-old child, standing

 bewildered and horrified in the midst of a screaming

 mob, while the shattered body of his cousin lay at his

 feet, killed by a monstrous power which he hadn't

 dreamed any human being could possess.

  

 It was only a game . . . He could almost hear his own

 childish voice protesting in terror as the mob closed in.

 Council elders, sober merchants and tradesmen, other

 boys' mothers, all wielding stones and baying for his

  

 death . . . yes; he knew how the horse-breeder's daugh-

 ter must have felt. Keridil, wittingly or not, had opened

 the floodgates to a deadly tide.

  

 A commotion near the head of the caravan drew him

 suddenly back to the real world. The second timber

 wagon was stopping, forcing those behind it to a grind-

 ing, protesting halt, and over the creak and squeal of the

 carts and the neighing of horses he could hear men

 shouting. A young and inexperienced militia guard cast

 Tarod a look of helpless appeal whilst struggling to

 control his own unreliable mount, and Tarod sighed. In

 every matter, from the largest to the smallest, the cara-

 van's escort turned to him for authority and guidance,

 and their ineptitude was beginning to wear on his

 patience. He signalled to the young guard to fall in

 behind him, and spurred his horse towards the head of

 the convoy.

  

 ' . . . and I saw it as plain as the nose on your face!

 You were - '

  

 'Take back that insinuation, or by Aeoris, I'll - '

  

 The wind flung snatches of the furious altercation past

 his ears as he approached, and he saw that the driver of

 the second wagon was quarrelling with a merchant who

 rode beside his cart, both deaf to the hesitant entreaties

 of the escort leader as he attempted to intervene.

 Tarod's voice cut icily through the conflict.

  

 'What's the meaning of this?'

  

 The wagon-driver swung round in his seat, one arm

 gesturing wildly at the merchant, and as he did so Tarod

 noticed the intricate charm-necklace he wore. Treach-

 ery!' The driver's voice was shrill with hysteria. This

 man, claiming to be a merchant - he's one of them!'

  

 The merchant opened his mouth to make a furious

 rebuttal, but before he could utter a sound Tarod

 snapped, 'Be silent!' The man's jaw worked apople-

 tically and Tarod added, 'I can't pay attention to both of

 you at once! You'll have your chance to speak - for now,

 I'll hear the wagoner.'

  

 Gaining confidence, the driver began again. 'We've a

 spy in our midst, Adept, I'm sure of it - a Chaos spy!' He

  

 made the Sign of Aeoris hastily before his own face. 'Not

 two minutes since, I saw him take something from his

 pouch - he held it up to his face, and he murmured to it,

 and then he kissed it. It was a stone, a jewel - the High

 Initiate himself says that the Chaos fiend carries his soul

 in a jewel, and that it's a deadly gem. Sir, there's some-

 thing evil about this - I sense it; I smell it! If these

 escaped demons can assume disguises, then surely - '

  

 His voice tailed off as Tarod treated him to a searing

 look. The merchant was beginning to protest again, and

 Tarod touched light heels to his horse's flanks, guiding it

 closer to the man. 'Your friend seems to believe he has a

 genuine reason for suspicion. What do you have to say?'

  

 The merchant snorted. 'The fool's drunk too much

 ale! He's been swigging from that skin beside him since

 we set out - '

  

 'Then what he claims to have seen was pure imagin-

 ation?' Tarod's tone was a challenge.

  

 The man's face reddened. 'Well . . . '

  

 'I'll ask a simple question, and I anticipate a clear

 answer, Did he, or did he not, imagine that he saw you

 making some ritual obeisance to a jewel?'

  

 In his heart, Tarod cared not one whit for the rights

 and wrongs of the argument; he'd have been content to

 allow the two to resolve their squabble as best they

 could. But he had to remind himself that he was posing

 as a genuine Adept of the Circle; with Keridil's exhor-

 tations fresh in everyone's minds, not to show a lively

 interest was unthinkable.

  

 The merchant turned redder still and mumbled some-

 thing that was muffled by his cloak collar. Tarod's eyes

 grew dangerous. 'I'm waiting for your answer,

 merchant.'

  

 Slowly, and with great reluctance, the man reached

 into his belt-pouch and drew out something which he

 seemed loth to display. But at last his clenched fingers

 opened, and Tarod saw a small and irregularly shaped

 piece of quartz lying in his palm. He reached out, took it

 without a word, and held it up to examine it.

  

 Someone had, at some time, taken a crude stone-

 cutting chisel to the quartz's uneven surface. Carved

 into it, ragged but just recognisable, was a familiar

 symbol - a circle, or what passed for one, bisected by a

 jagged line; and an attempt had been made to mark the

 symbol's outlines with some form of dye which was now

 all but worn away. It was nothing more than a goodluck

 charm, no doubt purchased at a usurer's price from

 some scrofulous charlatan at a Quarter-Day fair.

  

 Tarod let his fingers close round the quartz, and

 smiled humourlessly at the merchant, whose cheeks

 were by now afire with guilty embarrassment. 'I don't

 believe,' he said evenly, 'that we have a servant of Chaos

 in our midst. More likely, we have a gullible and super-

 stitious fool who has spent too much time listening to the

 blandishments of itinerant tricksters!' He opened his

 hand again. 'What did the seller of this bauble tell you?

 That it was imbued with the energies of the gods them-

 selves, that it would protect you against every ghoul and

 demon a man's imagination can conjure?' Turning in his

 saddle he held the quartz out towards the wagon driver.

 'There's your Chaos stone - as crude a piece of trumpery

 as it's ever been my misfortune to see!' His gaze rested,

 pointedly, on the charm-necklace dangling on the

 driver's jerkin, and the man had the good grace to blush

 almost as deeply as the merchant. Tarod waited until he

 was sure the wagoner had understood the significance of

 the symbol cut into the crystal's surface, then he raised

 his arm and flung the stone as far from the road as he

 could.

  

 The Circle doesn't look kindly on charlatans who

 profane the sacred for their own profit.' he said crisply.

 'And it has little more time for fools who are duped by

 such tricks.' The merchant was watching him, half

 abashed and half resentful; Tarod stared him down and

 he dropped his gaze. 'Under the circumstances I've

 some sympathy for you - these aren't easy times. But I'll

 warn you now, both of you -I want to hear no more wild

 accusations, and I want to see no more acts of childish

 superstition!' He turned to the wagoner, who was slowly

  

 removing his own charm-necklace. 'This pathetic affray

 has already delayed us. I'd strongly suggest that no more

 is said on the matter!'

  

 Without waiting for either man to reply he turned his

 horse and rode back to the rear of the caravan, followed

 by the young militiaman, who throughout the exchange

 had said nothing but who now watched him in mute

 admiration. Slowly, the lead wagon began to move and

 the others followed; as the creaking convoy got under

 way once more Tarod settled his horse to a slow, long-

 striding walk, and lapsed into uncomfortable thought.

  

 He might well have been wrong to pour scorn on the

 two protagonists and their superstitions. After all, if

 their amulets gave them comfort what harm could they

 do? But he had sensed something far darker underlying

 the altercation; something that echoed the unhappy

 affair in Hannik. Fear had seeded suspicion, and that

 suspicion was flowering rapidly into hysteria. If a simple

 and pitiable belief in good-luck charms could lead to

 accusations of being in league with Chaos, how long

 would it be before any act, any word, any gesture would

 be interpreted as a sign of evil intent?

  

 Perhaps, he told himself, his thoughts ran too fast and

 too far. But the hope was quickly followed by a realis-

 ation that his instincts were right. In all his years as an

 Initiate he had rarely travelled beyond the Star Penin-

 sula; he had grown used to living in a community that

 understood the nature of superstition and had largely

 risen above it - but in the outside world, matters were

 very different. To these people Adepts were hardly

 lower than gods in their own right, and the Castle a place

 to be revered and dreaded. Little wonder that they were

 responding to the High Initiate's message like children

 frightened by a fireside tale . . .

  

 Did Keridil realise, he wondered, that with his talk of

 demons he was in danger of releasing a far greater evil

 than anything Yandros had thus far manifested? Or did

 he consider the price worth paying, for the sake of

 exacting revenge? That thought was chilling, for it

 hinted at aspects to the High Initiate's character which,

  

 even prejudiced as he was, Tarod wouldn't have

 attributed to him.

  

 He glanced speculatively at the sky, which once again

 was threatening rain. The weather, though dismal, had

 been oddly calm thus far on his journey - almost too

 calm. No storms, no Warps; nothing that suggested the

 untoward influence that Yandros might be capable of

 asserting should he choose to. It was as though some

 other agency were at work, blocking anything the Chaos

 lord might do to disrupt the world, and he wondered

 what other, more arcane wheels the Circle might have

 set in motion in their search for him. Doubtless they'd

 use all their occult skills to call on the power of Aeoris to

 aid them - but could they truly claim the gods' sanction

 for the soul-eating fear that was spreading like a disease

 as a result of their work?

  

 Except for a few dark moments, Tarod had never

 questioned his loyalty to the Lords of Order; but now a

 worm of doubt was moving within him. The truth had

 yet to be put to the test - but if Aeoris and his brethren

 meant to leave the world to the mercies of their self-

 appointed servants whilst doing nothing to stem this

 growing peril, then, somewhere, Yandros must be

 laughing.

  

 He recalled the tear-blotched face of the terrified girl

 in Hannik. She had been one of the first victims, but

 there'd be many more to follow in her wake. The night-

 mare, every instinct told him, was only just beginning

  

 The heavy rains of recent days had largely avoided

 Southern Chaun Province in the far South-West, and so

 the timber and thatch of the farmhouse was dry enough

 to make a spectacular blaze. Dense, oily smoke roiled

 up from the roof; the old vine that rambled over the

 walls shrivelled and cracked and writhed into twisting,

 dying snakes; and already the brilliant glare of fire was

 leaping in every window.

  

 Beyond the house the two barns were also beginning

 to catch, and in the distance, on the well-tended fields,

  

 men moved like phantoms in rising clouds of smoke as

 they set torches to the young crops.

  

 With a roar and a sudden towering eruption of flame

 the roof of the farmhouse caved in, and against the noise

 of the inferno a woman screamed in desperate but help-

 less protest. The smallholder's wife knelt in the yard,

 trying to gather her three young children into her arms

 whilst an older woman in the white robe, now smoke-

 grimed, of a Sister of Aeoris wrestled her back. A few

 paces away her husband sprawled in the dust. He had

 tried to prevent this insanity, but a blazing brand across

 the face had put a stop to his protests, blinded him in one

 eye and left him with a scar he'd carry for the rest of his

 life.

  

 And, at a safe distance from the injured farmer and

 his hysterical family, a group of sober smallholders and

 minor local dignitaries watched the destruction with

 gloomy satisfaction. A very regrettable necessity, they

 agreed, but a necessity nonetheless. The herder lad who

 had reported the strange ritual he'd seen his master

 performing at Sunset last night had acted well; loyalty,

 however commendable, had to take second place to the

 necessity of exposing a servant of Chaos in their midst

  

 The house, and the lifetime's possessions it contained,

 burned; and at last the spectacle was over and the

 farmer's wife's cries had subsided to deep, racking sobs.

 The self-appointed head of the deputation walked

 slowly across to where the white-robed Sister stood, and

 looked down at the landswoman with a mixture of pity

 and disgust.

  

 'We shall, of course, have to make some provision for

 the children,' he said.

  

 The Sister's eyes were hard. 'My main fear, Elder, is

 that they may have been tainted with their father's sin. I

 think it would be for the best if they were housed at my

 Cot for the foreseeable future. That way, we can ensure

 that any sign of corruption is eradicated before it can

 take hold.'

  

 'Indeed . . . indeed.' The Elder sighed. 'Such an

  

 unfortunate occurrence ... do you know, Sister, the

 man still protests his innocence? He claims that he was

 mixing a potion - something handed down by his grand-

 mother, a devout woman, he insists - with which he

 meant to protect his family against evil.'

  

 She smiled, but there was no amusement in it. 'With

 due respect, Elder, if you know your catechisms you'll

 also know that lies and trickery are the hallmark of

 Chaos. Of course, it's possible that the man was speak-

 ing the truth - but would you have been prepared to take

 that risk?'

  

 'No ... ' The Elder looked across the yard at the

 smouldering skeleton of the house. 'No. I would not.'

  

 The Sister turned and leaned down to grasp the sob-

 bing woman's cloak-collar. 'Come; get up!' Over her

 shoulder she called to another, younger Sister who

 hovered in the background. 'Sister Mavan, kindly get

 the children into the cart. The girl seems attached to that

 toy weaving-loom she's clutching - she may keep it, if it

 will ensure her good behaviour.'

  

 The farmer's wife stared at the Sister with mute and

 bitter hatred, but she was too emotionally exhausted to

 protest as the children were shepherded away.

  

 'You should consider yourself fortunate,' the Sister

 told her coldly. 'In many other provinces, your children

 would have been turned out with you, to fend for them-

 selves. You should give thanks to Aeoris that here we

 live under the kindly grace of the Matriarch herself, and

 that she is the soul of clemency!'

  

 The woman didn't answer, and the Sister gazed down

 at her with a sudden rush of contempt and suspicion.

 'What, aren't you repentant even now? You have your

 life - what would your thrice-damned gods of Chaos

 have given you in return for your service?'

  

 'We have never - ' the woman began savagely, then,

 seeing the Sister's steel-cold eyes, she fell silent once

 more.

  

 'You'll learn a lesson from this day,' the Sister told her

 relentlessly. 'You'll learn the foolishness and the futility

 of daring to turn against the laws of the gods! And as you

  

 and your husband wander the roads, destitute as you

 deserve to be, perhaps you'll reflect on Aeoris's mercy,

 and pray to him for forgiveness - if you value your souls!'

 She shivered at the thought of the disaster that might

 have resulted had not this serpent in their midst been

 uncovered in time. The High Initiate's message had

 warned of the deadly power loose in the land; warned of

 their enemies' cunning, and exhorted the Sisters to be

 vigilant for any signs of Chaos's insidious influence. And

 if the dark powers could infiltrate one of their own kind

 to pose for years as an Initiate of the Circle, Aeoris alone

 knew what devilry they might wreak on the malleable

 minds of countryfolk such as these. She remembered

 that black-haired demon they sought; she had seen him

 at the Castle when she went as part of the Matriarch's

 deposition to Keridil Toln's inauguration ceremony,

 and the thought that even the Circle had been duped by

 him was chilling. For that reason alone she was deter-

 mined not to relax her vigilance for a single moment in

 pursuit of evildoers. One bad fruit could corrupt an

 entire harvest. It was her holy duty to see to it that such

 bad fruits had no chance to infect others with their rot,

 and she was satisfied that, thus far, she had acquitted

 herself well.

  

 In Wishet Province, five women awaited trial on charges

 of witchcraft. They had been attempting to sell charms

 at the Port Summer market; and whereas in previous

 seasons they would either have been driven out of the

 town or, more likely, tolerantly ignored, now they lan-

 guished in the justice house with the chilling knowledge

 that their fate would be far less pleasant.

  

 In West High Land, bad weather in the Western

 Sound kept the fishing fleet confined to the perilous cliff-

 harbours of Fanaan Bay. Lady Kael Amion, Senior of

 the largest Sisterhood Cot in the province, received

 word that the fishermen blamed their misfortune on the

 machinations of Chaos, and wasn't inclined to disagree

 with them. And when scapegoats were sought, and

 found, she did nothing to intervene. Aeoris chose to

  

 punish transgressors in his own way - if one or two

 innocents suffered along with the guilty, then perhaps

 the lesson would be learned all the better. Hearing that

 seven people had been put naked into a wicker cage,

 their bodies daubed with hex signs, and the cage

 dropped into the deep sea beyond the bay's shelter, she

 made no comment but simply retired to her chambers

 and prayed for their souls.

  

 In Empty Province, a miner gave shelter to a mer-

 chant whose horse had cast a shoe on the South-Western

 road, offering him a bed for the night and an adequate if

 crude meal. He was later accused of harbouring a ser-

 vant of Chaos, and when the merchant - whose hair

 happened to be black, as several witnesses testified -

 couldn't be traced, the charge was considered proven.

 There had been no executions in the area for a gener-

 ation, but there was no shortage of suitably sized rocks

 among the waste heaps of the mineral mines, when the

 hastily convicted man was stoned to death.

  

 And in the Great Eastern Flatlands, which felt the

 sting of having spawned the Chaos-demon's accomplice,

 no man dared speak a careless word to his neighbour lest

 that word be enough to damn him. The few stone-

 readers who still kept up the ancient tradition closed

 their doors overnight - though one or two were still

 found and dealt summary justice, with their town elders

 none the wiser. The fleet refused to venture out into

 Whiteshoals Sound until every sail on every boat had

 been painted with charms, and complex symbols were

 daubed on doors and shutters throughout the province.

 Hysteria mounted; every fair-haired girl and black-

 haired man went in constant fear of arrest, and the

 Margrave, his resources stretched to breaking point,

 proclaimed a curfew.

  

 Somewhere, Tarod thought, Yandros must be laugh-

 ing ...

  

 Four days after departing Vilmado, Cyllan had picked

 up the main drove road that ran South-East from Pros-

 pect into Shu Province. Thankfully, the journey had

  

 thus far been uneventful; one of her ponies had cast a

 shoe, but a farrier at a hamlet a couple of miles off the

 road had replaced it, and had also been ready to spread

 the latest gossip concerning the fugitives.

  

 Rumour, it seemed, was piling upon rumour. Tarod

 had been reported captured in two different provinces,

 herself in three, and there were numerous reports of

 their having been seen together. There were also tales of

 a disastrous Spring crop failure in Han, flooding in

 Wishet and a monstrous Warp that had swept down

 through West High Land, Chaun and Southern Chaun,

 claiming fifty lives - all signs, the farrier insisted, that the

 dark powers were using their servants to wreak havoc

 among the godly followers of Aeoris.

  

 Cyllan gazed about the forge's interior, where every

 nook and cranny was festooned with amulets and

 daubed with holy symbols, and shivered despite the heat

 of the fire. Everyone she had passed on the road, or

 encountered in towns and hamlets, had displayed some

 charm against evil, and encounters with any strangers

 had been rife with tension and suspicion. Even the

 loquacious farrier had been unwilling to take her com-

 mission at first, and only a good deal of persuasion on

 Cyllan's part had convinced him that she was harmless.

 Matters, she realised, were rapidly getting out of hand-

 people were being arrested as sympathisers with Chaos

 on the flimsiest of hearsay; old spites were finding out-

 lets in wild accusations of witchcraft and demonology;

 no one could trust his neighbour or even his own family

 not to turn against him. In every settlement men were

 forming into hasty militia forces and taking the law into

 their own hands, and it was only thanks to good luck and

 an occasional measure of guile that Cyllan had avoided

 the zealous search for supposed evildoers.

  

 She'd taken the precaution of buying a charm-neck-

 lace which she wore around her throat to avoid drawing

 attention to herself, but it did little to allay the creeping

 unease which was now a constant companion. The sick-

 ness of fear that was tainting the world had taken its toll

 on her, too, and hand in hand with it went her rapidly

  

 diminishing hope of ever finding Tarod before the Circle

 found her. She couldn't, she knew, evade them for ever,

 and even if the Circle might eventually be ready to

 abandon the hunt for Tarod's paramour, they would

 never cease to search for Drachea Rannak's murderer.

 Cyllan shuddered, and tried to put the disquieting

 thoughts out of her mind and concentrate on the road. A

 little way ahead she could see a small cairn of stones,

 newly built, at the side of the track, and around this

 makeshift shrine travellers had piled offerings - small

 treasures, items of food, trinkets and coloured scarves -

 as a plea to Aeoris for protection on the road. She had

 seen several such shrines during the past few days, and

 as she drew level with the cairn she wondered if she too

 might leave something, a coin perhaps, just as a token

  

 The wind strengthened unexpectedly, a sharp, sough-

 ing gust from the North that bit through her coat and

 brought gooseflesh to her arms, and in its cold whine she

 imagined she heard an unhuman laugh. The Chaos

 stone, hidden beneath her shirt, pulsed suddenly hot

 against her skin as though in warning, and her pony

 shied at the cairn.

  

 Sweat broke out on Cyllan's face and neck as she

 calmed the animal and edged it past the shrine. The

 gusting wind might have been coincidence - but it had

 followed so instantaneously on the heels of her thought

 that she doubted it. And that laugh - real or imagined, it

 had chilled her to the marrow, for it seemed to mock her

 for daring to think that she might appeal to Aeoris for

 protection.

  

 She looked up at the dull, pewter-grey sky, then over

 her shoulder at the road behind her. An image was in her

 mind, called back from that day in Shu-Nhadek when

 the Warp had struck. She had seen a figure, a phantasm,

 beckoning to her from the far end of a noisome alley as

 the storm screamed in from the North; she remembered

 the brazen hair, the graceful but deadly hand summon-

 ing her, the star that burned at the phantom's heart. . .

  

 and she half expected to relive that nightmare now as she

 turned her head.

  

 But the road was deserted ...

  

 The ponies had quieted as the cairn with its offerings

 fell behind. Cyllan pulled the collar of her coat more

 closely around her cold cheeks, and dug her heels into

 her unwilling mount's flanks to urge it onward.

  

 Chapter 5

  

 The Sun had just passed meridian on the following day

 when Cyllan saw the outlines of a large town ahead. She

 halted her ponies, staring at the distant rooftops and

 wondering whether or not to attempt to skirt the place.

 This part of Prospect Province was vaguely familiar to

 her - she had travelled this way several times with her

 uncle's drovers - and, if memory served her correctly,

 there was little alternative to riding through the town.

 Farmland stretched away to either side, and with newly

 planted crops growing in their fields the holders here-

 abouts wouldn't take kindly to a stranger trampling

 across their lands when there was a good road to be

 followed. Fortune had accompanied her so far; she must

 trust to it again and face the town.

  

 She heard the tolling of the bell when she was still a

 half mile out, carried on a light breeze which had backed

 into the South-East overnight, and the sound of it made

 her apprehensive. Every town worthy of the name

 boasted at least one great bell, usually sited in a tower

 atop the justice house, but it was only rung to signify an

 event of considerable importance. Something was afoot

 here, and Cyllan had no wish to become embroiled in it.

  

 Carefully she surveyed the land to either side of the

 road, but there was no sign of a track through the fields.

 Very well; it seemed she had no option but to continue.

 At least the townsfolk would be less inclined to trouble a

 stranger if they had matters of their own to concern them

  

 The town boundaries were marked by a humpbacked

 stone bridge spanning a small but busily chuckling river

 tributary, and the two men who guarded the bridge

  

 turned their heads at the sound of approaching hoofs.

 They had been craning towards the town, clearly

 anxious to find out what was to do, and Cyllan reined in

 as she drew level with them.

  

 'State your name, and your business,' one of the

 guards demanded.

  

 Themila Avray, drover, from West High Land.'

 Cyllan had used the alias before, inventing the clan

 name and adopting the given name of a woman who,

 Tarod had told her, had once been his dearest friend and

 mentor at the Castle. 'I'm bound for Shu-Nhadek, to

 meet my cousin at the Quarter-Day fair.'

  

 The guard's narrow eyes took in her auburn hair, her

 clothing, the charm-necklace on her breast, and his

 expression relaxed slightly. 'You'll be lucky if you can

 get through the town before the day's out,' he told her.

  

 The bell was still ringing, an urgent summons. 'Why?'

 Cyllan asked.

  

 'There's a trial to be held in the market square.' The

 guard grinned lopsidedly. 'Rumour is, they've caught

 the Chaos-demon's accomplice.'

  

 'Caught - ' Cyllan checked herself and swallowed,

 realising that luck was, indeed, with her. She made a

 sign over her breast, knowing the man expected it.

 'Aeoris ... '

  

 The guard stood back and waved her on. 'Best hurry,

 if you want to see the fun.' He grinned again. 'I'm just

 hoping my relief'll turn up before it's all over!'

  

 Cyllan thanked him, and urged her ponies on over the

 bridge.

  

 Even before she reached the market square, Cyllan's

 progress was hampered by the press of people who were

 converging from every direction, and any hopes she

 might have had of being able to ride through the town

 and leave it behind were quickly dampened. It seemed

 that the entire populace was turning out, summoned by

 the tolling bell, and by the time the square came in sight

 it was clear that, like it or not, she must stay until the trial

 was over.

  

 The square was packed and the crowd spilling over

 into the neighbouring streets, and only the fact that she

 was on horseback enabled Cyllan to reach an open space

 from where, provided she stayed in the saddle, she had a

 good view of the proceedings. The trial was to be con-

 ducted on the steps of the justice house, as the building's

 interior had proved inadequate to the event, and the

 officiators had already emerged and taken their places as

 she reined in, halted by the press of people.

  

 An elderly man in black seated himself stiffly in a

 chair, flanked by a knot of town dignitaries and a uni-

 formed militiaman whose task, apparently, was to read

 the charges brought against the prisoner. Searching

 among the group on the steps Cyllan saw, amid an

 armed guard, a blonde-haired girl, her face drawn with

 terror, and the spectacle made her feel suddenly sick.

 The girl was even younger than she was and, whatever

 evidence might be trumped up against her, Cyllan knew

 she was innocent. But what defence could she possibly

 have against the superstitious dread of her peers?

  

 Two years ago she had witnessed a trial, in a Wishet

 Province town where she was trading with her uncle's

 drovers, and memory of that event gave Cyllan a small

 measure of hope for the girl. An Initiate had presided

 then, and the evidence of both sides had been heard with

 a reassuringly sober impartiality, the final verdict fair if

 not entirely popular. There was no Initiate to conduct

 matters today, but perhaps that was just as well - the

 Circle's anxiety to find the Chaos-lord's accomplice

 could prejudice the judgment of any Adept, however

 high his principles. Cyllan looked at the miserable girl

 again, and her lips moved in a silent prayer to any

 powers, Order or Chaos, who might be prevailed on to

 prevent a miscarriage of justice.

  

 Her hopes, however, were short-lived. From the fur-

 thest edge of the square it was impossible to hear every

 word of the speeches, the accusations and the depo-

 sitions, but it soon became clear that the assembled

 officials were determined to appease a crowd that hun-

 gered for blood. Every now and then a speaker was

  

 drowned out by a roar of outrage, and the prisoner's

 attempts to protest her innocence were met with the

 howls of a mob in full cry.

  

 Cyllan felt sweat breaking out on her skin and trick-

 ling uncomfortably down her back, accompanied by an

 ugly sickness in the pit of her stomach. In the name of

 the Lords of Order, these good and pious people were

 condemning an innocent without any hope of redress.

 Witness after witness stepped up to give evidence, and

 though the girl shook her head frantically, and wept, and

 pleaded with her judges, the weight of opinion was in

 full spate against her. Quite what she had purportedly

 done Cyllan couldn't discern; and besides, the exact

 nature of her alleged crime hardly seemed to matter.

 She was young, her hair was blonde, and she was a

 stranger to the district - those three factors alone were

 sufficient to condemn her.

  

 Although to Cyllan the proceedings seemed to take an

 eternity, in reality the trial was obscenely brief.

 Abruptly the bell in the justice house tower boomed out

 its sonorous message, and the crowd in the square fell

 silent as the senior Elder rose from his chair to speak.

  

 'The evidence brought against the prisoner has been

 carefully analysed and considered.' His voice, reedy

 with age, nonetheless cut clearly across the heads of the

 throng, and Cyllan's stomach turned at the hypocrisy of

 his words. 'And it is with the deepest regret that we, the

 faithful custodians of the holy laws of Aeoris,' here he

 paused to make the Sign, ostentatiously, in the air

 before him, 'find all charges against this unfortunate

 puppet of darkness to be proven.'

  

 A muttering in the square swelled to a full-throated

 yell of approval which only died down as the old man

 made a pacifying gesture towards the crowd.

  

 'These are troubled times,' the Elder continued when

 the tumult finally subsided. 'But we all share a duty

 which, however onerous a burden, must be fulfilled if we

 are to truly serve the gods who grant us succour.' He

 paused. 'Like any other devout citizen, I have no taste

 for vengeance. But can I - can we - truly call ourselves

  

 disciples of those very Lords who grant their spark of

 godhood to our souls and our lives, if we neglect our

 clear duty when that burden falls upon us?'

  

 The old man was a master of rhetoric, Cyllan thought

 bitterly. He praised the mob for their piety, and they

 hung on his every word. All about her folk were nod-

 ding, murmuring, congratulating the Elder and them-

 selves . . .

  

 'We have no hatred in our hearts!' the Elder con-

 tinued, raising his voice. 'Indeed, we are moved to pity

 for this unfortunate slave of evil, for hers is a soul which

 cannot know the blessing of the true gods!' Another,

 longer pause. 'But we cannot allow such pity to sway us

 from righteousness. And I believe that if our great lord

 Aeoris himself were to sit in judgment upon the verdict

 of this court, he would not find that verdict wanting.' He

 raised his head with a beatific smile, and a thousand

 throats roared their approval.

  

 Cyllan's ponies snorted and stamped, frightened by

 the uproar yet too hemmed in to escape. She leaned over

 her own mount's neck, whispering soothingly to calm it

 whilst drawing the other pony as close to her side as she

 could. Hot fury welled in her. She could do nothing - this

 mockery of a trial had been decided even before it

 began; the townsfolk wanted a scapegoat for their ter-

 rors, and the elders, like market-place players, courted

 their favour by providing such a one. For a single, wild

 moment something deep within her urged her to force

 her ponies through the crowd to the justice house steps,

 there to bring out the Chaos stone and scream to these

 pitiful dupes that the true object of their fear stood

 among them undaunted . . . but even as the insane idea

 glanced through her mind she felt the hot, warning pulse

 of the gem at her breast, and knew that, whatever savage

 injustice might be perpetrated here today, she could

 play no part in rectifying it.

  

 The Elder was speaking again. 'My friends, good

 citizens - though it grieves my heart to pronounce sen-

 tence upon this poor creature here before us, justice

 must take its course.' He turned to face the now silent

  

 girl, his profile outlined hawkishly by the glow of the

 waning Sun. Tor one who has consorted with the

 powers of Chaos, there can be but one end. I hope you

 will join me in praying to Aeoris for this unfortunate,

 that in his wisdom and mercy he may forgive her trans-

 gressions and release her soul from its servitude to evil.'

  

 Silence greeted his words, but Cyllan saw several

 people make the Sign of Aeoris in the air before them.

 The girl was staring at her judges, unable to believe the

 fate that awaited her; then she turned her head away as

 though withdrawing, detaching herself from the mad-

 ness around her.

  

 Cyllan wanted to escape from the square before

 events took their inexorable course, but there was no

 room to turn and nowhere to go. The crush was increas-

 ing, swelled by new arrivals from the further reaches of

 the town and also by the fact that a section of the crowd

 was drawing back to form an aisle between the justice

 house and the square's centre, where a Law Stone stood

 gaunt and bare. The prisoner was hustled down the steps

 towards the stone, and she seemed suddenly to realise

 what awaited her, for she began to scream and struggle,

 fighting her captors with all the strength she possessed.

 The guards shook her violently to quiet her, but Cyllan

 could hear her deep-throated sobs, as finally man-

 handling her to the stone, they bound her to the rough

 granite and drew back.

  

 Only a stubborn and terrible sense of reality con-

 vinced Cyllan that she wasn't asleep and dreaming as she

 watched the appalling progress of events from then on.

 A low susurrating murmur vibrated through the square,

 setting her ponies fidgeting and dancing again, and she

 could only stare helplessly as the crowd shuffled men-

 acingly towards the Law Stone. There was movement at

 the front of the throng circling her - then the voice of the

 Elder, who still stood on the steps of the justice house,

 rang across the square.

  

 'Let the unhappy task be done.'

  

 The sound of the first stone as it struck the girl was

 shocking and sickening against the background of

  

 silence. Her body jerked violently and she cried out, but

 the press of thrusting, jostling people, those at the back

 craning their necks to see, all but hid her from view. A

 second stone missed its mark, then a third struck her on

 the temple, and suddenly, like a pack of hounds loosed

 on a hunted animal, the mob closed in with a bloodlust-

 ing yell.

  

 'No . . . ' Cyllan's own whisper was harsh in her ears,

 but the crowd were too intent on their victim to notice.

 'Yandros, no . . . '

  

 They had been waiting for this moment, she realised,

 knowing what the outcome of the trial would be, and

 prepared for it. Those stones hadn't materialised from

 nowhere . . . the mob had known that this ancient and

 barbaric method of execution would be invoked, and

 every man and woman among them had come well

 prepared.

  

 She stared with a hideous fascination as stones,

 pebbles, even spars of wood, rained down on the girl's

 unprotected body. Blood made a grisly pattern on her

 face and now she was screaming, unable to maintain her

 futile courage any longer and writhing against the ropes

 that held her. Cyllan didn't know how long it was before

 her slight figure finally slumped into unconsciousness,

 but even when her senses had fled the sea of arms

 continued to rise and fall, and the sounds as rock met

 unresistant flesh made Cyllan feel sick with shock and

 disgust.

  

 At long last it was over. An eerie silence descended on

 the square, and gradually, like an ebbing tide, the

 townsfolk began to move away, withdrawing from the

 ruined and bloody shell of humanity that hung like a

 grotesque doll from the Law Stone. The Elders, their

 own part in the charade complete, had made a dignified

 exit, and finally Cyllan realised that her path was no

 longer blocked by the milling throng.

  

 Her pony side-stepped, flattening its ears, its nostrils

 flaring at the alarming scent of blood. Cyllan turned it

 away from the Law Stone, knowing that she couldn't

 continue her journey, couldn't cross the square while

  

 the girl's corpse hung there. She slid from the saddle,

 almost falling as her legs threatened to give way under

 her, and hid her face in the pony's mane, wishing that

 she could be sick, faint - anything to banish the hideous

 after-images of what she had witnessed.

  

 A wine-seller began to ring a handbell behind her,

 shrilly proclaiming that her wares were the best to be

 found in the province, and the ponies reared and whin-

 nied in fright at the noise. Cyllan swung round and saw a

 makeshift stall laden with skins, jars and cups. For a

 moment she could only stare, numbed, at the brisk

 business the seller was already doing; then an impulse

 urged her to stumble forward. Wine might help her to

 forget what she had seen . . . she dug into her belt-

 pouch and pulled out the first coin she found; a half-

 gravine.

  

 'Give me a full skin.' Her voice was harsh.

  

 The woman grinned broadly. 'Gladly, lass! And you'll

 drink the health of our good elders, eh?'

  

 The wine-skin was pressed into Cyllan's hand. She

 received no change and knew the woman was robbing

 her, but she was past caring. The ponies followed her

 uneasily as she stumbled towards the edge of the square,

 where she would be out of the crush, and tears were

 starting to flow as she slumped down against a white-

 washed wall and, with shaking hands, uncorked the

 brimming skin and raised it to her lips.

  

 ' ... Is she merely asleep, d'you think? Or taken ill?'

  

 'I don't know . . . wait, and I'll see.'

  

 The female voices impinged on Cyllan's hazed mind

 as though through a heavy fog, and although she knew

 that she was the object of their scrutiny, she didn't seem

 able to unlock her tongue and tell them that she was well

 enough, and to leave her be. She heard a footfall, then

 sensed a figure stooping over her.

  

 'No, she's not ill.' There was faint amusement in the

 voice. 'She's drunk!'

  

 'I am not. . . ohh!' Cyllan found her voice at last and

 attempted to protest, but an injudicious movement sent

  

 pain throbbing through her head, and her back was so

 stiff that every muscle resisted violently. She opened her

 eyes, wincing at what seemed to be intolerantly brilliant

 light, and finally focused on the two women who were

 bent over her.

  

 One was middle-aged, the other younger, and both

 were dressed in travel-stained white robes, with riding

 boots beneath and short but heavy cloaks about their

 shoulders. The square was dark and the women carried

 lanterns; it was their light which had seared her eyes.

 Sisters of Aeoris . . . Cyllan shut her eyes again and

 tried to struggle upright. She had been lying against a

 rough wall and her clothes were soaked through with

 damp, exacerbating the stiffness in her body. There was

 a vile taste in her mouth and she wiped an unsteady hand

 across her lips, resisting the temptation to spit.

  

 'Here, now; let us help you.' A hand took her arm,

 gently but firmly, and she was raised to her feet. 'Can

 you stand unaided? Do you feel well enough to walk?'

  

 Cyllan forced herself to nod. 'I'm all right . . . thank

 you, I don't need -' She stopped as a retching spasm set

 her stomach lurching. 'Oh, gods . . . '

  

 The two women tactfully and sympathetically guided

 her into an alley where, painfully, she lost the contents

 of the wine-skin which she'd drunk before collapsing.

 Unpleasant though the experience was, it helped to

 clear her head, and she felt considerably better when she

 turned to face them once more.

  

 'Thank you,' she said indistinctly. 'You're - very

 kind.'

  

 'Nonsense, child. Succouring those in trouble is part

 of our calling, and it's clear that you're in need of

 comfort.' The older woman, who had spoken, smiled at

 her. 'I am Sister Liss Kaya Trevire, and this is Sister

 Farial Mordyn. We are travelling through Prospect on

 our way South, so we're strangers here. I suspect that

 gives us something in common.'

  

 'Yes . . . ' Despite her deep suspicion of the Sister-

 hood, Cyllan was warming to Sister Liss. 'I am - ' she

 checked herself, realising with a sobering shock that she

  

 had been on the verge of giving her real name, 'I am

 Themila Avray, drover, from West High Land.'

  

 'And what of your band?' Sister Liss pursued. 'Are

 you housed at one of the town inns?'

  

 Cyllan shook her head. 'I'm alone. That is - I'm on my

 way to meet my cousin in Shu-Nhadek.'

  

 The Sisters were shocked. 'Surely you haven't been

 travelling this road unaccompanied, now of all times?'

 Farial asked. 'It's unthinkable - there are so many

 dangers!'

  

 'Indeed,' Liss agreed. 'Not least of which, it seems, is

 the danger of falling into temptation.' She glanced with

 grim humour at the empty wine-skin which lay discarded

 in the gutter. 'Even in a respectable town there are too

 many rogues for comfort. Have you checked you belt-

 pouch, child?'

  

 Cyllan's eyes widened, and involuntarily she put her

 hand to her breast. To her relief, the Chaos stone still lay

 hard and cold beneath her jerkin, and she hastily felt in

 her pouch, hoping that the women hadn't taken heed of

 her first gesture. The pouch's contents were complete

 . . . she smiled sheepishly.

  

 'All's well.'

  

 'No thanks to your lack of vigilance,' Liss admonished

 her. 'You've been fortunate, Themila. You are very

 young, and I know how easy it is to give way to temp-

 tation when you have only the rashness of youth and

 inexperience to guide you. But to indulge in this kind of

 behaviour . . . ' She indicated the empty skin. 'It can

 only lead you on a downhill road.'

  

 The homily was well intentioned but Cyllan felt bitter-

 ness well within her. Perhaps these good Sisters had only

 arrived in the town after the grisly spectacle of the trial

 and its outcome; but either way, they must know what

 had taken place here. How could they condemn anyone

 for reacting as she had done?

  

 Without realising it she had glanced towards the Law

 Stone in the centre of the now empty square. The girl's

 broken body had been removed, but the torches in their

 high brackets which burned around the square showed

  

 dark smears on the stone's surface that didn't look like

 shadow. Sister Farial saw Cyllan's expression, and

 touched her colleague's arm lightly.

  

 'I think I understand,' she said, and nodded towards

 the stone. 'In the light of today's events . . . '

  

 Sister Liss's look softened. 'Ah, yes. Of course.' She

 touched her tongue to her lips. Thankfully, our party

 was spared from witnessing the execution, as we only

 arrived in the town when it was all over. It must have

 been a very distressing spectacle.'

  

 Cyllan shrugged, angry that she'd shown weakness

 and yet mollified by the Sisters' obvious sympathy. 'She

 was younger than I am,' she said harshly.

  

 'So I heard. And doubtless you couldn't help thinking

 that, but for the grace of Aeoris, you might have stood in

 her place.' Sister Liss sighed. 'These are sorry times. All

 we can do is pray that they'll soon be over.'

  

 Cyllan couldn't stop herself from protesting at the

 woman's fatalism. 'But she was innocent!' she said; then,

 realising that she'd made a dangerous slip, added, 'That

 is - there was no evidence against her, nothing that any

 rational thought could have supported! Yet they - it was

 as if -' She made a helpless, frustrated gesture, angered

 by her inability to articulate what she felt. They wanted

 a victim, and they didn't care whether that victim was

 guilty or not.'

  

 Liss smiled sadly. 'I understand your feelings. But you

 must remember that more dangers attend us all now

 than the simple apprehension of the two fugitives.

 Chaos is a deadly enemy, and possessed of great guile.

 Its servants will lose no opportunity to seek out the weak

 and the dissolute, and corrupt them to its service.' The

 smile faded. 'Harsh as it may seem at times, we are

 charged to uphold Aeoris's laws, and we can't take the

 risk of allowing evil to take root among us. It's not a

 pleasant fact to face, but it's better that innocents suffer

 than that the guilty go free.'

  

 Fortunately, before Cyllan could speak they were

 interrupted by the arrival of four more women, who

 formed the remainder of the Sisterhood party. Liss told

  

 Cyllan's story, and the other Sisters immediately

 pressed her to travel with them.

  

 'You can't possibly continue on the road alone,' she

 was urged. 'And the more of us who ride together, the

 safer we'll all be.'

  

 Cyllan tried to argue, but the women were adamant,

 and Liss had the final word.

  

 'My conscience could never be easy if I allowed you to

 go,' she insisted. 'If anything were to befall you, I

 couldn't live with myself. Would you wish that fate on

 me?'

  

 It seemed to Cyllan that, unless she were prepared to

 face another hasty flight during the dark hours, she was

 effectively trapped; she had no defence against their

 arguments. But then it occurred to her that the situation

 could have advantages, Who, after all, would dream of

 casting suspicion on a girl in the company of six Sisters of

 Aeoris? Provided she kept a constant guard on her

 tongue, what better protection could she ask?

  

 She smiled, slowly but with returning confidence. 'If

 my presence won't be a burden to you . . . '

  

 'The very idea!' Liss was relieved and pleased. 'We

 rest for tonight at the Minstrels Tavern, and I'm sure

 there'll be room to house you with us. Then in the

 morning, an hour after Sunrise, we'll be on our way.'

  

 The Sisterhood party left for the South as the Sun was

 beginning its climb into a blood-red sky streaked with

 only a few purple-edged smears of cloud. Sister Liss

 pronounced the weather a good omen, and once the

 town was left behind they made steady if slow progress.

 Cyllan rode towards the rear of the group, just ahead

 of the Sisters' four baggage ponies. She was privately

 thankful to have company; last night her sleep had been

 racked with nightmares that revolved round the

 executed girl, and with the dreams still fresh in her mind

 she had no desire to be alone with her thoughts. Her

 fellow-travellers were content to enjoy the ride and the

 landscape, and what little conversation there was was

 idle and therefore safe. The only unsettling factor was

  

 the presence of the dark-haired, thin-faced woman who

 rode a little way ahead of her.

  

 She had exchanged no more than a few words with

 Sister-Seer Jennat Brynd since their first meeting, but on

 several occasions she had noticed the woman watching

 her with more than idle interest. Cyllan hadn't bar-

 gained on encountering a seer among her new compan-

 ions, and she wondered how far Jennat's talents

 extended - the thought that her own mind might be an

 open book to a truly skilled psychic was chilling. She had

 had little contact with the seer, and thus far all was well,

 but she was anxious not to encourage Jennat's society,

 for her own safety's sake. The journey to Shu-Nhadek

 should take about four days if there were no untoward

 delays, so she wouldn't need to maintain her deception

 for much longer.

  

 The rest of the day passed without incident, and they

 spent the next night at a cramped but clean roadside inn.

 Pleading tiredness, Cyllan went to bed as soon as they

 had eaten, leaving the Sisters to talk and share a jar of

 wine, and trying to forget the speculative glance that

 Jennat Brynd had cast in her direction before she

 retired. In the morning they left early, Sister Liss giving

 thanks to Aeoris for another fine if chilly day, and by

 mid-afternoon they had reached a wide river spanned by

 a wooden pack-bridge. One of the baggage ponies had

 begun to limp, and they reined in while Cyllan offered to

 examine the animal and see what was amiss with it.

  

 Liss slid thankfully from her saddle and pressed the

 knuckles of both hands into the small of her back. 'I

 don't mind admitting that I'm glad of the rest,' she said,

 looking at the lowering Sun and allowing its warmth to

 bathe her face. 'And thankful, too, that we're moving

 further South. The days are longer down here, the Sun's

 rays stronger . . . it's a blessed relief after the northern

 lands!'

  

 Farial, who had also dismounted, was searching

 through a pack strapped to one of the baggage ponies,

 and drew out a wrapped package and a skin of fruit

 juice. This would be a pleasant enough place to stop

  

 under any circumstances,' she said. 'Perhaps we can sit

 on the grass for a while and relax - that is, if Themila

 thinks her task will take a little time?'

  

 It took Cyllan a few moments to remember that she

 was the one being addressed, and she looked up quickly,

 allowing the baggage pony to rest its troublesome leg on

 the ground. 'I don't think it's anything more than a stone

 in his hoof,' she told the Sister, then smiled. 'But it could

 take an hour to put right, if you'd like.'

  

 Farial laughed. 'Very well - then let's make ourselves

 comfortable.' She spread her cloak among the lusher

 grass where the land started to slope towards the river,

 and sat down. 'I've fresh drinks for us all here, and the

 cakes I bought from the town bakery this morning.'

  

 Within a few minutes all six of the women had settled

 themselves on the grass, and Cyllan, having prised the

 stone from the pony's hoof with the point of her knife,

 joined them. Farial handed her a slab of cake and she

 squatted at the edge of the group, reaching behind her to

 fix her bunched hair more securely.

  

 Her fingers came away from her hair smeared with

 red-brown stains . . .

  

 Cyllan had completely forgotten that the effects of the

 bellflower dye must be wearing off by now. Drovers'

 inns didn't furnish their rooms with looking-glasses, and

 it hadn't occurred to her to worry about the colour of her

 hair. By now, the copper-brown could be streaked half-

 way back to its natural white-blonde; and that could be

 enough to damn her.

  

 Quickly she glanced at the Sisters, but they were

 occupied with their food and drink - all, that is, save for

 Jennat Brynd, who was watching Cyllan and, as their

 gazes met, smiled a slow, pleasant smile. With a tremen-

 dous effort Cyllan made her lips quirk nervously in

 response, then she pointedly turned her attention to the

 cake in her hand.

  

 For a time there were no sounds but the ripple of the

 river and the contented munching of the horses as they

 cropped at the grass near by. Sister Liss's head had

 drooped forward and she seemed to be asleep; Farial

  

 was fussily tidying the litter of their small feast, and

 Jennat, propped on one elbow, was engrossed in exam-

 ining the contents of her belt-pouch. At length she drew

 out something that caught the Sunlight with a brilliant

 flare, and those nearest to her looked up in surprise.

  

 'Scrying, Sister?' Farial inquired amiably.

  

 Jennat smiled. 'Yes. It was the river that gave me the

 notion. So smooth and quiet, and the way the current

 catches the Sunlight and reflects it is quite hypnotic.'

  

 Farial turned to Cyllan. 'You must pay no attention to

 Sister Jennat, Themila. She chooses the unlikeliest

 moments to practise her art - though in truth we're all

 very proud and envious of her skills.'

  

 Cyllan nodded uneasily, and Jennat's dark eyes met

 hers.

  

 'Oh, but I don't want to distress our new friend,' she

 said solicitously. 'It's easy for us to overlook the fact

 that, to outsiders, our way can sometimes seem discon-

 certing. One forgets that the magical skills aren't widely

 practised beyond the Sisterhood.'

  

 Despite the softness of her voice, the words were a

 clear challenge. Cyllan regarded her through narrowed

 lashes. 'Please, don't let me deter you, Sister. I'm not

 afraid.'

  

 Jennat turned the small scrying-glass over and over in

 her hands. 'Perhaps you've seen something of this

 nature before?'

  

 'I saw a stone-reader once, at a fair,' Cyllan said. 'But

 I believe he must have been a charlatan.'

  

 'Most self-professed diviners are. To develop a true

 talent takes both dedication and years of study.'

  

 Cyllan didn't reply, and with another of her slow

 smiles Jennat turned her attention back to the scrying-

 glass. After a prudent pause Cyllan got to her feet and,

 hoping that her actions seemed casual, walked slowly

 down the gentle slope to the edge of the river. By the

 bank the water was crystal clear, and she fancied she saw

 fish moving sleekly among the dappled shadows. She

 tried to concentrate on watching them, but it was impos-

 sible; Sister Jennat's subtle insinuations had breached

  

 the mental wall behind which she'd hidden her deepest

 fears, and she felt sick with trepidation. The sensation,

 coupled with an irrational hope that by physically dis-

 tancing herself from the seer she could evade her scru-

 tiny, had driven her to get as far away from the Sisters as

 she could, while she collected her wits.

  

 Surely, she told herself, Sister Jennat presented no

 real threat? It was possible - no, likely - that her imag-

 ination was seeing shadows where none existed. Only a

 few more days to Shu-Nhadek, and then she could forget

 that she'd ever encountered these women . . .

  

 Themila?' A voice behind her made her start, and she

 turned to see that Jennat had left the others and walked

 silently down the bank to join her. 'Are you feeling

 unwell?'

  

 'No - no.' Cyllan shook her head, not meeting the

 other woman's gaze. 'I just thought to - to look at the

 river.'

  

 'Ah.' Jennat, too, gazed out across the smoothly flow-

 ing water. 'It is a peaceful sight, isn't it? Still, it would be

 all too easy to slip into the temptation of tarrying. I came

 to tell you that Sister Liss has woken, and says that we

 must be on our way if we're to reach habitation before

 nightfall.'

  

 So her errand was innocent enough . . . Cyllan

 clenched her teeth against an involuntarily sigh of relief,

 and turned to go. Jennat made to follow - then abruptly

 paused.

  

 'Oh, Themila -I hope you'll pardon my curiosity, but

 ... do tell me, why do you dye your hair? Its natural

 colour is such a pretty shade.'

  

 Cyllan stared at the sloe-dark eyes in the smiling,

 guileless face, as her stomach turned ice-cold. Jennat's

 question had caught her completely unawares, and she

 had no answer.

  

 'Jennat! Themila! Come; we've wasted enough time!'

 Sister Liss's impatient cry broke the terrible hiatus, and

 gratefully Cyllan turned, raising one arm in acknow-

 ledgement. Without waiting for Jennat, and without

  

 giving her a chance to put her question again, she ran up

 the bank to where the horses were tethered.

  

 Pulling the animals away from the juicy grass took

 time and effort, but finally Cyllan had her own ponies

 back on the road and checked their harness whilst she

 waited for the other women to mount up. She was about

 to swing herself into the saddle when a voice spoke,

 quite clearly but also quite casually, from a short dis-

 tance away.

  

 'Cyllan . . .  '

  

 'Yes?' She turned without thinking at the sound of her

 name - her real name - and only when she found herself

 face to face with Jennat did she realise the terrible

 mistake she'd made.

  

 Jennat smiled. 'Will you show us the jewel which you

 keep so carefully next to your skin?'

  

 Sister Liss paused at her horse's head. 'Jewel? What

 jewel is this, Jennat?'

  

 Cyllan held her breath, striving to appear a good deal

 calmer than she felt. Jennat, sure of herself now, con-

 tinued to stare at her. 'Sister Liss, I think it's perhaps

 more important to establish the small matter of our

 friend's identity.'

  

 Liss realised suddenly what the seer was implying.

 'You called her Cyllan . . . '

  

 'And she answered me. I believe that, if my scrying-

 glass doesn't deceive me, her full name is Cyllan

 Anassan.'

  

 Farial gave a little cry of shock, and Liss's eyes

 widened. 'Jennat, you don't mean - '

  

 'Look at her hair!' Jennat interrupted, pointing. 'It's

 no more that colour than mine is! She's fair - so fair that

 her hair's all but white! And my glass showed me a

 gemstone which she keeps hidden, a clear jewel, Search

 her, Sisters, and I believe you'll find the very stone that

 the Circle are seeking!'

  

 Shock had kept Cyllan rooted where she stood, but

 abruptly she realised that she was lost. She couldn't bluff

 her way around Jennat's accusations; her only hope was

 flight.

  

 She made a frantic leap for her pony, but even as she

 slithered astride its back Jennat rushed at her, grabbing

 her arm. Cyllan lashed out, the pony plunged, and, off

 balance, she felt herself slipping, falling from the saddle.

 She landed with a thump, the pony's hoofs only just

 missing her skull as it reared in fright, and the fall

 knocked all the breath out of her. Before she could

 struggle up again, three of the Sisters were kneeling

 beside her and holding her down.

  

 'Keep her still!' Jennat cried breathlessly, ducking

 Cyllan's flailing arm. 'We'll soon find out the truth - '

  

 'Jennat!' Sister Liss shouted, dismayed. 'Jennat, this

 is unseemly! You are a Sister of Aeoris, not a brawling

 tavern wench! Get up at once!'

  

 Jennat paid no attention. She had thrust a hand into

 Cyllan's shirt, tearing the fabric, and her fingers closed

 round the soul-stone. Cyllan struggled like a feral cat but

 couldn't free herself, and Jennat sprang to her feet,

 triumphant.

  

 'Sister Liss, look!'

  

 Cold, white radiance spilled across Jennat's palm as

 she opened her hand to display the jewel. The older

 woman flinched, and hastily made the Sign of Aeoris.

 'Gods preserve us . . . '

  

 Those Sisters who weren't engaged in pinning Cyllan

 to the ground gathered round, exclaiming. One reached

 out as if to touch the stone, then swiftly withdrew her

 hand. Liss turned to look down at the girl who lay on the

 grass, and the mute defiance she saw in Cyllan's eyes

 banished any last doubts.

  

 'So all this time we've been harbouring a serpent in

 our midst,' she said unsteadily. 'Gods help us, I can

 hardly believe it ... ' Then her mouth set into a hard

 line. 'Hide that jewel away, Jennat. It's an evil thing,

 and I won't risk our being tainted by it. Wrap it in a

 cloth. It mustn't see the light of day again until it can be

 given into the hands of the High Initiate.'

  

 Jennat gazed at the stone and licked her lips uneasily.

 'And what of the girl? What are we do with her?'

  

 'Poor child.' Liss continued to regard Cyllan gravely.

 'How one so young could be so corrupt . . . '

  

 'Should we take her to the next town for trial?' Farial

 asked.

  

 'No - this is beyond the jurisdiction of the local

 Elders, or even the Province Margrave. She must be

 delivered to the Castle of the Star Peninsula, to face the

 judgment of the Circle itself.' Her gaze lingered a

 moment longer, then she shook her head and turned

 away. 'To think that she could have deceived us so ... '

  

 'Even the High Initiate was deceived by these fiends,'

 Farial reminded her solemnly. 'We shouldn't reproach

 ourselves, Sister.'

  

 'No. No, perhaps you're right. Though when I think

 that, if it hadn't been for Sister Jennat - ah, never mind.

 We must turn our attention to the practicalities. We will

 need an armed escort to conduct us to the Star Penin-

 sula, and if there are any Adepts visiting the province

 who might be called upon to aid us, I'll feel a good deal

 easier about the journey.' She gathered up the cumber-

 some skirts of her robe. 'Bind the girl, Sisters, and

 secure her in her pony's saddle. We'll rest at the next

 town tonight, then tomorrow we'll turn northward.'

  

 Chapter 6

  

 Keridil Toln watched the departing hawk until it was no

 more than a tiny dot in the sky, indistinguishable among

 the flecks of cloud stippling the blue. If he could trust

 falconer Faramor's calculations - and past experience

 had taught him that he could - the vital message would

 reach its first destination in less than two days, and be

 relayed to its second the day after that.

  

 He expressed his thanks to Faramor, but didn't

 encourage any further conversation; there was too much

 on his mind now to allow time for pleasantries. Quickly

 he climbed the steps to the Castle doorway and went

 through, giving an involuntary shiver at the sharp con-

 trast between the interior's warmth and the cold of the

 morning; then he turned towards his own apartments.

  

 His study was empty, but he could hear someone

 moving about in the private suite beyond. Keridil

 paused briefly to warm his hands at the fire, then pushed

 open the door to his inner chambers, expecting to find

 Sashka awaiting him. But instead he saw Gyneth Linto,

 the elderly steward who had been his father's servant

 before him. Gyneth was stooping over a large ottoman

 that stood in the room's far corner; as Keridil entered,

 he straightened and bowed formally.

  

 'Is the bird away safely, sir?'

  

 'Yes.' Keridil crossed the room and looked with a

 degree of distaste at the items which the old man was

 bringing out of the ottoman. A long cloak, heavily

 embroidered with gold thread ... a clasp, bearing his

 own seal and made of solid gold ... a gold circlet . . .

 the High Initiate's staff of office . . .

  

 'There's a touch of tarnishing on the circlet, sir,'

  

 Gyneth said, holding it out for him to inspect. 'But

 nothing that a little polishing can't put right.'

  

 'Good.' Keridil waved the circlet away, not wanting to

 think about the regalia until circumstances forced it. 'I

 want to travel light, Gyneth,' he added. 'No baggage

 train, no large entourage - time is of the essence on this

 journey.'

  

 The words came out more sharply than he'd intended,

 and the old man regarded him for a few moments before

 replying placidly, 'Of course, sir.' He replaced the circ-

 let carefully on top of the folded gold cloak, then, with a

 tactful touch of diffidence, added: 'Is anything amiss,

 sir? If I might venture to say, you seem troubled.'

  

 Shrewdness and experience had given Gyneth more

 accurate perceptions than any seer, and Keridil sighed.

 'It's nothing of any consequence. Just watching that bird

 leave, and knowing that I've committed myself to this

 beyond the point of no return ... it makes me doubt

 my own judgement. I wish to the gods my father were

 still alive.'

  

 Gyneth pursed his lips. He rarely ventured an opinion

 on Circle matters, but it saddened him to see his master

 so distressed. The old High Initiate was a very wise

 man, sir. In all the years I served him, I never knew him

 to make a rash decision, or an unsound one.' His gaze

 met Keridil's. 'I believe that, in your place, he would

 have acted exactly as you have done.'

  

 Keridil smiled thinly. 'Thank you, Gyneth -I appreci-

 ate your loyalty, whether or not you're right.' He rubbed

 his still cold hands together and forced a briskness he

 didn't feel into his voice. 'Doubtless we could debate the

 matter all day, but I can't afford that indulgence. What's

 done's done, and we have to look to the future.' He

 glanced round the room. 'You seem to have completed

 most of the preparations.'

  

 'Yes, sir. There are one or two minor questions to

 clarify, but they'll keep until later.'

  

 'Good. And where is the Lady Sashka?'

  

 Gyneth gave him an odd look that, he thought, car-

 ried a faint hint of disapproval. 'She retired to her suite,

  

 sir. She said to tell you that she is packing for the

 journey.'

  

 'Packing?' Keridil was nonplussed. 'But it was under-

 stood that she isn't to accompany me!'

  

 'Quite, sir. However, I thought it wasn't my place to

 point that out.'

  

 'No ... ' The relationship between Sashka and

 Gyneth was uneasy at the best of times; Sashka made no

 secret of her dislike for the old man and her mistrust of

 his influence on Keridil, and though nothing would ever

 induce Gyneth to admit as much, Keridil suspected that

 the feeling was mutual. But Gyneth was too well bred a

 servant to make his feelings public, and the knowledge

 that Sashka would soon be the High Initiate's consort

 made him doubly punctilious in his manner towards her

 - he wouldn't have dared argue. Nonetheless, Sashka

 had agreed with Keridil's insistence that the long jour-

 ney was too arduous and possibly too dangerous for her

 to undertake. Whilst he might take chances with his own

 safety, nothing in the world would induce him to risk

 hers, and he had thought the matter settled.

  

 'Shall I send word to the lady that you wish to see her,

 sir?' Gyneth's voice impinged on his thoughts.

  

 'What? Oh - no, Gyneth; let it be for now .I'll speak to

 her later and see what's to be done.'

  

 'Very well, High Initiate. Then, with your permission,

 I'll go and see Fin Tivan Bruall about your horses.'

  

 Keridil nodded thanks and dismissal, and when the

 old man had left the room he sat down on the bed,

 pushing aside the neatly folded garments which littered

 it. Tomorrow, he was to start on a journey upon which

 might hinge the future of the entire land . . . and right

 at this moment he'd have given almost anything to turn

 time back and revoke the decision he had made as the

 Sun rose this morning.

  

 Last night, he had spent all the dark hours kneeling in

 vigil before the votive flame that burned perpetually in

 his study, and he had prayed fervently for guidance.

 Dawn had found him hollow-eyed and exhausted, but

 with the leaden certainty in his heart of what he must do.

  

 Stiff with weariness, he had sat at his great table and

 picked up the two letters that lay there, rereading them

 both for the hundredth time though he already knew

 their contents by heart. The Lady Matriarch Ilyaya

 Kimi's formal request that he should call a Conclave of

 Three - and the stiff scroll which had arrived the follow-

 ing day, bearing the seal of the Summer Isle Court and

 inscribed personally by the High Margrave Fenar Elecar

 with an identical plea.

  

 It should, Keridil knew, have been easy to bow to the

 majority verdict and order the Conclave without any

 further thought. But he felt his responsibility keenly as

 the custodian of the world's spiritual laws and the prime

 vehicle for the gods' word and the gods' will. In all their

 long history since the fall of the Old Ones a Conclave

 had never been called; and it was strictly written that it

 might be invoked only in the event of a dire peril which

 no other power could avert.

  

 Was this such an occasion? Or had the rousing of

 ancient, dormant fears taken too strong a hold on them

 all and distorted the truth out of proportion? Keridil

 knew he could never be certain of the answer; he must

 trust to his own judgement. The Conclave would be little

 more than a formality, its outcome a foregone con-

 clusion - and then he, as High Initiate, must climb to the

 shrine on the White Isle, unlock the clasp which would

 open the sacred casket and prepare to meet Aeoris face

 to face.

  

 To call the great god back to the world ... it was a

 responsibility that chilled him to the marrow. If the

 judgement of the Conclave were ill-founded, what

 wrath would he incur? What punishments would be

 unleashed on them all? To trifle with a god was the

 ultimate insanity . . . what if the decision to open the

 casket should prove to be wrong?

  

 Keridil looked at the two letters again, then at the

 growing sheaf of reports and depositions which had been

 flooding in, by messenger-bird and by despatch rider,

 from almost all the provinces. Trials, accusations,

 executions - flooding and crop failure - inarticulate

  

 terrors and pleas for the Circle's help or advice - the fear

 of Chaos was running riot through the land, and nothing

 save the destruction of those evil forces could stop it.

 The Adepts had tried everything they knew to track

 down the fugitives and with them the Chaos stone; but

 their rituals and conjurations proved fruitless, and that

 in itself had convinced Keridil of the true extent of the

 peril they faced.

  

 He had, once, looked on the face of Chaos, and the

 memory was burned forever on his brain. Yandros, the

 quintessence of evil, with his golden hair and ever-

 changing eyes and beautiful, malignant smile . . .

 Yandros, who had mocked the Circle and challenged

 them, if they dared, to stand against him when his forces

 rose to conquer . . . Yandros, who had called Tarod

 brother . . .

  

 No, Keridil thought, he wouldn't trifle with a god -

 but neither would he trifle with Chaos. And if the soul-

 stone wasn't found and destroyed, the gates which had

 been closed against the dark powers so many centuries

 ago would be breached, and the world would be

 engulfed in madness.

  

 And so, with a hand that wasn't quite steady, he had

 taken up pen and parchment, and written the vital words

 that would commit him finally to his decision. Only the

 High Initiate had the sanction to order the Conclave,

 and as he at last set his seal to the paper the unsteadiness

 in his hand had become a palsied shaking, so that the hot

 wax spattered across the parchment's surface.

  

 It was done. And within minutes the message could be

 on its way, carried by hawk to speed to its destination.

 He could send for the falconer ... or he could tear the

 parchment into shreds, burn the fragments, forget he

 had ever considered such a deed . . .

  

 Keridil licked dry lips, then rang a small handbell that

 stood on the table. When Gyneth answered the sum-

 mons, he looked up and said, 'Gyneth - will you send for

 falconer Faramor, and ask him to meet me in the court-

 yard immediately?'

  

 There could be no going back now. As soon as his

 message reached the Matriarch's Cot in Southern

 Chaun, Ilyaya Kimi would begin her preparations for

 the journey to Shu-Nhadek. And a day or so later, a ship

 would set sail from the Summer Isle, bearing the young

 High Margrave and his entourage. Keridil's own jour-

 ney would begin in the morning, as he and a few chosen

 companions rode hard for the South to meet his peers.

  

 He stared bleakly at the clothes which Gyneth had

 laid out, and realised how tired he was. A night without

 sleep had taken its toll, and even on previous nights

 when he'd sought his bed he had been racked by night-

 mares. He'd be in no fit condition to face an eight-day

 journey unless he could rest for a while, and until

 Gyneth returned later he should be free from

 interruption.

  

 He pushed the folded garments aside, making space

 for himself on the bed, and stretched out. For a few

 minutes uneasy thoughts continued to assail him; then,

 mercifully, he drifted away into a sound sleep.

  

 Keridil was woken two hours later by the light touch of a

 hand on his brow. He stirred, then opened his eyes to see

 Sashka sitting beside him, a gentle smile on her face.

  

 'You've been asleep, love.' She pushed a strand of

 hair away from his mouth.

  

 Keridil blinked and struggled to sit up. 'What's the

 hour?'

  

 'Past noon. I'd have come to you earlier, but I've been

 with Father and Mother in our rooms.' She paused, then

 added: 'Packing.'

  

 He remembered what Gyneth had told him, and

 reached out to take hold of her hand, squeezing it.

 'Sashka, you're not thinking to come with me? After all

 that we said - '

  

 'I know what we said, Keridil. But did you really

 believe I'd let you go without me by your side? I want to

 be with you - and I feel that you'll need me.'

  

 She was more right than she knew, Keridil thought;

 but he still couldn't agree to it.

  

 'No, love,' he told her. 'It's too long a journey, and

 too dangerous. The entire world's in a ferment, and the

 gods alone know what we're going to encounter on the

 way South. Should the powers of Chaos realise what's

 afoot there could be attempts to stop us reaching our

 destination, and if any harm should come to you because

 of me, I couldn't bear that!'

  

 Her eyes flashed angrily. 'D'you think I lack the cour-

 age to face danger?'

  

 'No - no, of course not! But - '

  

 'And d'you think I could wait behind, not knowing

 where you were or how you fared? What would I do

 whilst you were away?'

  

 'Your father is returning to Han. Go with him, love;

 you'll be safe at your home.'

  

 'The Castle is my home now - if I went to Han, I'd go

 mad with waiting and fretting!' Sashka argued. She

 locked her fingers with his, aware that he was beginning

 to weaken. He wanted her with him, she could tell; and

 she was determined to wear down his protests. Keridil

 was about to embark on the most momentous course

 that any High Initiate had ever taken, and when it was

 over he would be famed throughout history as the sav-

 iour of his people; the man who had saved the world

 from the threat of Chaos. No power on earth was going

 to stop her from being at his side when that history was

 made.

  

 'Listen to me, Keridil,' she said, softly but per-

 suasively, 'I couldn't bear to be parted from you, not

 now, not while you have this burden to bear.' Her

 fingers traced a gentle line around his jaw and she saw

 with satisfaction his answering, hesitant smile. 'Once,

 when I was so distressed after - well, after the events

 that began this whole unhappy affair - you gave me your

 strength and your love, when I thought that life was no

 longer worth living. I've never been able to repay the

 debt I owe you, until now.'

  

 Keridil shook his head, though he was still smiling,

 'You gave me yourself, love. You could do me no

 greater honour than that.'

  

 'But it isn't enough; not for me.' Sashka was pleased

 with her stratagem, and it was clearly working. 'I want to

 show you now that, as you helped me when I so desper-

 ately needed help, I can be a pillar of strength for you in

 return. Please, Keridil - I'm not afraid of what's to

 come. I'm only afraid of any ill befalling you, and I want

 to be by your side to prevent it.'

  

 Keridil remembered the day when Tarod had been

 brought back, captive and drugged insensible, to the

 Castle. Sashka had been pledged to marry him, and she

 had, he thought, shown tremendous courage in over-

 coming her grief and despair at the revelations about

 him. She had been bereft, and he had tried to offer her

 comfort as she faced up to the grim truth. He had made

 her laugh - a small beginning, but an auspicious one -

 and slowly she had forgotten her misery as their love

 took root and flourished . . .

  

 He wanted her with him. Her presence would give

 him strength, as she had said, and keep doubt and fear at

 bay. And if she was so determined to come, he had no

 more arguments to counter her.

  

 He said, 'Sashka ... if you're sure . . .  '

  

 Her expression broke into a sparkling smile and she

 flung her arms around his neck. 'I'm sure! Of course I'm

 sure!' Relief and triumph flooded through her as she

 released him, and her smile changed to one of fond

 concern. 'You should rest for a while longer,' she said

 solicitously. 'If we're to leave at dawn tomorrow, you'll

 need all your strength.'

  

 There isn't the time. Gyneth will be back soon,

 and - '

  

 'Never mind Gyneth! If he finds your door locked, he

 can't trouble you.' She rose, moving gracefully across

 the room, and he heard the sound of a bolt being pushed

 home. 'There,' Sashka said. 'Now there'll be no one to

 disturb us.' She came back to the bed and sank down on

 it, her arms winding warmly, possessively around him.

 'We're together, and we'll stay together from now on.'

 Her voice was soft and persuasive. 'That's all that

 matters.'

  

 *****

  

 The big bay horse cantered at an easy, ground-eating

 pace on the track, hoofs kicking up eddies of dust in its

 wake. Since leaving the timber-caravan as it lumbered

 along the edge of the forest that straddled the border

 between Han and Wishet, Tarod had made good speed

 southward, and was now crossing the arable plains of

 Prospect. The weather was little short of perfect - high,

 brilliant skies with a brisk and drying East wind - but the

 fresh optimism of the elements was in obscene contrast

 to the sights he had witnessed on the road.

  

 Tarod's fears that the superstition sweeping the land

 in the wake of the Circle's warning would explode

 beyond all proportion had proven well founded. A mad-

 ness was gripping the countryside, turning just and sober

 citizens into panic-stricken avengers of imaginary

 wrongs. Three men had been hanged in the last town he

 passed through, for what crime Tarod didn't know; he

 had stopped to stare, appalled, at the corpses left dan-

 gling stiff and grotesque from the gibbet as a warning to

 others, and had seen the hex signs chalked on the ground

 in their shadows. Further on the road he had heard of a

 group of merchants ambushed and massacred at the

 edge of the forest; there was talk of winged demons that

 materialised from thin air and carried off screaming

 victims, whilst ghouls crept out of the trees to feast on

 the dead. Crops said to harbour unearthly things which

 crawled from the fields at night were burned by their

 terrified owners, without thought for the starvation to

 which they condemned their families; three times now

 he had seen a distant pall of smoke that told of another

 farmer's livelihood charred to ashes. And not an hour

 ago he had passed the burned-out skeleton of a market

 cart, the horse lying in the shafts with its throat cut and

 other blackened shapes, mercifully indistinguishable,

 half-hidden beneath the broken wheels. Here, too,

 there were hex marks on the track, daubed, by the look

 of it, in the horse's blood ... he hadn't investigated

 closer.

  

 Madness. And all in the name of Order . . . Tarod

 was assailed by an ugly thought which had haunted him

 all too often of late, and which questioned the justice of

 a god who allowed such grisly deeds to be done in his

 name. This sickness was more like the work of Chaos,

 and it played directly into Yandros's hands. How could

 Aeoris watch such wanton anarchy and do nothing to

 intervene? How could the Circle, his emissaries, allow

 the death and destruction to continue unchecked?

  

 He forced the thought back with an effort. With the

 horror of all he had seen fresh in his mind, it would be

 easy to succumb to doubts, and such doubts would suit

 Yandros's purpose. But for the Chaos lord's machina-

 tions, the world would still be at peace with itself - he

 had to hold fast to his trust in the gods of Order, hold fast

 to his own resolution, and not allow uncertainty to prey

 on him. Once he found Cyllan, and regained the soul-

 stone, he could try to end this insanity . . .

  

 Goaded by that thought he spurred his mount on

 faster, glad to feel the willing response of the animal's

 powerful muscles under him. The road was quiet - no

 one travelled now unless forced to do so - and so when

 he saw, ahead of him, a tell-tale dust cloud that moved

 against the fields' backdrop, he reined in to a jog, shield-

 ing his eyes against the Sun to see what was afoot.

  

 The dust cloud was drawing nearer, and at last Tarod

 made out the silhouettes of several horsemen. Light

 glinted on metal, and he guessed that the newcomers

 were militiamen from a near-by town. Doubtless they'd

 stop him and that would mean a delay; but the Initiate's

 badge should stand him in good stead, as it had done

 before.

  

 His guess proved accurate, and within minutes he was

 waved to a halt by the group's leader. They surrounded

 him; eight nervous, suspicious and inexperienced men,

 some barely out of adolescence.

  

 'State your name, sir, and your business on this road.'

 The leader - doubtless elected solely on the grounds of

 seniority - snapped out the challenge but without real

 conviction. Tarod met the man's eyes, exerted a little of

  

 his will, and the leader saw a brown-haired, grey-eyed

 but otherwise unremarkable stranger before him; a face

 he wouldn't later recall. Tarod smiled thinly and drew

 the folds of his cloak aside so that the distinctive golden

 badge winked in the Sunlight.

  

 'Circle business,' he said crisply. 'I trust that doesn't

 place me under suspicion, captain?'

  

 Flattered by the title yet chagrined by his error, the

 man flustered. 'No, sir - of course not! I'm sorry sir-it's

 just that we're under orders, from the Margrave himself

 you understand, to stop all strangers on this road and

 . . . well, check that they're what they seem to be, sir, if

 you take my meaning.'

  

 'Your Margrave's a wise man to take such precau-

 tions.' Tarod said. Tell me, what news is there in Pros-

 pect? I've ridden from the North and I've heard no

 reliable reports for the last three days.'

  

 One of the younger men edged his horse forward and

 whispered in the leader's ear. The man nodded

 emphatically, then looked at Tarod and cleared his

 throat.

  

 'Well, sir, there's a rumour . . . that is to say, it was

 confirmed this morning, to the best of my knowledge

 . . . the girl - the Chaos-fiend's accomplice - she's been

 captured!'

  

 Tarod thrust back an irrational surge of hope, telling

 himself that it was just another false trail like so many

 before. 'Indeed,' he said. 'You'll forgive my scepticism,

 captain, but others have made such claims before, and

 they've proved unfounded.'

  

 "They have, yes - but our Margrave has sent word that

 this is no idle boast.' The militiaman looked proud. 'It's

 said that the girl has in her possession a jewel. A colour-

 less jewel.'

  

 Surely it wasn't possible . . . Aloud, Tarod said, 'I see

 . . . and has she been brought to trial?'

  

 'No, sir; not so far as I know. In fact -' the militiaman

 looked a little sheepish. 'What I heard is that this isn't a

 matter for our local justices. The girl's to be taken

 North, to the Castle of the Star Peninsula; but it's a long

  

 journey, and a hazardous one. If it were possible for

 someone in authority to take charge of the matter . . . '

 He coughed. 'If you see what I mean, sir.'

  

 Tarod did. He'd been led astray by false reports

 before, but this time it seemed there could be real evi-

 dence against the girl, whoever she was. Time-wasting

 or not, he had to be sure.

  

 He nodded. 'Very well. In the light of what you've

 told me, I'll postpone my own business. Where's the girl

 being held?'

  

 The militia leader looked relieved. 'At Prospect Town

 itself, sir. It's about ten miles distant, no more.'

  

 Then I'd suggest we set out without further delay.'

  

 'Thank you, sir!' He barked out unnecessary orders to

 his men, who were already turning their horses about,

 and the cavalcade set off. As they rode, Tarod tried not

 to think about what he might or might not find at their

 destination. If the captured girl wasn't Cyllan, he'd suf-

 fer nothing beyond yet another disappointment. But if

 she was ... he hadn't considered how he might free her

 if she was taken; his pretended role wouldn't stand him

 in good enough stead to simply overrule any other

 authority and take her away. If he could gain possession

 of the soul-stone, he could use the powers that at present

 were beyond his reach - but he didn't want to dwell on

 that possibility.

  

 In a little under an hour the rooftops of Prospect were

 visible ahead, rising above the pale stone of the six

 concentric walls that surrounded the town. The walls

 had been built to protect the fruit-orchards, for which

 the province was renowned, from early frosts, and

 allowed Prospect Town to boast the earliest Summer

 crops anywhere in the world. The party rode through

 one of the wide arches set into the outermost wall, and

 followed a paved path through ranks of trees heavy with

 white blossom. Their scent hung heavy on the air; one of

 the militiamen started to sneeze violently and the fit only

 subsided when at last they clattered beyond the bound-

 ary of the sixth wall and into the town itself.

  

 Prospect was one of the oldest towns in the land and,

  

 as Tarod had to admit despite his preoccupation, one of

 the most beautiful. Mellow stone towers rose at inter-

 vals, dominating the jumble of sloping, red-tiled roofs.

 The paved streets were wide and airy, overlooked by

 houses adorned with stone porticoes and balconies; the

 architecture lent itself to an atmosphere of pleasant and

 prosperous well-being.

  

 That atmosphere, however, wasn't present in the air,

 nor in the faces of the people they passed as they rode

 towards the justice house. The terrors souring the world

 had affected Prospect as much as anywhere else and its

 normal bustle was sharply subdued. Townsfolk went

 about essential business with closed, tight expressions,

 and a newcomer without even the smallest psychic talent

 could have felt the palpable tension pervading the place.

  

 The militia leader reined in where the streets opened

 suddenly and unexpectedly into a broad, tree-lined

 avenue, and turned in his saddle to address Tarod. The

 justice house is directly ahead of us, sir. Shall I ride on,

 and inform the town elders of your arrival?'

  

 Tarod shook his head. He was aware of his pulse

 beating too fast, and tried to quell it. 'No. There's no

 need for formality.'

  

 'Whatever you say, sir.' The man spurred his horse

 forward, and they clattered along the avenue to the tall,

 bland-faced building that rose at the far end. A motley

 of people had gathered outside as though waiting for

 something; they drew apart to make passage for the

 riders and many stared openly as they recognised the

 Initiate's badge at Tarod's shoulder. He closed his ears

 to the muted rustling of whispers at his back and slid

 down from the saddle, handing his horse's reins to one of

 the younger militiamen.

  

 As they ascended the steps, the doors of the justice

 house opened and four men emerged. Tarod immedi-

 ately recognised the ageing, greying individual who led

 them; he had met the Margrave of Prospect at Keridil

 Toln's inaugural celebration and they had had an uneasy

 discussion about the rise of lawlessness in the land. The

 meeting seemed a lifetime ago, but the Margrave was a

  

 shrewd man and likely to remember the face of the

 renegade Adept. Tarod concentrated, allowing a small

 measure of power to flow through him - he saw the

 Margrave blink as though momentarily disconcerted,

 then the old man's face cleared and he held out a hand in

 greeting.

  

 'Adept - I'm at a loss for words. I hadn't dreamed the

 Circle could respond so quickly to my message!'

  

 Tarod frowned. 'Message, sir?'

  

 'Then you're not an emissary from the High Initiate?'

 The Margrave seemed perplexed.

  

 'We encountered him on the road, sir,' the militia

 leader explained hastily. 'It was sheer chance that he was

 riding this way, and - in the circumstances - we thought

 he might aid us.'

  

 The Margrave looked relieved, and clasped Tarod's

 hands again in a welcome more fervent than the first.

 'Then it was a very fortunate accident!' he said with

 obvious relief. 'Have my men explained to you, Adept,

 the nature of our problem?'

  

 'They tell me you've apprehended a girl whom you

 believe is the Chaos creature's accomplice,' Tarod

 explained. 'You'll forgive my being blunt, but this is the

 fifth or sixth such claim I've had to investigate since I

 began my journey, and not one so far has had any

 foundation.'

  

 The Margrave shook his head emphatically. 'Believe

 me, this is no false alarm. I understand your scepticism -

 we've had our share of hysteria here in Prospect, and

 there have been any number of accusations without

 evidence to back them.' He looked up at Tarod as

 though challenging him to argue with his next words.

 'I'm not a fool, or at least I don't believe I am. And

 neither is Sister-Seer Jennat Brynd.'

  

 'A Sister of Aeoris? I'm sorry, I don't quite follow.'

  

 'It was a party of Sisters who discovered the girl's real

 identity,' the Margrave told him. 'Apparently she had

 been travelling with them for some days, and Sister

 Jennat's suspicions were aroused. She used her talents

 to investigate the girl, and learned the truth.' His mouth

  

 pursed into an expression that might have been distaste

 or unease. 'The girl had been calling herself Themila

 something - I can't recall the clan name - but when the

 sisters discovered a jewel she was carrying hidden about

 her, they were certain they had found the fugitive.'

  

 Tarod's skin crawled. Themila - the coincidence was

 too great to be dismissed. He had told Cyllan of Themila

 Gan Lin, his one-time mentor; it was a name she would

 remember . . .

  

 Forcing his voice to remain even, he asked, 'And what

 of the girl herself? Has she confessed?'

  

 The Margrave shook his head. 'No. She has refused to

 speak since she was apprehended. She simply sits and

 glares at all who approach her.' He shuddered deli-

 cately. 'It's not a look I wish to see too often. If half the

 stories surrounding her are true, I don't like to speculate

 on what she might be capable of.' He paused. 'But I

 ramble - there's time enough to explain the rest later,

 and I've already neglected the most basic of courtesies.

 You must be parched after your ride, especially in this

 dusty weather. Allow me at least to offer you a cup of

 wine.'

  

 The offer was difficult to decline; if he showed himself

 overeager to see the prisoner, the old man might suspect

 his motives. Tarod forced himself to smile. 'I'd appreci-

 ate it, Margrave; thank you.'

  

 Followed at a polite distance by his small entourage,

 the Margrave led Tarod through the cool corridors of

 the justice house to an ante-room set aside for receiving

 important guests. Tarod had to quell his uneasy im-

 patience when the old man ordered a servant to bring

 not only wine but also food, and made the best effort he

 could to eat delicacies that his stomach didn't want while

 the Margrave elaborated on the circumstances of their

 prisoner's arrest. The Sisters, he said, had intended to

 turn North and take their captive back to the Star Penin-

 sula, but as soon as the news reached his ears he had

 insisted that the undertaking was too dangerous. It

 would be safer to send word to the Circle so that they

 might arrange a secure escort, but the message had only

  

 been despatched via one of the new courier birds that

 very morning, hence the Margrave's astonishment at the

 prompt arrival of an Adept in the town. Tarod listened

 courteously to the flow of words, occasionally nodding

 or murmuring agreement, but inwardly he felt close to

 breaking point. If the captured girl was Cyllan - and, he

 reminded himself, that had yet to be seen - then time

 was running short; a messenger-bird would deliver the

 Margrave's letter to the Castle tomorrow at the latest,

 and Keridil wouldn't waste a moment in acting on it. He

 had to cut across the Margrave's vociferousness without

 making the ploy too obvious.

  

 He realised suddenly that the old man had asked him a

 question which, lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't

 comprehended. He looked up quickly. 'I'm sorry; what

 did you say?'

  

 'I asked, sir, if you have ever seen this girl for your-

 self? I gather she was held for some time at the Castle of

 the Star Peninsula.'

  

 'Yes ... I saw her once or twice.'

  

 'Then you'd recognise her again?'

  

 'Certainly.' Tarod took the opportunity which the

 Margrave had unwittingly offered him. 'In fact, sir, I

 think it would be as well if I were to see her without any

 further delay.'

  

 The Margrave looked dubious. 'I don't wish to impose

 on you, Adept. You must be tired - '

  

 'I'm greatly refreshed, thanks to your hospitality.'

  

 'Well . . . it's as you wish, of course.' Stiffly the

 Margrave rose, and led him out of the ante-room and

 along further corridors towards the rear of the building.

 As they walked, Tarod asked suddenly, 'Margrave,

 what has become of the jewel the girl carried? I trust it's

 in safe keeping?'

  

 'Indeed, yes. Sister Liss Kaya Trevire has it in her

 possession, and I understand she has taken precautions

 against its influence.'

  

 'Very wise of her. And where is Sister Liss now?'

  

 'She and her companions are lodged here at the jus-

 tice house.' The Margrave looked unhappy. 'It's hardly

  

 fit accommodation for Sisters of Aeoris, but they insis-

 ted on staying close to the prisoner.'

  

 Tarod nodded and made no further comment. They

 had by now reached a barred door under which bright

 daylight showed. A man stood on guard, and at a gesture

 from the Margrave he hastened to lift the bar and pull

 the door open.

  

 They emerged into a small, walled courtyard, flooded

 with Sunlight. A flowering tree in one corner had shed a

 carpet of white petals over the flagstones and over the

 roughly constructed wooden cage that stood near by. In

 the cage something moved, but Tarod's view was

 blocked by two white-robed figures who stood before

 the cage and seemed to be pushing something through

 the bars. At the sound of the door grating the two Sisters

 of Aeoris looked round, then, recognising the Mar-

 grave, straightened and turned to face him.

  

 'Sisters . . . ' The Margrave hurried forward but

 Tarod hung back, unable to bring himself to look more

 closely at the cage. The old man was explaining the

 circumstances of the Adept's arrival, and at last he

 turned to Tarod and said, 'Adept - may I present Sister

 Liss Kaya Trevire, and Sister-Seer Jennat Brynd.'

  

 Both women bowed in the formal manner adopted

 between Sisterhood and Circle, and Tarod looked first

 at the fair-haired, middle-aged Liss, then at the youn-

 ger, darker Jennat. He knew instantly that the seer was

 skilled; unlike many of her kind, whom the Sisterhood

 promoted for political rather than spiritual reasons, she

 had a true talent. He'd have to be careful ...

  

 'Sisters.' He nodded to them both in turn. The Mar-

 grave tells me that you've apprehended one of our fugi-

 tives. If it's true, the Circle will be very much in your

 debt.'

  

 Jennat was watching him carefully, and he detected a

 challenge in her eyes; but it was Sister Liss who spoke.

  

 'I believe there can be little doubt of the girl's identity,

 Adept.'

  

 He couldn't put off the moment any longer. Turning,

 Tarod looked directly at the wooden cage, and a hand

  

 seemed to close tightly round his heart and lungs and

 squeeze them, so that he couldn't breathe.

  

 She was bedraggled and dirty, her hair a bizarre

 skewbald of blonde and copper-brown, but the small,

 pinched face and wide amber eyes were so painfully

 familiar to him that recognition was like a physical blow.

 Their gazes met, locked, and her hand flew to her mouth

 in disbelieving shock - then she covered her face and he

 heard her gasping, indrawn breath.

  

 She looked almost exactly as she had done when she

 had broken through the temporal barrier to arrive wet

 and exhausted at the Castle, and poignant memories

 crowded Tarod's mind. With them came the first surge

 of anger at her predicament, and he knew that unless he

 took unremitting control of it, the rage might over-

 whelm him. Fighting it down, he became aware that the

 Margrave and the two Sisters were watching him.

  

 'Well, Adept?' The Margrave licked his lips uncer-

 tainly. Is this the girl the Circle are seeking?'

  

 He couldn't deny it. The Sisters had proved Cyllan's

 identity beyond all shadow of doubt, and they were

 waiting only for his confirmation. Slowly, Tarod

 approached the cage, and as he did so Cyllan let her

 hands fall from her face. He allowed his left hand,

 hidden from sight of the Margrave and sisters, to make a

 small, warning gesture, and he hoped she understood.

  

 'Yes,' he said, his voice even. 'This is the girl.'

  

 As the small group moved away from her prison,

 Cyllan's gaze followed Tarod with a hunger and longing

 that made her shiver uncontrollably. Since the night-

 mare of her capture had begun she'd thought of nothing

 but him, tormenting herself with visions of a short-lived

 future in which all hope of seeing him again was gone.

 Before their arrival at Prospect Town she'd made two

 attempts to escape from the Sisters, but both had failed,

 and though it wasn't in Cyllan's nature to admit defeat

 she had realised that any further attempt at flight was

 pointless. Even if she could escape - and that in itself

 was unlikely - she couldn't hope to retrieve the Chaos

  

 stone, and without it Tarod's cause was lost. She had no

 power of her own; all she had was the ability silently to

 defy and curse her captors, while she waited to be taken

 to her death.

  

 But now . . . She rubbed fiercely at her eyes, still part

 convinced that she must be asleep and dreaming, but

 Tarod's tall figure didn't waver and vanish. He looked

 gaunt, tired, unkempt; but he was alive, and he had

 come to her. Somehow he had deceived the Sisters and

 the Margrave, and for the first time since her own decep-

 tion had been discovered Cyllan felt hope renewing

 itself. If he could just find a way to -

  

 Sister Jennat, on the edge of the small group, sud-

 denly looked over her shoulder directly at the cage, and

 Cyllan felt a sharp frisson of discomfort, as though her

 thoughts were being spied upon. She'd forgotten

 Jennat's talent in the shock of seeing Tarod, and quickly

 turned her face aside, trying to cloud her mind and block

 the seer's attempts to probe. After a few moments

 Jennat looked away and she allowed herself to breathe

 again. With luck on her side - and she desperately

 needed luck now - the dark Sister had had no chance to

 find anything suspicious in what she saw. Drawing air

 into her lungs, and striving to quell the pounding of her

 heart, Cyllan sat back to wait. It was all she could do.

  

 'There's no question as to the girl's identity,' Tarod told

 his companions. 'As I explained to the Margrave, I saw

 her during her captivity at the Castle, and despite her

 disguise I'm not in any doubt. However, there is still the

 matter of the jewel. I'd like to see it for myself.'

  

 He became aware instantly of Sister Jennat's sharp

 scrutiny, and warning bells rang deep in his mind, Some-

 thing - he couldn't judge what, though it hardly mat-

 tered - had alerted the seer, and he could sense a sly,

 subtle attempt to probe his thoughts. Quickly he

 blocked them, saw her flinch momentarily, and realised

 that, although she couldn't tell what he was thinking, his

 retaliation had made her all the more suspicious. An

 unpleasant sense of urgency began to worry at him.

  

 Intimidated though Sister Liss might be by the authority

 of a high-ranking Adept, Jennat was another matter. He

 had to get Cyllan away, before the Sister's doubts could

 take root and grow.

  

 Liss bowed her head, acquiescing. 'Of course, Adept,

 if you wish to see the gem I have it here in my pouch.

 Though - forgive me -I wonder if it might be unwise to

 expose it? We took certain precautions, you under-

 stand, and - '

  

 Tarod's uneasy impatience redoubled, but he tried to

 keep it from his voice. 'I appreciate your concern, Sister

 Liss, but I need to be sure of its authenticity.'

  

 'Sister - ' Jennat hissed the word involuntarily, then

 blanched as Tarod turned a swift, angry glance on her.

 Liss was fumbling in her belt-pouch, her movements

 infuriatingly slow, and it was all Tarod could do to stop

 himself from physically shaking her into greater haste.

 He didn't dare look towards the cage at Cyllan, and

 prayed silently that Jennat wouldn't turn her attentions

 to her and see what was in her mind. He felt a disturbing

 mixture of impatience and dread as he watched Liss's

 clumsy efforts - he needed the stone, wanted to touch its

 familiar contours and know that once again he con-

 trolled its power; and yet the fear that he might succumb

 to the jewel's ancient influence, that the servant might

 become the master, was all too strong.

  

 'Here it is.' Liss finally drew out a tightly folded piece

 of white cloth, and Tarod saw the lightning-flash sigil of

 the White Gods embroidered on it. He kept the relief he

 felt from his voice as he spoke.

  

 'Thank you, sister. If I might see the stone . . . ? '

  

 Jennat was biting her lip, glancing nervously from

 Tarod to Liss and back to Tarod. The older woman

 began to unwrap the cloth; through its folds something

 glittered coldly, and Tarod felt a surge of raw emotion,

 of power; a sensation he had all but forgotten and which

 struck him so unexpectedly that he didn't think to con-

 trol it -

  

 'Sister, no!' Jennat's frantic cry cut the still air like a

 sword-blade, and at the same moment the final folds of

  

 the cloth fell away to expose the Chaos stone in Liss's

 hand. Tarod swung round, and his gaze locked with the

 dark girl's - her face was a frozen mask of horror, and in

 her eyes he saw stunned recognition of his true self.

  

 Sister Liss was turning, alarmed by Jennat's warning

 but not yet comprehending what her seer had under-

 stood. Without pausing to think, Tarod snatched the

 jewel from Liss's palm - and a massive physical shock

 jolted through him, as though he'd been struck by a

 thunderbolt. His left hand clenched round the gem, and

 an atavistic, titanic sense of power flooded his mind,

 wiping out all reason and setting fire to an instinctive

 fury. He couldn't think as a logical, mortal man -

 Jennat's face was a blur, the Margrave's querulous cry

 like a distant, meaningless bird-call - he flung his left

 arm out towards Jennat and the power surged within

 him.

  

 The flowering tree in the corner erupted in a column

 of white flame, and light blasted across the courtyard.

 Burning branches whirled down on to the cage, and the

 wooden bars blazed up like torches. Tarod saw Cyllan

 reel back, and he screamed her name, summoning her to

 his side. She staggered, regained her balance - then he

 saw her fling herself through the roaring arch of fire that

 consumed the cage, her figure lit grotesquely and her

 face distorted with a wild triumph. She reached him and

 his right hand locked on hers - the clutch of her fingers

 was ferocious - then through the mayhem he heard

 Sister Jennat shrieking.

  

 'No! No! Sister, help me! Stop them!'

  

 Men were bursting from the door to the justice house,

 the Margrave was trying to block his path, and he saw

 Jennat, a blur of white robes and flying dark hair, hur-

 ling herself towards him. He didn't think - he couldn't

 think; the instinctive fury was too great. A gesture, and

 Jennat screamed like a tortured beast, her body twisting

 about in a gruesome dance before she crashed to the

 ground, her bones smashed and all traces of life obliter-

 ated from her eyes.

  

 Through a red daze Tarod saw Sister Liss backing

  

 away on all fours and heard her wailing on a high,

 insensate note. He dragged Cyllan to his side, swung

 round, and came face to face with the Margrave. The old

 man's features were distorted by terror but he was trying

 to block their path, his militia behind him. Tarod raised

 his hand again and the old man reeled sideways, buf-

 feted by a force that punched him across the courtyard.

 The militiamen fell back in horrified confusion and

 Tarod clove through their midst, only dimly aware of

 Cyllan at his side. The door split, burst apart by the

 insane force erupting from within him, and they were

 running through corridors that warped and fragmented

 before them. Faces loomed and fell away crying out in

 fear, the double doors at the main entrance were before

 them -

  

 The crowd outside in the avenue parted like leaves

 before a gale as the dark, demonic figure ran from the

 justice house. To Tarod's twisted consciousness the

 scene was a nightmare of crazed shapes and howling

 sound; the Chaos force had control of him and the

 milling bodies and screaming voices had no meaning.

 Black light flickered about him, lighting his stark face

 and possessed eyes. At the edge of the crowd something

 moved, and he sent out an implacable mental summons;

 the big bay horse reared and danced but his will held it

 and he was dimly aware of lifting Cyllan, flinging her

 astride the animal and springing into the saddle behind

 her. The sensation of the powerful, bunching muscles

 beneath him brought back a measure of sanity - he

 screamed a command and the horse spun about, launch-

 ing into a standing gallop as it raced towards the town

 walls and freedom.

  

 Chapter 7

  

 Sweating, shaking, the bay horse stumbled to a halt

 under the shelter of a vast pine tree that marked the edge

 of Prospect Province's southern forest. The last blood-

 ied streaks of Sunset were still just visible in the West,

 but dusk had drained all colour from the woods, merging

 shadow with night and casting a charcoal-dark pall over

 the humping landscape.

  

 Tarod slid from the saddle, his spine jarring as his feet

 struck the uneven ground, and for a moment pressed his

 face against the animal's flank, feeling drained and

 exhausted. Then he reached up and his hands caught

 Cyllan about the waist to lift her down. Her face stared

 back at him, a pale, indistinct oval in which only her eyes

 looked smudged and dark in the deepening twilight. He

 felt her fingers clutch his arms to steady herself, then she

 slithered to the ground and suddenly was clinging to him

 with the desperate hunger of a frightened child.

  

 'Tarod. . . ' She said his name over and over again as

 though it were a talisman, and he drew her to where a

 tangle of briars formed a natural shelter, fallen pine

 needles making a soft carpet on the turf. Together they

 sank down on the makeshift couch, and at last she raised

 her head and gazed at him.

  

 'I thought I'd never see you again.' Her fingers

 touched his face tentatively, as though she didn't trust

 the evidence of her eyes. 'I'd been searching for you,

 listening to every rumour, hoping ... I believed you

 must be alive, but - '

  

 'Hush.' He kissed her, moved by the aching fam-

 iliarity of her skin beneath his lips. 'Don't say anything.'

 Her hair brushed against his face and he pushed it aside,

  

 his fingers tracing the contours of her face. She felt so

 small, so vulnerable . . . when he kissed her again she

 turned her head so that his mouth found hers, and he

 pulled her closer, the cloak he wore enveloping them

 both. Tired though he was, feelings were awakening that

 he couldn't and didn't wish to stem; driven by an under-

 standing that he dared not acknowledge, he needed her

 and wanted her in a way he'd never known before.

  

 She made to speak but his lips quieted her, and he felt

 her responding to him, uncertainly at first but then with

 increasing fervour as recent terrors gave way to the

 emotions of the moment. By the tree the bay horse

 snorted and Cyllan started nervously; he smiled, and

 drew her closer against him.

  

 'It's all right, love,' Tarod told her softly. 'Nothing can

 harm you. Not now . . . '

  

 Much later, she woke from a restless sleep and saw him

 standing at the edge of the forest, silhouetted against a

 sky steeped in thin silver-grey light. Both Moons were

 high, but barely more than crescents; an insidious wind

 had risen and rustled in the burgeoning trees, lifting

 Tarod's black hair back from his face and casting his

 profile into sharp relief. Beside him the bay stood head

 down and dozing; but from the set of his shoulders

 Cyllan knew that Tarod hadn't slept; his restlessness was

 a palpable aura.

  

 She got quietly to her feet, gathering up his cloak with

 which he'd covered her, and walked slowly towards him.

 Hearing her approach he turned, and she saw that he

 held something in one hand; something that glittered

 coldly. His smile was touched with sadness.

  

 'You should be sleeping.'

  

 'I'm not tired, not any more.' She touched his hand; it

 was chilled and she cast the cloak around him. 'And you

 . . . ?'

  

 'I don't think I could sleep, even if I wanted to.' His

 fingers moved restively, and the Chaos stone caught and

 reflected a sharp sliver of light. For near on two hours

 Tarod had stood gazing out at the landscape with its

  

 Moon-distorted perspectives, searching his own mind

 for the answers to a dilemma he knew he couldn't

 resolve, and he felt incapable of expressing to Cyllan the

 feelings that stirred in him. He had thought himself

 immune to the Chaos stone's influence, but he'd been

 wrong - yesterday's ugly events had proved that beyond

 all doubt. The old power had returned to him, and he'd

 used it without considering the consequences . . . now,

 he was torn between loathing of the stone and the heady

 knowledge that he was whole again. However evil the

 jewel might be, whatever its Chaotic legacy, it contained

 his soul - it was an integral part of him, and without it

 he'd been little better than an empty husk.

  

 Last night when he'd made love to Cyllan he had been

 stunned by the intensity of his own emotions. The long,

 lonely days when he had existed soulless and empty had

 left their mark, and he'd all but forgotten how great the

 strength of human passions, good or ill, could be. It was

 as though his existence had taken on another dimension;

 one where every sense, every feeling, every thought,

 was brighter and clearer and sharper. He had once told

 Cyllan that until his soul was restored to him he could

 never love or give in the way that he really desired to,

 and now he realised how true his words had been. Yet

 the stone, without which he was only half alive, had

 imbued him with an evil to which he'd already suc-

 cumbed once, and would doubtless succumb again. That

 was the nature of the dilemma, and Tarod was finding it

 hard to live with himself.

  

 He was turning the stone over and over in his hand,

 and suddenly he felt Cyllan's fingers tangle with his,

 arresting his movement. 'Your thoughts aren't happy,

 Tarod,' she said quietly. 'Were you thinking about what

 happened in Prospect?'

  

 He looked down at her, then sighed. 'Yes. And I was

 wondering what I'd see in your eyes when you woke, and

 asking myself if I could face it.'

  

 'Why should you not be able to? Do you think I've

 changed so much?'

  

 Tarod shook his head. He made a tentative attempt to

  

 release his hand, but she would not let go. 'Yesterday,

 for the first time, you saw the force that truly moves me,

 Cyllan,' he said. 'You saw my soul, and that soul isn't

 human. You saw Chaos.'

  

 'I saw Tarod, as I see Tarod now - and as I touched

 and felt Tarod earlier tonight.'

  

 'Then maybe you don't yet understand what I really

 am.'

  

 Her face was partly obscured by the curtain of her

 hair, but even in the dimness he could see an odd,

 burning intensity in her eyes. 'Oh yes, I think I do,' she

 told him stubbornly. 'I know that you love me enough to

 have saved my life, no matter what the cost to you. As to

 whether that motive is born out of Order or Chaos - it

 doesn't matter, Tarod! It's a human feeling, a mortal

 emotion.' Her fingers squeezed his, hard. 'Doesn't that

 prove where the real truth lies? Yes; you killed some-

 one. But you killed them to save me. And I'd be a

 hypocrite, wouldn't I, if I condemned you for doing no

 more than I've done myself?'

  

 He realised what she was saying, and at last something

 which he'd heard but doubted was confirmed. He was a

 little disconcerted to find that the confirmation came as

 no surprise.

  

 'Then you did kill Drachea Rannak ... ' he said.

  

 Cyllan turned away from him. 'Yes. I killed him, and I

 can't regret it. I've tried to make myself feel remorse,

 but I'm not capable; not after what he tried to do to us.'

 She released his hand at last and walked away to the

 edge of the trees, staring out at the Prospect hills but

 taking in nothing of the vista. 'I used the stone to kill

 him, and I'd use it again - I'd use it now, if I had to. Does

 that make me evil?'

  

 'No. But - '

  

 'Tarod, if you find it hard to reconcile your con-

 science, then I can only pray you'll understand and

 forgive me for what I've done . . . '

  

 He stepped towards her, 'You know there's nothing

 to forgive. If - '

  

 She interrupted again, her voice unexpectedly harsh.

 'I don't just mean Drachea. There's more.'

  

 'More?' Tarod hesitated, then laid his hands on her

 shoulders, drawing her towards him though she still

 wouldn't face him. 'Tell me.'

  

 He felt Cyllan shiver, and this time it seemed she had

 to exert a great effort of will to speak. 'You rejected

 your own soul because you wanted no part of an evil

 legacy,' she said. 'Yet I couldn't follow your principle,

 and I think that makes me far more evil than you. You

 see ... I made a pact with Chaos to secure your

 freedom.'

  

 Tarod's fingers tightened reflexively on her shoulder

 muscles, but it was the only outward sign of the shock he

 felt. Slowly Cyllan raised her left arm and turned her

 hand palm up, so that her coat sleeve fell back. Even in

 the gloom he could see the dark scar, like a burn, that

 marred her skin.

  

 'Yandros made that mark,' Cyllan told him quietly.

 'He kissed my wrist to seal our bargain.'

  

 Stunned, Tarod took her arm, but his touch was gen-

 tle. Her skin was puckered and as he touched the scar he

 could sense its origin; a stigma that time wouldn't erode.

 With terrible clarity he remembered Yandros's face; the

 proud, smiling mouth, the ever-changing eyes, the

 power that defied mortal concepts . . . he'd challenged

 Yandros once, and defeated him; but he understood

 Chaos in a way no other sorcerer could, and knew how

 to use the dark lord's own weapons against him. The

 thought that Cyllan, unskilled and unprotected, had

 faced such a power, chilled him to the marrow.

  

 He said, not knowing how to put his feelings into

 words, 'How did he - how could he break through? He

 was banished . . . '

  

 Cyllan hugged herself. 'I called him - prayed, I sup-

 pose you might say - and he answered. That's all I know.

 He appeared in my room, and - and he agreed to aid

 me.' She shut her eyes, trying to squeeze out the mem-

 ory of that sense of appalling power and the paralysing

 fear that it could still engender.

  

 Tarod let out a long, sharp breath, fighting back an

 impulse to curse the world and everything in it. 'Cyllan

 . . . Cyllan, what you did was insane! Why did you act so

 recklessly?'

  

 She turned round at last, her eyes glittering. 'What

 else was left to me? You were about to die, and Yandros

 was the only one, apart from me, who wanted you to

 live!' A strange, bitter smile distorted her face. 'Do you

 think Aeoris would have intervened to save your life?'

  

 She'd called on the quintessence of evil, opened her-

 self to damnation, and all for his sake . . . Tarod was

 moved to black rage at the thought of what she must

 have suffered, and painfully touched by her courage.

 True, he would have done as much for her, and more,

 without a second thought; but he was too well

 acquainted with Chaos to fear it in any form. Cyllan was

 another matter.

  

 Misinterpreting his silence, Cyllan pulled away from

 him in sudden distress. Her challenging bravado had

 been short-lived; now she hung her head.

  

 'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I know what he's done to

 you, what he is - but I had no choice! I had to save you,

 and his was the only power I could turn to. Tarod, please

 - don't hate me.'

  

 'Hate you?' He paused, then caught hold of her and,

 when she tried to resist, pulled her forcibly into his arms

 and held her tightly. 'Cyllan, don't you know me better

 than that?' His tone was fierce. 'All that matters, all I

 care about, is the risk you ran! I know Yandros, and he

 gives nothing without taking more in payment.' The

 grim thought which he'd tried not to voice suddenly

 wouldn't be held at bay any longer. 'What did you

 promise him in return for his aid?'

  

 Cyllan looked up, blinked. 'My loyalty.'

  

 'Loyalty . . . '

  

 'It was all he asked.' She laughed in an odd, broken

 tone. 'He said I'd already damned myself in the eyes of

 my own gods by calling on him; so what had I to lose?'

  

 Such generosity wasn't in Yandros's nature. He must

  

 have had some ulterior motive, and that motive boded

 ill ...

  

 'He wants you to live, Tarod,' Cyllan said. 'He told

 me as much. And it seems that he wants me to survive,

 too ... at least for the time being.' She smiled, though

 it was a wan effort. 'I asked him to kill me, to release you

 from the bargain you made with the High Initiate, but he

 refused. He said ... he said that I might be of use to

 him. And so the pact was made.'

  

 He touched her face gently, emotion clouding his

 green eyes. 'I don't know what to say; words are in-

 adequate. So much love; so much courage . . . '

  

 She shook her head. 'I wasn't brave. I was afraid of

 him - and I'm afraid of him still.' She looked up into his

 face. 'I'm so afraid of what might happen if I fail him!'

  

 His mind touched hers and he sensed the depth of her

 fear. His eyes narrowed, and a look flickered in them

 that for an unnerving moment reminded Cyllan all too

 sharply of the Chaos lord.

  

 'Yandros won't harm you,' Tarod told her softly.

 'Whatever he might claim, his power in this world is

 limited. I've defeated him once; I can do so again.' His

 tone hardened. 'If he threatens you, I'll destroy him.

 Believe that, Cyllan.'

  

 He couldn't tell whether she was convinced by his

 words - and he didn't care to question his own belief in

 them - but after a few moments a little of the resistance

 he'd sensed in her muscles receded, though her body

 was still painfully tense.

  

 'What are we to do now?' she asked simply.

  

 The decision hadn't been easy . . . but Cyllan's

 bravery, and the fear she now felt as a result of what she

 had done, had served to cement Tarod's resolution. He

 pressed his face against the crown of her hair and said,

  

 'We'll go on to Shu-Nhadek, as we always meant to

 do. We'll find passage, somehow, to the White Isle - '

  

 'But - '

  

 'No; hear me out, love. We'll find passage to the

 White Isle, and there we'll appeal directly to the only

 power in the world which can help us.'

  

 Cyllan stared at him in terrible dismay, but said

 nothing.

  

 'Only Aeoris himself can counter the evil of the Chaos

 stone,' Tarod went on. 'Yandros gained a foothold in

 this world through me, and only I can make the decision

 to turn that tide. I'm not strong enough to fight him

 alone. I must surrender the stone to the White Lords

 . . . it's the only way.'

  

 'But it's more than just a jewel, Tarod; it's your own

 soul.'

  

 'I know. But you've seen the insanity that's been

 turned loose on the land. Directly or indirectly, it's

 Yandros's doing; it's like a disease eating at everyone

 and everything, and if it isn't stopped there'll soon be no

 cure. It has to be done, Cyllan. And at least, at Aeoris's

 hands, we'll find the justice that the Circle denied us.'

  

 She couldn't argue with his reasoning; but neither

 could she silence the still, small voice that whispered a

 warning deep in her mind. She was tired - too tired for

 coherent thought, despite what she'd said to Tarod, and

 she could see the need for sleep in his eyes even if it

 eluded him. She stepped back, disengaging herself from

 his arms but keeping a hold on his hand, and looked over

 her shoulder at the dark, misty hills.

  

 'Come back to the shelter with me.' Her voice was

 gentle. 'The Moons are sinking; it'll be dawn before

 long. We should rest while we can.'

  

 He followed her as she moved towards their hiding

 place. Sleep would be a blessing, if he could find it, and

 when they lay down he drew her close to him, covering

 them both with his cloak. She nestled her head in the

 crook of his arm, and he thought she'd drifted away

 when her voice, low-pitched, surprised him.

  

 'Tarod . . . When this is over - if it's over - '

  

 'When, love. Think of it only as when.'

  

 A slight movement told him that she was nodding

 acquiescence. 'When it's over ... I hope I can see

 Sister Erminet again. She was so good, so kind - without

 her I'd have lost you, and I don't think I can ever repay

 that debt.'

  

 'I know what she did.' Unbidden, memory of the old

 Sister's face came sharp and clear to Tarod's mind, and

 his voice caught on the last word. Cyllan turned in his

 arms. Tarod? What is it?'

  

 He might have spared her the truth, at least for

 tonight, but to do so seemed an insult to Erminet, for

 whom honesty had been a watchword. 'Erminet is

 dead,' he said simply.

  

 'Dead ...  ?'

  

 The Circle discovered what she'd done to aid us, and

 she was arrested. She took her own life whilst under

 guard in the Castle.' Tarod realised that his own voice

 sounded remote, detached; it was far from what he felt.

 'She was a skilled herbalist,' he went on, touched by the

 disquieting sensation that he was speaking into a void.

 'She would have felt no pain, no suffering - though the

 gods know that's little comfort!' His tone had become

 savage, and he controlled it with difficulty. 'She didn't

 deserve that fate. And hers is yet another death to place

 at my door.'

  

 'No. At Keridil's,' Cyllan said in a small voice.

  

 He sighed. 'Keridil would have had no quarrel with

 Erminet had it not been for me, and I won't try to escape

 that truth.'

  

 'No, Tarod.' Cyllan squeezed her eyes tightly shut

 against the tears that welled in them. 'Sister Erminet

 would have argued that with you. I can almost hear what

 she'd say.'

  

 I make my own decisions for my own reasons, and if

 you think your opinions would sway me you can think

 again, Chaos fiend or no! It was a fair paraphrase of what

 Erminet might have acidly retorted to any attempt to

 influence her. She'd made her own decisions, as much so

 in the manner of her death as in anything else. Perhaps,

 despite his self-recrimination, Cyllan was right.

  

 'Aeoris keep her soul,' Cyllan whispered.

  

 Tarod's fingers touched her hair. She was almost

 asleep, unlikely to comprehend what he said. 'Or

 Yandros ... ' he replied softly.

  

 Rain had moved in during the night to sweep across the

 western reaches of Southern Chaun. The sight of the

 grey, drizzling curtain soaking the fields beyond the

 Cot's elegant windows irritated Ilyaya Kimi as she sat

 impatiently waiting for her chamberwomen to arrive.

 Everything was ready, the journey planned down to the

 last detail - and now this. She could anticipate a thor-

 ough wetting even on the few short steps between the

 main door and her litter, and she was far too old to run

 for shelter, even if the idea alone weren't an affront to

 her dignity. So; she would sit cramped and jolting in that

 damned palanquin while the damp seeped through to

 her bones, with nothing better to do than listen to the

 rain pattering on the canopied roof. And before her lay

 all the tedium of rough tracks and Prospect Estuary to

 cross before her party even reached a decent drove road

  

 She slapped a hand petulantly down on the arm of her

 chair and, with difficulty, eased herself to her feet. The

 chamberwomen were late - she had told them to attend

 her promptly one hour after the tocsin had rung for

 morning prayers, and the sandglass on her table told her

 that the hour was well past. Pursing her lips in anger

 Ilyaya reached for the little handbell that stood beside

 the glass, and shook it vigorously. She was gratified

 moments later to hear footsteps running along the pas-

 sage outside, then the door burst open and her two

 servants appeared.

  

 'Your pardon, Matriarch; we were so busy with the

 preparation of the litter - '

  

 'Knock.' The old woman interrupted their apology.

 'How many times must I tell you? Knock before you

 enter my room! Go out and do it again.'

  

 The chamberwomen exchanged wry glances before

 doing as they were bidden, and when they entered for

 the second time Ilyaya gave a curt nod of satisfaction.

  

 'Better. You're both late, but we'll overlook the mat-

 ter this time. How do the preparations progress?'

  

 'Well, Madam. The palanquin is harnessed, pack-

 horses loaded, and Sister Antasone reports that the

  

 escort has been sighted approaching the Cot. They

 should be here within ten minutes, and then we can

 leave just as soon as you wish it.'

  

 'Good.' There was little point prolonging the depar-

 ture, however reluctant she might feel to face the

 journey. Better to get it begun and therefore over with

 the sooner. 'And the arrangements at Shu-Nhadek?' she

 demanded.

  

 The messenger left two days ago, Matriarch, to take

 word to the Margrave. He'll be sensible of the honour

 you do him, and will house you in the greatest comfort.'

  

 'If he's yet returned from the North, he will,' Ilyaya

 observed sourly. 'If not, Aeoris alone knows what man-

 ner of shambles we'll find awaiting us.' She eased herself

 stiffly back into the chair, sighing with relief as she sat

 down. 'Very well. You may bring me my travelling

 cloak, and my personal valise. And I want to see the

 Mistress of Novices before we leave.'

  

 'Yes, Madam.' The women departed on their errands,

 leaving Ilyaya drumming gnarled, impatient fingers on

 the arm of her chair.

  

 Sister-Senior Fayalana Impridor was alone in the Hall

 of Prayer when the Matriarch's servant found her. The

 Novice-Mistress looked up from the pile of books of

 Aeoris's Law that she was tidying in the wake of the

 morning dedications, and smiled her slow smile.

  

 'Good morning, Missak. Is the Matriarch ready to

 depart?'

  

 'She is, Sister, and she asks that you attend her before

 she leaves.'

  

 'Certainly - I'll come at once.' Fayalana put down the

 books, brushed at her robe and followed Missak towards

 the door. Just as they reached the passage she raised a

 quirkish eyebrow and asked, 'And how is the Matriarch

 today?'

  

 The question had clear implications, though only the

 senior Sisters ever had the temerity to voice them.

 Missak smiled thinly.

  

 'Between ourselves, Sister, she was a little pettish and

  

 we thought she might go into one of her moods, but it

 seems to have passed off.'

  

 'Providence be thanked for that,' Fayalana said fer-

 vently. 'We all have enough to cope with as it is . . . not,

 of course, that the Matriarch can help her small foibles.

 It's an affliction that will come to all of us as our years

 advance.'

  

 Missak nodded. 'Sometimes, Sister, I've woken in the

 night and asked myself whether she should be making

 such a journey at all. She's over 80, after all, and not

 strong.'

  

 Fayalana's eyes softened kindly. 'I know how you feel

 - it worries us all. But this is something that can't pos-

 sibly be delegated, Missak. Aeoris's own law forbids

 that anyone save the true triumvirate of rulers may sit in

 Conclave - there can be no proxies; no substitutions,

 you understand.'

  

 'I understand, yes. But . . . she should retire, Sister.

 At her age, she shouldn't have to carry such

 responsibilities.'

  

 Fayalana's dark eyes seemed to turn inward for a few

 moments, as though she saw some hidden meaning in

 the other woman's words. Then her face cleared and she

 said drily, 'I agree, Missak. But I wouldn't care to be the

 one delegated to suggest it to her!'

  

 At about the time the Matriarch's party began its cum-

 bersome journey South-East towards Prospect Estuary,

 a ship rocked on the light swell of the dock on Summer

 Isle. Both on deck and at the shoreward end of its

 gangplank there was a good deal of activity; men hurried

 back and forth with provisions, furnishings, trunks; a

 seemingly endless stream of goods making the perilous

 crossing from shore to ship. On the after-deck, under

 the shadow of the great mast, a youngish man wearing

 the distinctive blue sash of a ship's master watched

 proceedings with a relaxed but practised eye, while the

 crew sat about on or near the rail, talking desultorily or

 playing Quarters or Strike Anchor. Occasionally a burst

  

 of laughter rose above the general hubbub as someone

 made a profitable win.

  

 At the back of the dock, well away from the con-

 fusion, two caparisoned horses stamped restlessly in the

 harness of an open carriage until a sharp word from their

 driver quieted them. Behind them, one of the carriage's

 two occupants watched the distant activity with intense

 interest. He was a thin, brown-haired youth of some

 seventeen years, his good looks marred by a prominent

 nose that dominated his face. He was attempting to grow

 a moustache, both to counter the effect of the nose and

 to make himself look a little older; but thus far it was

 only poorly developed. His elaborate clothes - wide-

 sleeved embroidered jacket over silk trousers, heavily

 embossed belt with a short and purely decorative sword

 hanging from a scabbard - were creased with sitting. The

 carriage springs creaked as he stretched a cramped leg

 and sighed, and his companion, a much older man,

 glanced sidelong at him.

  

 'Are you tired, High Margrave?'

  

 Fenar Alacar rubbed his eyes. 'Not really, Isyn. Just

 tired of waiting.'

  

 'It was your own idea to come and see the prep-

 arations for yourself.' The older man hesitated, then

 smiled a little sheepishly. 'With all due respect, sir.'

  

 'Don't call me that, Isyn - you know it makes me

 uncomfortable! You were "sir" to me for so many years

 while my father was alive, and I can't get used to the idea

 of everything being reversed now!' Fenar was trying to

 hide his boredom and frustration but the effort was too

 great. 'This,' he indicated the bustling dock with an

 imperious sweep of one hand which reminded Isyn

 sharply of the old High Margrave, 'all seems such an

 unnecessary fuss and waste! Damn it, it's less than a

 day's sailing to the mainland, and once we put in at Shu-

 Nhadek I'll be housed as well as if I were still at my own

 court! Yet look at it - enough food for a whole troop of

 militia, my own dishes, cups, knives; even my own chair

 to sit on! It's ridiculous!'

  

 Isyn shook his head. Twelve years of tutoring, and still

  

 the boy didn't seem to understand fully what he was, and

 why he must be so treated. 'It's a necessary precaution,

 High Margrave, especially with things as they are. We

 daren't take the smallest risk of any harm befalling you.'

  

 Fenar snorted. 'And so I have to have an army of

 cooks, food-tasters, bed-makers, chair-dusters - and I

 have to suffer the frustration of waiting and waiting

 while the damned ship's loaded with a vast quantity of

 superfluous nonsense!' He looked sidelong and

 resentfully at his tutor-turned-adviser. 'If the powers of

 Chaos mean to prevent the Conclave by luring me to my

 death, I imagine they'll find a subtler method than

 poisoning!'

  

 Isyn refused to rise to the bait. Seventeen or no, the

 boy was High Margrave, and his elevation was still

 recent enough for him to want to test his authority on

 occasion. It was a way of covering for his insecurity, and

 the older man could understand it.

  

 'It's worth remembering, sir,' he said gently, and

 using the term Fenar hated quite deliberately, 'that the

 High Initiate's party won't arrive for at least another

 three days; more if they're held up by bad weather. And

 speaking personally, I don't relish the prospect of spend-

 ing the intervening time in Shu-Nhadek with only the

 Lady Matriarch for company.'

  

 There was a pause, then Fenar snorted again, but this

 time with suppressed laughter. 'Gods, the very idea of it!

 D'you know, Isyn, I can hardly believe that the old

 woman's still alive. She was older than old when I last

 saw her, and I was a child then. She must be 100 if she's a

 day by now!'

  

 His words were disrespectful and he was exaggerat-

 ing, but Isyn felt privately relieved by the display of

 childishness - it suited the lad far better than his earlier

 attempt at arrogance. The next few days, he thought,

 would be a trial in more ways than the obvious; Fenar

 Alacar feared the impending Conclave, though nothing

 would make him admit it; and when he was afraid he

 would, like all young and untried creatures, react in one

 of two ways - either by retreating into sulkiness, or by

  

 trying to flaunt his position as absolute ruler, at least in

 theory, of all the land. Isyn had glimpsed the beginnings

 of such a reaction last year when the new High Initiate

 had visited the Summer Isle court; awed by Keridil Toln,

 Fenar had at the same time resented his confidence and

 the aura of the highly occult Circle that he carried with

 him. Then, he hadn't had the self-possession to chal-

 lenge Keridil; now, if they found themselves in disagree-

 ment, it might be different - and the High Initiate would

 be too formidable an opponent for Fenar to cut his teeth

 on.

  

 The boy was fidgeting again. He'd seen the sense in

 Isyn's words, but they did nothing to assuage his

 impatience.

  

 'I don't see why we have to go to Shu-Nhadek at all,'

 he said irritably. 'There's no need for so much pomp and

 ceremony. Why can't we simply sail from here directly

 to the White Isle?'

  

 Isyn didn't reply, but his brows knitted together in a

 sharp frown, and Fenar made an angry gesture.

  

 'Oh, I know. Thus it is written, thus it must be. Just

 because some musty old manuscripts mouldering away

 in the far North say that we have to follow this ridiculous

 procedure - don't frown at me like that, Isyn; I don't

 appreciate your disapproval.'

  

 Isyn's normally placid temper was starting to fray, and

 he interrupted. 'You may not appreciate it, High Mar-

 grave, but you have it, whether either of us wills or no.

 And you'd have more than disapproval from the Guard-

 ians if you tried to set one foot on the White Isle from the

 deck of the Summer Sister.'

  

 Fenar shrugged. 'Would I? They're nothing more

 than gatekeepers, however they like to cloak them-

 selves. I could command them to - '

  

 'I'd defy any mortal man, living or dead, to command

 the Guardians.' Isyn spoke so quietly and yet with such

 conviction that the young man was surprised. 'No High

 Margrave, or High Initiate or Matriarch for that matter,

 has set eyes on the Guardians for generations, save from

  

 a distance, and none would dare - yes, sir, I said dare - to

 go against their will.'

  

 Fenar licked his lips uneasily, and Isyn pressed home

 the point. 'You've heard the stories - I taught them to

 you myself, when you were barely fledged. I'm only

 surprised you could have forgotten them.'

  

 Some of the older tales hinted that the Guardians, the

 hereditary caste who for thousands of years had inhabi-

 ted the White Isle, weren't even truly human, but were

 descended from angelic beings in whose charge Aeoris

 had placed his casket. Wild stories, doubtless, but it was

 said there could be no smoke without fire . . . Every

 now and then the Guardians sailed their strange barque

 to the mainland, and took a handful of chosen women

 back to their stronghold to bear them children and so

 ensure the continuance of the caste. The women

 returned after a year or so, and never spoke of what they

 had seen; most were taken into the Sisterhood, or made

 convenient marriages later. The male children born on

 the Isle grew up to become the next generation of

 Guardians. No one ever speculated on what happened

 to the female children.

  

 The bright Sun was obscured suddenly by a stray wisp

 of cloud drifting from the West, and a wing of shadow

 passed over the dock and the carriage. Fenar glanced

 up, shivering as though the momentary gloom were an

 omen, and when he looked at Isyn again the anger had

 faded from his eyes.

  

 'I'm sorry, Isyn,' he said awkwardly. With the need to

 apologise to anyone lessening as he grew more

 accustomed to his status, humility was becoming

 unfamiliar, and Isyn appreciated the effort this took. 'I

 forgot myself, and I was wrong. We must, of course, do

 as protocol dictates.' He forced a smile. 'I don't want to

 make a fool of myself, do I, on what must surely be the

 most momentous task I'll ever undertake? I can just

 imagine what my father would have said - called me an

 arrogant little tyke and given me a whipping, I should

 think.'

  

 Isyn inclined his head in amused acknowledgement,

  

 and Fenar hunched his shoulders. In the wake of his

 apology and confession he was trying to salve his dignity

 and appear adult. The comment about his father had

 been a conciliatory gesture; now he wanted to erase it

 and move on. Isyn considered himself too old to remem-

 ber the impatience and frustration of being 17, but none-

 theless he could appreciate the boy's feelings.

  

 He said, nodding towards the dock, 'It seems the

 activity's slowing down. I would imagine the ship will be

 ready to sail on the next turn of the tide.'

  

 'Yes . . . though perhaps after all I'll take your

 advice, Isyn - bearing in mind the prospect of the

 Matriarch's company.' Fenar studied his nails, self-con-

 scious. 'Doubtless there are a hundred and one small

 tasks I've overlooked and should attend to before

 embarking.'

  

 'Doubtless. And you must bid farewell to your lady

 mother, the Dowager Margravine.'

  

 The High Margrave looked up quickly, then the lids

 came half down over his grey eyes, masking their expres-

 sion. That I've already done. At least, I sent a message

 to her yesterday, and had her reply this morning. She

 sends her love, but begs to be excused from a meeting.'

  

 Isyn sighed inwardly. Since the death of her husband

 the Margravine had retired completely into herself, liv-

 ing out her days in an isolated dower house some way

 from the court, tended only by three serving-women,

 and grieving ceaselessly. She saw no outsider, not even

 her own son, and the consensus of opinion was that she

 was simply waiting to die.

  

 'She asked to be remembered to you,' Fenar added.

  

 'Did she?' Isyn was surprised, and touched. 'How

 kind of her.'

  

 A slightly strained silence fell between the two for a

 while then, until Isyn, alerted by footsteps, looked up to

 see the dock overseer approaching the carriage. On the

 Summer Sister's deck the crew were suddenly active, the

 ship's master calling out orders in clipped but carrying

 tones.

  

 He touched Fenar's shoulder, and the boy blinked.

  

 'I think,' Isyn said, smiling, 'that if you have tasks to

 complete, sir, we might as well return to the palace and

 attend to them. If I read the signs aright, the Summer

 Sister is ready to sail when the High Margrave com-

 mands it.'

  

 Chapter 8

  

 Tarod's keen eyes saw the small cavalcade approaching

 from the West against the glare of the setting Sun, and

 he reached out to touch the bridle of Cyllan's horse,

 bringing it to a well-trained halt. She shifted in her

 saddle, squinting as she tried to follow where he was

 pointing, then looked at him and saw the unease in his

 expression.

  

 'What is it, Tarod?'

  

 'I don't know.' He couldn't explain the intuitive fore-

 boding stirring within him; this was by no means the first

 party they had encountered on the road, but a sixth

 sense told him that it was no ordinary convoy, and he

 was wary.

  

 Cyllan looked again. The sun was sinking into a bank

 of cloud and the glare was suddenly lessened, so that she

 could make out individual shapes among the cavalcade.

  

 They're moving quite slowly,' she said, then: There's

 something in their midst; something large . . . '

  

 'It's a palanquin.' Tarod frowned. 'And most of the

 riders seemed to be dressed in white.'

  

 She glanced uncertainly at him, beginning to share his

 unease. 'Do you know who they are?'

  

 'I know who they should be - but it makes no logical

 sense, unless - ' He hesitated, then shook his head as

 though dismissing whatever unspoken thought had been

 in his mind, and instead turned his attention to the

 South. Three miles ahead, across a stretch of pleasant

 moorland, it was just possible to make out the contours

 of Shu-Nhadek in the evening haze, while beyond its

 blurred outlines the sea glittered like a knife on the

 horizon. Almost their final goal . . . they'd planned on

  

 reaching it by nightfall, and it seemed they weren't

 alone; at its present speed, he judged, the distant com-

 pany would cross their path a mile outside the town.

  

 His horse stamped and snorted, not understanding

 the delay, and Tarod turned to Cyllan. 'Best play the

 lady for a while again, love. We may have to exchange a

 social grace or two before we reach Shu-Nhadek.'

  

 She smiled wryly, and swung her right leg back across

 her mount's withers, hooking her knee over the elab-

 orately designed pommel of her saddle. She found the

 side-saddle posture awkward and uncomfortable, but no

 woman of quality would dream of riding any other way -

 and a woman of quality was precisely what Cyllan was

 pretending to be.

  

 With more than enough coin in his pouch to see them

 to their journey's end, Tarod had reasoned that ostenta-

 tion was their best form of disguise. The populace was

 alerted to hunt down two fugitives, and no one was likely

 to consider that fugitives might hide by drawing atten-

 tion to themselves - the concept wasn't logical. And so

 he had stopped at the next sizeable town and, while

 Cyllan waited outside the walls, had bought new clothes

 for them both and two well-bred horses to replace the

 big bay; a chestnut gelding for himself, and a mettle-

 some but good-tempered grey mare for Cyllan. From

 then on, while he blurred their appearance and the

 memory of their faces in the minds of those they encoun-

 tered, they had travelled under the guise of a prosperous

 vintner and his wife, and Tarod had noted with irony the

 ease with which they had passed through towns and

 villages. Rumour was still rife everywhere, but they

 heard little of it; ordinary folk would not dream of

 approaching wealthy strangers to share the latest gossip,

 and so, although they had made good speed to Shu-

 Nhadek, they'd heard nothing of the latest news.

  

 And in every town and village there was still sickening

 testimony to the terror rife in the land. Accusations,

 trials, executions, vengeance - the tide showed no sign

 of turning, and the sights they saw on the road served

 both to strengthen Tarod's resolve, and to increase his

  

 anxiety to reach Shu-Nhadek, and beyond it his ultimate

 goal, as quickly as possible.

  

 He touched his heels to the chestnut's flanks and it

 moved on, Cyllan's mare keeping pace. The light was

 failing rapidly as the cloudbank swallowed the Sun;

 ahead the first lamps were beginning to twinkle in the

 harbour town, mirroring the fainter glitter of stars in the

 easterly sky.

  

 They heard the first sounds of the cavalcade as they

 reached the point where the western and southern roads

 merged for the final run into Shu-Nhadek. In the twilight

 the approaching figures - which were, as Tarod had said,

 mostly dressed in white - might have been ethereal

 ghosts, but the clatter and thump of several dozen hoofs,

 the jingle of harness, proved they were solid enough. At

 the meeting of the roads Tarod and Cyllan reined in, and

 Cyllan's eyes widened as at last she recognised the riders

 for what they were.

  

 'Sisters . . .  ' Her voice was almost inaudible.

  

 The grey mare side-stepped, disturbed by her rider's

 sudden disquiet, and Tarod spoke a word that settled

 her. 'I thought so ... ' He watched the approaching

 group with eyes that were suddenly narrowed to slits.

 'And if I'm not mistaken, they're from Southern

 Chaun.'

  

 'Southern Chaun?'

  

 The Matriarch's Cot.' He had counted eight women

 on horseback and five heavily built male escorts, while in

 the midst of the convoy an elaborately decked litter

 swayed, borne by four more horses and swathed in richly

 embroidered curtains. Its occupant wasn't visible.

  

 'You see that?' He nodded towards the litter. That's

 the palanquin of the Matriarch herself, Lady Ilyaya

 Kimi.'

  

 He realised that Cyllan didn't understand, and added,

 'Lady Ilyaya is over 80, and she hasn't left her Cot for ten

 years. She was too infirm to attend Keridil's inaugura-

 tion - and if she's riding in the palanquin now, there's

 only one circumstance which could have brought her

 here.' His hand, light on the reins, tightened its grip

  

 suddenly. 'It means that Keridil has summoned a

 Conclave.'

  

 The leader of the Matriarch's escort called a sharp warn-

 ing as he saw the two indistinct figures motionless by the

 meeting of the roads, and metal rattled as the five men

 drew their swords. The two figures didn't move, and

 after a moment the men relaxed as they realised the

 strangers presented no threat - merely a merchant, or

 some such, and his wife; doubtless awed by the cav-

 alcade and wisely reining back to allow them to pass.

  

 The convoy trotted by in stately grandeur; near its

 head, one of the older Sisters spared a glance for the two

 riders, whom she saw as Tarod wished her to see them -

 nondescript, irrelevant. Her voice carried clear above

 the rumble of their progress as she called out, 'Aeoris be

 with you, good people!' and she made the Sign, with just

 a hint of patronage, in their direction.

  

 Cyllan saw Tarod bow his head as though in recogni-

 tion and thanks, and hastily followed his example. As

 the gilded palanquin swayed past she peered harder,

 curious to glimpse the Matriarch; but the curtains didn't

 so much as twitch. Then the cavalcade was drawing away

 from them along the road into Shu-Nhadek.

  

 Tarod watched as the riders diminished. He had,

 without realising it, touched his right hand to the ring on

 his left index finger, and in response the ring's stone

 flared and shimmered like a small, white eye. He had

 made the decision to restore the Chaos stone to its silver

 base after their flight from Prospect; and as the ring's

 contours flowed once again to clasp the jewel he had felt

 a bitter mingling of despair and triumph. He was, truly,

 whole again - but as he slipped the ring back on to his

 finger and sensed the old familiarity of its presence, he

 had realised afresh how dangerous its pervasive influ-

 ence might prove to be. He would need an iron will, a

 steel control, to keep to his resolution now, against the

 living power of Chaos. Yet over and beyond that he

 would need the power the ring granted him - the power

 of his own soul - if he wasn't to fail in what he set out to

  

 do. And the presence of the Matriarch in Shu-Nhadek

 made the goal that much more urgent than before.

  

 The thought was like a goad, and without warning he

 urged his mount forward. Cyllan followed, confused by

 the anger that she'd seen in his eyes in the moment

 before he set off.

  

 'Tarod! Tarod, what is it?'

  

 He looked back, said something which she couldn't

 hear, and she kicked hard at the grey mare's flank. The

 animal put on a turn of speed and danced alongside him.

 Even in the gloom, Cyllan could see that his face was

 taut and bitter. Tarod, I don't understand! You said

 that Keridil had called a Conclave - what does that

 mean?'

  

 No one outside the Circle could possibly understand

 the full implications of what the High Initiate had done.

 But if his suspicions were right, then Keridil had set

 something in motion which, if he didn't act quickly,

 could bring catastrophe on them all.

  

 He realised suddenly that he'd been on the verge of

 cursing at Cyllan, taking his anger out on her simply

 because there was no one else at hand. With an effort he

 controlled the rising tide of emotion in him.

  

 'I can't explain it now,' he said. 'But we've no time to

 lose - and the gods help us if we're too late!'

  

 Shu-Nhadek was in a ferment. By one means and

 another, news of the High Initiate's decision had flooded

 into the town ahead of the three rulers' parties, and with

 it had come a steady stream of devout or frightened

 people, anxious to congregate as near as possible to the

 site of the holy alliance and seek sanctuary or blessing in

 its shadow. By the time Tarod and Cyllan arrived, the

 Matriarch's cavalcade had disappeared, whisked away

 to the Margrave's residence to await the arrival of

 Keridil Toln and Fenar Alacar - and, as Tarod had

 anticipated, every inn and hostelry in the town was full

 to overflowing.

  

 They finally reached the market square and stopped

 to rest their tired horses. The square was abnormally

  

 busy; torches burned in the porticoes of all the larger

 buildings, casting a peculiar, flickering hellglow across

 the flagstones; people had congregated simply to wait

 and watch and see whatever might be seen; at the har-

 bour side of the square a group of minstrels were singing

 pious songs in the hope of earning a coin or two.

  

 Cyllan looked to where black openings gaped at inter-

 vals among the buildings, and fancied she saw the cold

 glimmer of the harbour waters at the far end of an unlit

 alley. She shivered at a sudden, unwanted memory and

 edged her horse a little closer to Tarod's.

  

 This atmosphere . . . ' She pitched her voice to a

 whisper that only he could hear. 'It unnerves me.'

  

 'I know.' He patted the chestnut gelding's neck. 'It's

 as if the whole town has caught a fever. But at least we're

 not too late. The town's still awaiting Keridil - we're

 ahead of him, and that gives us some leeway. We'll find

 somewhere to rest the night, then see what we can

 discover in the morning.'

  

 Cyllan shivered again. 'There's not an inn that hasn't

 barred its doors to new trade.'

  

 'Maybe.' Tarod smiled, an old smile that hinted at

 something she preferred not to question. 'We'll see.'

  

 Within half an hour he had found lodging for them, at a

 respectable tavern only a few moments' walk from the

 market square. Cyllan had been dubious at first, afraid

 that they might be courting disaster by settling so close

 to the hub of activity, but he had soothed her fears,

 knowing that they were in no danger - at least, until the

 Circle party should arrive. Money, a little intimidation

 and a touch of his power had secured them a good room,

 and a meal was served to them there. Cyllan didn't want

 to eat - her nerves, like the strings of an overtuned

 instrument, felt on the verge of snapping - but Tarod's

 calm confidence soothed the worst of her terrors.

  

 As they ate, Tarod explained the nature of the Con-

 clave, and described what its outcome could mean to

 them.

  

 'If Keridil succeeds in summoning Aeoris on the

  

 White Isle,' he said, 'then the powers of Order will have

 only one aim - to eradicate every trace of Chaos in the

 world.'

  

 Cyllan looked at him through her lashes, aware that

 her heartbeat had quickened uncomfortably. 'But isn't

 that what you want?' she asked.

  

 'Yes.' She thought that Tarod had hesitated momen-

 tarily, though his answer was decisive enough. 'But I

 fear that the White Lords will pursue that aim single-

 mindedly, without thought for the consequences that

 might befall mere mortals.' He touched his tongue to his

 lips. 'How is it possible to comprehend, let alone explain,

 the reasoning of a god? Yet I feel ... I feel I know, far

 better than Keridil, the true nature of the power he

 means to unleash.' He closed his right hand over the

 restored silver ring, aware of the Chaos stone pulsing

 beneath his fingers, and saw that Cyllan was watching

 him intently. 'Although he is the patron and protector of

 humanity, Aeoris transcends human limitations to such

 a degree that individual lives and deaths - which are of

 vital importance to the mortals concerned - are so trivial

 to him as to be beyond his consideration - and so much

 more so when weighed against the threat posed by

 Yandros.' He paused, then smiled wryly. 'Imagine that

 you stood in a meadow, confronted by an enemy who

 meant to slay you. In fighting that enemy, would you be

 concerned for the tiny insects which might be crushed

 out of existence beneath your feet as you battled?'

  

 Cyllan nodded. 'I understand you.'

  

 Then you understand the danger in what Keridil

 means to do. And if Aeoris should find Yandros a

 powerful enemy, not easily overcome, the destruction

 they wreak will be all the greater. It mustn't come to

 that, Cyllan.'

  

 She turned her head to gaze out of the window.

 Across the rooftops the lights of Shu-Nhadek harbour

 gleamed, reflecting broken mirror-images on the sea's

 calm surface. Mist was stealing in as the night deepened,

 and the peacefulness of the scene made a bizarre con-

 trast with her thoughts.

  

 'Then if it's to be prevented,' she said, 'we must reach

 the White Isle before the Conclave can take place.' She

 looked round at him, her eyes dark with emotion. 'And

 you must do what you've been planning.'

  

 'Does the thought distress you so much?'

  

 'I - don't know. My conscience tells me it's right, but

 -' she closed her mind to the sudden image of Yandros's

 face, and the memory of their bargain, that rose within

 her. 'I don't know, Tarod. I'm so afraid of the con-

 sequences. More afraid, I think, than of what might

 happen if Aeoris and Yandros should clash. What you

 said, what you described - it's too remote to affect me.

 Here, in this room in Shu-Nhadek with you, it doesn't

 mean anything; but if you surrender the soul-stone it -

 it'll dictate our future, and I feel that keenly.' She

 gripped her hands together until the knuckles turned

 white. 'I'm so afraid of losing you forever.'

  

 As she spoke the White Lord's name, Tarod noticed,

 she hadn't made the Sign. For anyone brought up as she

 had been that was an unthinkable omission, and he

 sensed the other forces that were at work in her.

 Yandros had touched her with far more than a physical

 scar, and, against his will, he felt a surge of pride in her.

  

 My brother, she is worthy of us ...

  

 The voice spoke silently in his mind, and it shocked

 him back to cold reality. Yes ... it would be all too easy

 for them both to be seduced by that ancient power - and

 he, far more than Cyllan, had good reason to feel an

 affinity with it. But it mustn't be. He had to hold fast to

 his resolution; and if it resulted in the ultimate sacrifice,

 that sacrifice must be made.

  

 'Cyllan.' He reached out across the table, pushing

 aside the remains of the meal to take her hand in a grip

 that hurt. 'Cyllan, I won't let myself be swayed. I came

 here to fulfil a pledge, and I'll fulfil it, whatever the

 consequences. While the Chaos stone exists, Yandros

 can challenge the rule of Order - but only while he has

 that foothold in the world. With the stone in Aeoris's

 hands, the Conclave will never be called - and this

 insanity can be stopped.'

  

 She gazed at him, her expression bleak. 'And you're

 sure, in your own mind, that this is the only way?'

  

 There was another - but he daren't dwell on that

 thought for a moment, lest it should take root . . . 'I'm

 sure,' he said.

  

 Cyllan nodded. 'Very well. If it must be, it must.'

 With her free hand she rubbed fiercely at her eyes, and

 Tarod couldn't tell whether or not she was crying. If she

 was, then knowing Cyllan they'd be tears of anger rather

 than despair. At length she blinked, sniffed, and said

 with determined conviction, 'I was brought up to believe

 that Aeoris is just and fair. I can only pray that his High

 Initiate's blindness doesn't stand in the way of that

 justice.'

  

 Tarod smiled. His grip on her fingers relaxed a little,

 he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. 'Remember

 my analogy of the insects in the meadow?' he said. 'If

 Aeoris is what we believe him to be, Keridil's arguments

 will no more sway him than they could do.'

  

 Despite their brave words, both Tarod and Cyllan suf-

 fered monstrous dreams that night. Cyllan was haunted

 by tormenting images of an unthinkable future, in which

 she saw Tarod sacrificed on an altar stone that ran black

 with blood, while she, hampered by the white robes of a

 Sister of Aeoris, could only stand by and scream his

 name over and over again, knowing that nothing she

 could do would prevent his destruction. She threshed in

 her sleep, reaching out clawing hands and snatching at

 invisible assailants; then at last she settled a little as she

 sensed Tarod beside her, and fell finally into a deeper if

 just as dismal slumber.

  

 Tarod lay unmoving and unaware of her distress, but

 his sleep wasn't natural. Nor - or so he thought later -

 were his dreams dreams in the usual sense. It was more

 as though his mind, troubled by his waking thoughts,

 had reached out beyond mortal dimensions to a place of

 atavisms and ancient memories. And there, something

 awaited him.

  

 The familiarity of the proud, cruel but beautiful face

  

 with its welcoming smile made him ache to the roots

 of his soul with a feeling he couldn't define. Yandros

 emerged from a column of coruscating light, and as he

 moved, the atmosphere about him shifted subtly

 between a myriad dimensions, changing colour and

 form in ceaseless, patternless motion. Around him,

 something was pulsing - a vast heart, its note too deep to

 be anything more than a slow, earth-shaking vibration;

 and it too had no pattern, the rhythm changing each time

 Tarod's senses tried to attune to it. And he felt rather

 than saw other presences; shadow-shapes drawing

 towards him out of this formless place, entities he had

 once known and with whom he had shared a shattering

 affinity.

  

 Tarod. Yandros's silver voice had a flat quality, a

 sound recalled rather than heard, with no true existence

 beyond memory and imagination. Light flared at the

 Chaos lord's heart and focused to the image of a seven-

 rayed star. Still you try to forget.

  

 There was no reproach in the voice, only a detached

 interest which made Tarod realise the extent of

 Yandros's weakness. This, he understood suddenly, was

 no true manifestation of the Chaos realm. He still

 retained his links with the mortal world, and in that

 world he was the stronger of the two.

  

 He smiled, and saw the green of his own eyes reflect

 momentarily in the Chaos lord's gaze. I don't forget, he

 said calmly. But I have made my choice.

  

 Yandros considered for a moment, then inclined his

 head as though acknowledging a viewpoint which,

 though he opposed it, interested him. You choose a

 strange path, Tarod. You have seen injustice, bigotry,

 persecution, murder, all perpetrated in the name of Order

 - and yet, despite the high principles you profess, you still

 give fealty to Order's ways. His eyes - changing now

 from blue through purple to a disturbing crimson -

 flickered with amusement. I am intrigued by your logic.

  

 Logic has never been your favourite weapon in my

 experience, Yandros.

  

 The entity laughed. Oh, I choose whatever weapons

 suit my purpose at the time - as you know full well!

  

 Images . . . old loyalties, pleasures, triumphs . . .

 Tarod forced them away. Then perhaps you should

 choose more carefully. What I have seen is no true reflec-

 tion of Order. It's merely the panic-stricken reaction of

 those who know no better. And if I knew no better, I'd

 suspect your hand behind it.

  

 You flatter me. Yandros smiled malevolently.

  

 Hardly. For in this world, I have the advantage of you -

 the advantage of humanity. And I wield the greater

 power. I banished you, Yandros; and while I continue to

 live, your power won't gain a hold here.

  

 Yandros didn't reply, but seemed to be considering

 Tarod's words. Far off in the distance a voice began to

 scream at a pitch which had never been mortal; Yandros

 glanced in its direction and the sound abruptly ceased.

  

 At last, the Chaos lord nodded. His eyes were oddly

 quiet and contemplative and he said, Yes. You banished

 me. And for your fidelity to the Lords of Order you were

 damned by those same Lords' servants. Yet still you cling

 to that fealty, and you believe that though the puppets

 might condemn, the puppet-master will praise. His eyes

 flared white-hot. That is a very human sentiment. I might

 have expected better from you.

  

 Better? Tarod smiled cynically. Better by whose stan-

 dards, Yandros?

  

 Again the Chaos lord laughed, but this time there was

 an appalling irony in the laughter, as though he were the

 victim of some celestial joke. Tarod, knowing him of

 old, was unmoved, and finally the laughter subsided,

 leaving only echoes which seemed to take on a life of

 their own before whirling away into nothing.

  

 By whose standards? Yandros repeated. Ah, Tarod,

 you've forgotten so much! He turned suddenly to face

 Tarod full on, and despite the gulf which separated them

 Tarod felt a powerful psychic jolt as the Chaos lord's

 finger pointed accusingly towards him. Go your way,

 then, Yandros said. Bow to the corruption of Order and

 learn the lesson to which mortal life has blinded you! You

  

 are beyond my power to control -I must admit it, for you

 know it as well as I, and in the old days there were no

 secrets between us. Go, then. Bespeak the demon Aeoris.

 Throw yourself on his mercy, and where there were seven

 there will be six! He hunched his shoulders, and the

 column of light in which he stood drew inward, darken-

 ing, so that at last Yandros's bone-white face stared with

 cold disdain from a fog of blackness, only his brilliant

 golden hair lending any colour to the disturbing scene.

 His voice carried softly, sibilantly, insinuating in Tarod's

 mind as the dream began to fragment and drag him back

 towards the physical world.

  

 We shall mourn your passing . . .

  

 He woke to a stillness that struck at the core of his being.

 No screaming, sweating explosion out of the realm of

 nightmare; no muscular spasm hurling him from the

 depths of sleep - simply the quiet dark of the room in the

 Shu-Nhadek inn, and a pattern of Moonlight tracing

 meaningless pictures on the ceiling. From below, he

 could hear muted murmurings and the occasional clatter

 of pewter; it seemed that the tavern-room still stood

 open to trade and would remain so through the night.

  

 At his side, Cyllan slept. Her cheeks were streaked

 with tears long since dried, but whatever night-borne

 horrors had assailed her seemed to have passed now; her

 breathing was gentle and even. Tarod reached out to

 touch her and realised his hand was shaking; on his index

 finger the Chaos stone glared as a stray Moonbeam

 caught in the facets.

  

 Yandros's last words burned like fire in his brain.

 Whatever term he might choose to give to the encoun-

 ter, it hadn't been a dream; and it had struck hard at his

 confidence and resolve. We shall mourn your passing

 . . . but Yandros was the master of lies; no man knew

 that better than Tarod. His greatest skill was to play on

 the fears of the unwary, causing the heart to doubt, the

 mind to question.

  

 An involuntary shudder left him feeling chilled; he

 withdrew his hand from Cyllan's hair and saw the tiny

  

 light within the soul-stone wink out as his finger moved

 into shadow; and suddenly he smiled. He had one

 weapon which Yandros could never counter - his own

 will. And whatever his subconscious mind might try to

 argue to the contrary, while consciousness held sway the

 blandishments of Chaos were impotent. He had the

 stone, and the stone gave him power. Power that had

 stood against Yandros once, and could do so again. And

 though in the dead hour of night it might seem a cold

 consolation, it was enough.

  

 His hand was steadier when he reached out again to

 touch Cyllan. She stirred in her sleep and murmured

 something unintelligible, but her voice was calm. Tarod

 leaned over her and let his lips brush her face gently. He

 didn't want to wake her - her presence was enough to

 hold him to the real world.

  

 He settled back, one arm protectively across her

 slender body, and closed his eyes, knowing that sleep

 would come and there would be no more dreaming.

  

 Chapter 9

  

 The Summer Sister was sighted off the coast shortly after

 noon on the following day. Within minutes, a diverse

 flotilla of craft from fishing-boats to small dinghies and

 skiffs had put out, forming an impromptu escort to

 welcome the High Margrave to Shu-Nhadek, and by the

 time the tall, graceful ship with her gold-threaded sails

 came dipping and curtseying into harbour a large crowd

 had gathered on the dock.

  

 From the ship a voice shouted orders that were

 echoed and relayed from bow to stern, and men

 swarmed into action on the deck. The waiting throng

 shuffled and parted as harried militiamen struggled to

 make some semblance of order out of the confusion, and

 at last a broad gangplank was lowered from the ship's

 rail to fall with a noise like thunder on the jetty, where

 two burly men roped it fast.

  

 The crowd fell silent. The Summer Sister's master had

 ordered his sailors into a tightly formed guard of honour

 on deck, and abruptly they all stiffened to attention as

 Fenar Alacar emerged from his cabin and stepped on to

 the plank.

  

 Isyn had taken care to instil into his young master the

 importance of first impressions. This was the first time in

 his life that Fenar had set foot on the mainland and the

 first chance that all but a privileged few had had to see

 their High Margrave in person. And so Fenar had

 dressed for the occasion, in trousers and coat of fine

 tapestried silk, with a brocade cloak thrown over and a

 narrow, jewelled gold circlet on his fine brown hair. An

 appreciative breath rustled through the throng as he

 appeared and, as Isyn had coached him, paused at the

  

 top of the gangplank; then the rustle swelled into full-

 throated cheering, while a myriad hands jubilantly

 traced the Sign of Aeoris in the air.

  

 The High Margrave raised an arm in acknowledge-

 ment of his welcome and took a careful pace down the

 sloping plank. Behind him walked Isyn, and immedi-

 ately at Isyn's back came the Guard of the High Margra-

 vate, a handpicked body of swordsmen whose task,

 while they were on the mainland, would be to protect

 Fenar from the smallest hint of danger.

  

 Fenar's relief as he finally stepped from the vibrating

 plank to land was profound; he paused a moment to

 allow the throng to get a closer look at him, then moved

 forward along the hastily cleared aisle to where an open

 carriage waited to convey him to the Province Mar-

 grave's residence. Up the steps of the carriage, another

 pause, another wave, and dust rose from the turning

 wheels as the caparisoned horses set their heads towards

 the centre of the town.

  

 From the open window of their room at the tavern

 Cyllan could see only the Summer Sister's tall mast as she

 rode at anchor; but the noise from the harbour carried

 clearly on the light Spring breeze, and the people

 thronging the market square just a street away were

 clearly visible over the low rooftops. She watched as

 there was a sudden commotion in one of the wider roads

 to the far side of the square, then, as the High Mar-

 grave's carriage came into view, she turned from the

 window to where Tarod reclined on the bed.

  

 'Have you ever seen the High Margrave?'

  

 He rose and came to join her, crouching at the low

 window to look out. The carriage was making slow

 progress across the square, hampered by the jostling

 press of people anxious to glimpse or possibly even

 touch their ruler, and Tarod's eyes narrowed slightly as

 he looked at the gorgeously dressed youth in the

 carriage.

  

 'Gods, he's no more than a child ... ' He remem-

 bered Keridil's description of Fenar Alacar after the

 High Initiate had visited the Summer Isle for the formal

  

 and traditional ratification. A sound head on his shoul-

 ders, Keridil had said; but his first sight of the young man

 did nothing to dispel Tarod's doubts. Any hopes he

 might have had that Fenar would prove strong enough to

 stand against the combined opinions of the High Initiate

 and the Matriarch faded; this boy would be too intimi-

 dated by his two elders in the triumvirate to do anything

 other than follow where they led.

  

 The carriage was by this time weighed down by tokens

 and offerings - Spring flowers, sweetmeats, charm-

 necklaces and all manner of artefacts - that the crowd

 had showered on their ruler. As it finally manoeuvred its

 way out of the square and away towards the town's

 outskirts, Tarod sighed and turned away from the win-

 dow. Two out of three,' he said. They only wait

 Keridil's arrival - and I suspect he'll be here before

 Sunset.'

  

 Cyllan rose, stretching a cramped leg. 'You sound

 very sure.'

  

 'I'm sure enough.' He smiled. 'In the old days, when

 we counted ourselves the best of friends, Keridil and I

 had a rapport that at times was near telepathic; and no

 degree of enmity can altogether destroy that. He's near.

 And when he reaches the town, I'll know it.'

  

 'And will he know of your presence, too?' Cyllan

 asked uneasily.

  

 'If I relax my guard, he will.'

  

 Then perhaps we should find some other place to - '

  

 'No.' He interrupted her with a slight shake of his

 head. 'I must be vigilant, that's all - Keridil won't be a

 threat to us if we take reasonable care. But his arrival

 means time is growing short - we must reach the White

 Isle before the barque arrives to take the Conclave.'

  

 They had spent the morning, in their adopted guise,

 inquiring among local fishermen and other boat-owners

 for a craft that might be hired. Cyllan's upbringing in the

 Great Eastern Flatlands had given her a sound know-

 ledge of seamanship; and the currents here in the South

 were far less treacherous than those around Kennet

 Head, so that she could handle a reasonable sized vessel

  

 without need for a crew. But there wasn't a vessel to be

 found. Every last craft that was remotely seaworthy had

 already been hired or commandeered by people anxious

 to follow the fabled White Barque when it set sail, and

 neither money nor status was enough to buy them

 passage.

  

 Tarod had refrained from using his powers to secure

 them a boat, as least thus far; he was wary of causing

 argument or arousing suspicion, and would have pre-

 ferred to solve their problem by more mundane means.

 But it was beginning to look as though he'd have no

 choice - and time, as he had said, was not on their side.

  

 He said: 'We'll look again early tomorrow when the

 town is quieter. By that time Keridil's party should be

 settled at the Margravate, and they'll hear no word of us

 until after we've departed.'

  

 'And if we still can't find a boat?' Cyllan asked.

  

 His laughter was soft in the quiet room. 'We'll find

 one.'

  

 The party from the Star Peninsula arrived in the middle

 of the afternoon. There were eight riders altogether,

 headed by Keridil and Sashka, with Gant Ambaril

 Rannak and three of his servants, plus two high-ranking

 Adepts whom the High Initiate had selected to accom-

 pany him.

  

 They had made astonishingly good time on the long

 journey, aided by good weather conditions which

 Keridil, with some relief, interpreted as a favourable

 omen. The Margrave's decision to ride with their convoy

 had disconcerted him at first, but Gant had argued that,

 with the land in a ferment, his first duty was to his

 Margravate - and besides, it was unthinkable that he

 shouldn't be present to play host to the full triumvirate

 of rulers when they lodged at his home for the first time

 in history. The Lady Margravine, still suffering from her

 shock and grief at Drachea's death, would remain

 behind at the Castle until she was fitter; but he would

 leave for the South with the Circle Party. Reluctantly

 Keridil had seen the sense in his arguments, and as

  

 matters turned out, the Margrave had been far less of an

 encumbrance on the journey than he'd feared; the old

 man seemed to possess reserves of physical as well as

 mental stamina, and proved no hindrance to their

 progress.

  

 He had anticipated a warm welcome in Shu-Nhadek,

 but was nonetheless astonished by the level of relief and

 joy that greeted them. Sympathy for the Margrave was

 running at fever pitch in the wake of his son's murder,

 and his arrival in the company of the High Initiate

 fuelled the fires almost to the point of adulation. They

 made as rapid progress as they could through the town

 without giving offence to the hundreds who had turned

 out to greet them, but Keridil could only begin to relax

 when at last the gates of the Margrave's residence closed

 behind them and the noise of the crowd fell away into

 the undisturbed quiet of the formal grounds.

  

 Gant reined in his horse, trying not to drop an elabor-

 ate flower-garland thrust into his hand by a well-wisher,

 and stared at the gracious house at the far end of its long

 drive. Turning in his saddle, Keridil could see the sud-

 den acute pain in the Margrave's eyes and imagined

 what he must be thinking. For as long as Gant lived, this

 place would hold bitter memories.

  

 'Come, Margrave,' he said, speaking gently but

 firmly. 'It has to be faced sometime. Best to get it over

 with.'

  

 Gant glanced at him, then his lips quirked in an ironi-

 cal smile. 'Ghosts take a long time to die, High Initiate,'

 he said, and urged his horse onward.

  

 'I can't describe how thankful I am that I no longer have

 to be beholden to the Sisterhood!' Sashka stretched like

 a cat and shook out her long auburn hair so that it

 rippled like water over her shoulders and back. The Sun,

 arching low through the tall window of Keridil's room,

 seemed to set the tresses on fire.

  

 Despite his bleak mood, Keridil smiled. 'You should

 honour the Lady Matriarch, love. Wasn't that the first

 lesson you learned as a Novice?'

  

 She turned from the window and regarded him with

 narrowed eyes. 'She's senile, and you know it. Fusses

 and tantrums; she's worse than Lady Kael at West High

 Land, and I'd have found that hard to believe before

 today! And as for that appalling woman from the senior

 Shu Cot - what's her name?'

  

 'Lady Silve Bradow.'

  

 'Yes, her. Lisping and stammering like a terrified

 child, and she doesn't know whether it's night or day,

 she's so inept. . . ah,' Sashka shuddered with exquisite

 emphasis and Keridil laughed, then hastily quelled it.

 Sashka's irreverence was a tonic, lifting the sense of

 burden that had sat more and more heavily on him as

 they approached their journey's end, and he realised

 afresh how thankful he was to have her at his side now.

 Downstairs in the Margrave's drawing room, as the

 three rulers exchanged stultified greetings, she had been

 the perfect foil to his official role; kissing the Matriarch's

 imperiously extended hand, bowing in the manner of the

 Sisters to the High Margrave, accepting their good

 wishes on her betrothal with a sobriety that matched the

 occasion. Only now, alone with Keridil, did she allow

 her true feelings to show, and he envied her ability to be

 so mercurial. He was still touched - tainted might be a

 better word - with the stilted dourness that had attended

 the first brief meeting. Far worse, he knew, was to come,

 and Sashka's levity provided a welcome relief.

  

 He said: 'Well, we must suffer them all again when we

 dine tonight.'

  

 'I know. And I'll be a model consort, Keridil.' She

 moved across to the bed where he was unpacking - he

 had sent away the servants Gant had despatched to help

 him, wanting to be alone with her for a while - and

 slipped her arms round his neck, stopping him in his

 tracks. 'I hope I shall always be that.'

  

 'You know you will.' Her lips tasted faintly of the

 perfume essence she used because she knew it pleased

 him. 'And when this is over, you will really be my

 consort - in name as well as in body and spirit.'

  

 'When it's over . . . ' she repeated the words slowly,

  

 thoughtfully. 'Poor Keridil. This is a burden, isn't it, that

 you'd rather not have to bear? But it won't be long now;

 it can't be long. Once the Conclave has decided - '

  

 He interrupted her, but gently. 'I don't want to dwell

 on that, love; especially not now. The moment's so close

 that I'd prefer to forget it until I have to remember.' The

 White Barque would come when the Guardians judged

 the moment to be right; they had their own ways of

 knowing. And when it appeared out of the southerly mist,

 a horn would be sounded in Shu-Nhadek and a rider

 would gallop pell-mell to the Margravate with the news

 ... he shivered, pushing the thought away. Time

 enough for that later . . . there was more than an hour

 before they would all be summoned to dine and the

 ordeal of protocol must start all over again.

  

 He kissed Sashka once more, this time letting his lips

 linger on hers as his sense of urgency eased a little, and

 murmured, 'Do you need time to change your gown for

 the evening?'

  

 Her fingers tangled in his hair. 'No.'

  

 'Good.' He released her, rose. 'Then let me lock the

 door for a little while . . . '

  

 *****

  

 Midnight had long passed, and the harbour was deserted

 and silent as Keridil emerged from a dark, narrow alley

 on to the jumble of piers and jetties.

  

 He'd been unable to sleep, despite Sashka's warm

 presence at his side - the evening's formal dinner had

 only served to increase his awareness of the ordeal that

 lay ahead, and he had tossed and turned in the

 unfamiliar bed, racked by thoughts and worries dredged

 up by his subconscious that held him in a distressing

 limbo between wakefulness and rest. At last, knowing

 he couldn't cope with the feverish, formless torment any

 longer, he had risen and dressed in his stained travelling

 clothes before slipping out of the darkened house and

 walking down to the town. Sea air, he hoped, would

 clear his brain; and the walk would help to relax his

 muscles.

  

 Sashka slept on, and although at first he thought he

 might wake her and ask her to come with him, Keridil

 decided against it. He felt an overwhelming need to be

 alone for a while; and even Sashka's company would

 strike a wrong note. Though the incident was small and

 insignificant, he still recalled the avid hunger - there was

 no better word - with which she had followed his efforts

 to track down Tarod and bring him to justice. Her

 hatred was so strong that Keridil found it hard to believe

 that her feelings stemmed simply from loyalty to himself

 and loathing of Chaos. Granted, it was natural that she

 should feel the taint of her own previous involvement

 with Tarod; but her reaction had been far stronger than

 seemed justified; almost as if the old attachments still

 lingered, though in a twisted form. And though he tried

 to rationalise, Keridil couldn't help but feel a twinge of

 jealous suspicion. It was intuitive, no more; but he

 couldn't erase it and it stirred up a terrible cauldron of

 doubt and guilt and uncertainty. Just for a while he

 needed to be free of those ghosts and solitude was his

 only escape.

  

 His ingrained sense of duty had, nonetheless, con-

 strained him to inform one of the Margrave's tireless

 servants that he would be out for a while. That done, and

 his conscience salved, he had made his way through the

 quiet streets of Shu-Nhadek, thankful to encounter no

 one on the way who might recognise and detain him.

 Now, sitting on one of the great stone capstans to which

 docking ships were tied, he looked out at the slowly

 swelling sea where wavelets reflected a pattern of light

 from the first rising Moon, and tried to find something of

 the sense of peace that the scene should have imparted

 to him.

  

 The fact that he still had doubts about the task ahead

 troubled Keridil more than any other facet of this whole

 unhappy affair. As the Castle party travelled South from

 the Star Peninsula, he had been appalled by some of the

 scenes he had witnessed in towns and villages along the

 way - he hadn't imagined that his decree would light

 such fires in the minds of the populace, and those fires

  

 were now burning out of control. So much hatred and

 suspicion, simmering under the surface of every com-

 munity and only waiting for a spark to set it blazing . . .

 surely the long centuries under the rule of Order should

 have eradicated such barbarism?

  

 He was able of course, as High Initiate, to override

 the judgements of prejudiced or frightened town Elders

 and bring some semblance of sanity to the witch-hunts,

 and as they travelled South he had done what he could,

 where he could. But it wasn't enough. For every false

 accusation, every mockery of a trial in which he had

 intervened, ten or twenty more were taking place over

 which he had no jurisdiction. What he had seen had

 made Keridil all the more determined to complete the

 task ahead of him, and swiftly - but it had also sowed the

 seeds of a doubt that nagged at the back of his mind and

 wouldn't let him alone.

  

 He had unleashed, though unwittingly, a wave of fear

 that had exploded out of all proportion; and he was

 about to take a further step that could - could, he

 reminded himself - escalate the terror that held the land

 in its grip utterly beyond the realms of human imagin-

 ation. To call the gods themselves back to the world . . .

 did he run too far, too fast? Fasting, prayer and con-

 templation had convinced him he was right; but he still

 couldn't be sure enough to face the next few days with a

 clear conscience.

  

 It would have been so much easier if he hadn't made

 the one fatal mistake of underestimating Tarod. One

 lesson should have been enough - he'd witnessed at first

 hand the power his adversary could command, and

 when he and the girl who abetted him had been cap-

 tured, Keridil should have refused to bow to the

 demands of tradition and accepted ritual, and executed

 them both before anyone could argue. Now, in the wake

 of the turmoil that had spread through the world like a

 plague, Chaos must be satisfied with the victory it had

 claimed over its ancient enemy . . .

  

 The thought brought a sudden and unexpected

 resurgence of the anger which had sustained Keridil

  

 through his darkest hours of doubt and dilemma. It

 washed over him like a cold, clean breath of air - anger

 against Tarod and all he stood for, against the blindness

 of the girl who, infatuated by the gods alone knew what

 manner of madness, had pledged herself to the powers

 of dark and evil; anger, even, against the cloud that

 Sashka's past relationship with Tarod had cast over his

 love for her. If that demon had been apprehended, there

 would have been no need for this . . .

  

 He rose from his makeshift seat and paced moodily

 along the dock. From a black-mouthed alley came faint

 sounds of revelry; some diehard carousers in one of the

 taverns that littered the harbour area, intent on making

 up for the anticlimax that all felt in the wake of the

 triumvirate's arrival. Keridil was tempted to join them;

 in his present mood, the effects of a night's drinking

 would be a blessing after the Margrave's abstemious

 table, and only the fear that he might be recognised held

 him back. Instead, he paused in the shadows near the

 entrance, listening to the noise. The tavern wasn't a

 savoury place; unsteady light spilling through the door

 and the grimy windows showed a crude sign worn with

 age and never repainted, and the smells wafting out into

 the alley weren't altogether pleasant; but all the same

 the obvious good humour of its customers made Keridil

 feel faintly wistful. A sharp, salt-laden gust of wind blew

 along the alley and he hunched into his coat, turning and

 pacing moodily back towards the harbour. Far from

 soothing his mind, this solitary meandering had only

 served to stir up the uneasy thoughts that he'd been

 trying to forget. Still, the peace of the night was a relief

 after the atmosphere in the Margrave's house . . . he'd

 walk for a little longer before turning back.

  

 As he approached the end of the alley, beyond which

 the sea gleamed faintly under the strengthening Moon,

 Keridil started as a shadow moved suddenly out of the

 deeper darkness ahead. It hesitated, silhouetted against

 the sluggish tide, and he realised that it was nothing

 more untoward than a woman crossing the jetty - doubt-

 less one of the whores who haunted the dockside to ply

 their trade.

  

 And yet ... an instinct made Keridil freeze into the

 darkness, staring more intently at the indistinct figure.

 Something about the way the woman turned her head

 stirred memory and with it recognition; and he thought

 he'd glimpsed pale hair as the Moonlight caught it ...

  

 Telling himself he was imagining things, the coinci-

 dence far too great, he nevertheless started towards the

 jetty, keeping well hidden in the alley's overhanging

 shadow. The woman moved abruptly, crossing the rec-

 tangle of light and vanishing, but she hadn't seen him;

 she was simply walking on. Keridil quickened his pace -

 the noise from the tavern covered his light footsteps -

 and, reaching the alley's mouth, peered cautiously out.

  

 The woman was a mere fifteen or twenty yards away,

 and the Moonlight reflecting from the sea like silver on

 lead showed her small, slight figure in stark relief. She

 was climbing carefully down a slippery flight of steps that

 led from the jetty to where several small boats - dinghies,

 a wherry or two - bumped sullenly at their moorings

 against the wall, and though she had changed the dress

 in which he'd last seen her for a rough shirt and trousers,

 and there were peculiar streaks of auburn in her white-

 blonde hair, the High Initiate recognised her instantly.

  

 'Cyllan Anassan ...' His lips formed the name

 silently and with venomous astonishment. It seemed an

 impossible stroke of fortune that she should be here in

 Shu-Nhadek, but he couldn't deny the evidence of his

 eyes. And, since the bloody affray in Prospect Town, it

 was a certainty that wherever Cyllan was, Tarod

 wouldn't be far away.

  

 Keridil bit his lower lip, still watching her. She seemed

 to be going from one boat to the next, struggling with the

 wet knots of their painters, and it was obvious she meant

 to steal a craft for her own use. Well and good ... it

 would take her a while to find what she wanted and free

 it, and in that time he could summon the help he'd need

 to capture her. To attempt to take her unaided would be

 foolish in the extreme; there were too many bolt-holes in

 and around the harbour, and if she once evaded him

 she'd be away for good. But if he went for help, there'd

  

 be no time for lengthy explanations and questions . . .

 and as he gazed at the harbour he saw the solution to his

 problem. A fishing boat, riding at anchor just beyond

 the flotilla of smaller vessels . . . and from here he could

 just make out the name painted on her bows. The Blue

 Dancer . . .

  

 Keridil eased back into the alley, then ran to where

 light and noise were still spilling from the tavern. He

 shouldered the door open and looked through the haze

 of smoke and fumes at the crowded bar. Mostly seagoing

 men, by the looks of them - which was precisely what he

 wanted.

  

 He raised his voice above the throb of noise and

 shouted, 'Can anyone tell me where to find the owner of

 the Blue Dancer?'

  

 The babble slackened off immediately and the

 drinkers turned to stare at the stranger with the outland

 accent who had interrupted their revels. After a few

 seconds, a swarthy, middle-aged man with a wall eye

 rose from a corner table.

  

 'I own the Dancer, friend. What of it?'

  

 Keridil pushed through the crowd towards him, rely-

 ing on his height and build to prevent any retaliation

 from the indignant drinkers in his path. 'Then you'd best

 get to the harbour,' he said. 'There's some wharf-brat

 down there trying to steal her!'

  

 'What?' The swarthy man slammed his tankard down

 with a resounding crash, and Keridil saw with relief that

 he wasn't as drunk as he looked. He swung an arm,

 pointing to three of his companions in turn. 'You, you,

 and you! Come on; don't just sit gawking!'

  

 The three scrambled from their places and headed for

 the door with the wall-eyed sailor at their head, and

 Keridil followed. The simple stratagem had worked -

 now, he must just see to it that the four seamen didn't

 break their quarry's neck before he could take charge of

 her.

  

 Cyllan's fingers were raw from the brine-soaked rope as

 she struggled with the complex knot that secured the

  

 dinghy to its mooring ring. It was the fifth craft she'd

 tried, and the only one whose owner had been foolish

 enough to leave a set of oars stowed under the plank

 seats, but the knot was proving far more stubborn than

 she'd anticipated.

  

 She wished she'd brought a knife, but wishing was of

 no use to her now. Somehow, she had to free this painter

 and get away with the stolen boat before anyone dis-

 covered her - or before Tarod woke and found her gone.

  

 She'd said nothing to him of the plan which had been

 formulating in her mind all evening, knowing that if he

 found out he'd prevent her from going. Instead, she had

 forced herself to stay awake until at last she could be

 certain he was sleeping, then had changed quietly into

 her old clothes and slipped out of the inn by the servants'

 way.

  

 He'd be angry with her when he found out what she'd

 done, but his anger would stem only from concern for

 her safety - and it wouldn't last when he learned what

 she had achieved. Once she succeeded in freeing this

 irksome knot, she'd take the dinghy out of harbour and

 then row along the coast to some empty cove well away

 from Shu-Nhadek. Then, tomorrow, they could return

 to it at their leisure and set out for the White Isle with no

 one the wiser.

  

 Her fingers slipped suddenly and she swore aloud as

 the rope grazed her hand. It was coming, slowly but

 surely . . . another effort was all it would need -

  

 The quiet was broken by yelling and the stamp of feet,

 and Cyllan jumped with shock, almost losing her footing

 on the slimy steps. Regaining her balance, she peered

 over the jetty wall in time to see several men come

 running out of an alley and head straight towards her,

 and, appalled, she tried to duck down again - but she

 was too late.

  

 'There!' A hoarse bellow echoed across the harbour.

 'There he is!' The feet pounded more loudly and Cyllan

 looked wildly around for a way of escape. Short of

 jumping into the harbour, there was nothing, unless -

  

 'I'll break his head!' one voice bawled above the

  

 others, 'Steal my boat, would he - I'll flay the flea-bitten

 cur alive!'

  

 Silhouettes lurched into view above her, and the men

 surged towards the steps. Cyllan had less than a second

 to judge the distance between herself and the nearest

 boat before, panic-stricken, she jumped. She landed on

 the nearer gunwale of a dinghy which rocked wildly,

 almost pitching her into the black water, and, trusting to

 nothing but luck, leaped to the far gunwale and

 launched herself across the awful gulf to the next craft.

 She didn't know where she was going; her one thought

 was to get as far away from her pursuers as she could -

 and as she sprang and scrabbled over the side of the third

 boat in the line she realised that she had reached a dead

 end. Ahead, a wide stretch of sea gaped menacingly;

 behind her, one seaman was starting to climb across the

 bobbing boats after her, while the others leered and

 shouted from the harbour wall. She was trapped.

  

 She turned, facing her assailant and clenching her

 fists, knowing she couldn't fight but nonetheless pre-

 pared to try. But the man had stopped and was standing

 upright in the next dinghy, grinning broadly and unplea-

 santly. And then Cyllan felt the boat beneath her rock

 convulsively, before it began to move.

  

 She should have realised what they'd do - and mor-

 tification mingled with the fear she felt. But she could

 only cling impotently to the sides of the dinghy as the

 men on the jetty reached down, took hold of its mooring

 rope, and began to pull it, hand over hand, in to the wall.

  

 The dinghy bumped against the stone of the jetty, and

 rough fingers grabbed the collar of Cyllan's shirt, haul-

 ing her, kicking and fighting, up on to solid ground. She

 sprawled on the harbour, gasped as a kick was aimed at

 her back, saw heavy boots closing in on her - then

 someone said, his voice thick with shock, 'Straits take all

 of us, it's a woman!'

  

 They shuffled back in chagrined confusion and she

 took the only chance she might have. Her muscles con-

 tracted violently and she sprang up, launching herself

 forward at the same time so that her captors couldn't

  

 collect their wits before she had darted between them

 and was running desperately for the black safety of the

 alley.

  

 She was three paces from sanctuary when someone

 stepped out of the darkness to block her path and,

 unable to swerve, she cannoned into him. Hands locked

 on her arms and she swore aloud - then the oath died on

 her tongue as she looked up into the angrily triumphant

 eyes of Keridil Toln.

  

 'No!' Cyllan twisted and might have broken away, but

 as she turned, a silhouette loomed behind her. Some-

 thing - it looked ludicrously like an empty ale-tankard -

 flashed metallic in the Moonlight, but before her spin-

 ning mind could identify it, it slammed with sickening

 violence against her forehead and she pitched into

 silent, lightless nothing.

  

 Keridil stared down at her sprawled figure, and as the

 Blue Dancer's owner made to kick Cyllan again he held

 up an admonitory hand.

  

 'No. Don't do her any further harm.'

  

 The man glowered at him, and one of his companions

 spat accurately at the unconscious girl. 'Throw her in the

 harbour. Best place for flotsam like that; no one'll miss

 the bitch.'

  

 'I said, no.' Keridil hadn't wanted to flaunt his

 authority, but the seamen were spoiling for blood, and

 he pushed back his coat so that the High Initiate's gold

 insignia was clearly visible at his shoulder. It took a few

 moments for the badge's significance to register but

 when it did the sailors' leader swore, apologised, and

 made the Sign of Aeoris before his own face.

  

 'This girl,' Keridil said, staring at Cyllan dispas-

 sionately, 'is wanted by the Circle. She's a criminal, and

 a fugitive.' He looked up. 'I don't think I need say any

 more.'

  

 The men, understanding, backed away a fearful pace

 or two, and one of them muttered something that

 sounded to Keridil like a charm against evil. He smiled

 thinly. 'I'm sorry that I had to mislead you, but there was

 no time for explanation. I will, of course, compensate

  

 you for your trouble.' He touched his belt pouch, and

 coins clinked pleasantly. 'The girl won't do you any

 harm, so there's no need to fear her. I want her taken to

 the Margrave's residence before she regains con-

 sciousness. That way, we'll - ' And he stopped, as a low,

 chilling sound came ranging across the harbour from

 somewhere to the West, distant but carrying on the still

 air. A horn, ethereal, sounding a warning note.

  

 The seamen had all turned their heads at the eerie

 summons, and a good deal of the high colour drained

 from their faces. Keridil, who had never heard the sound

 before, felt his spine prickle with alarm - and then he

 realised that the men were all staring at him, with an

 awed respect in their eyes.

  

 'The White Barque . . . ' The Dancer's master spoke

 in a strained whisper at the same moment that the signifi-

 cance of the horn sank into Keridil's mind. He should

 have anticipated this - the Guardians, who shunned

 contact with the mainland beyond bare necessity,

 wouldn't choose to bring their strange ship in from the

 White Isle with the eyes of every man, woman and child

 in Shu-Nhadek upon them. The dead of night would suit

 their ways far better, and they'd care nothing for the

 convenience of their passengers, however exalted.

  

 The horn sounded again, mournfully, and Keridil

 shuddered. He didn't want to look oceanward, but the

 fascination was too great; and if he strained his vision to

 the limit, he thought - or did he merely imagine? - that

 he could just glimpse a nacreous shimmer far, far out on

 the sea; a shapeless phantasm that deceived his eyes,

 one moment there, the next vanished back into the dark.

  

 They wouldn't hear the horn at the Margrave's resi-

 dence - word must be sent to them, and quickly. Com-

 mon sense came to Keridil's rescue, freeing him from

 the formless dread instilled in him by the horn and the

 distant ship; he turned to the Blue Dancer's master.

  

 'I must get a message to the Margravate - '

  

 'It'll be taken care of, sir.' The seaman looked uneasy.

  

 He'd left word with a servant; the man had wit enough

  

 to tell his companions where to find him . . . Keridil

 nodded. 'The Barque will put in to shore?'

  

 The man shook his head. 'Not in my experience, sir.'

 He hunched his shoulders, thrusting both hands deep

 into the pockets of his coat. 'Not that she's been near the

 mainland for five years, since the last time they brought

 the women back to us ... she'll drop anchor a mile or

 so out.' He licked his lips. 'It'd be my privilege to take

 you to her in the Dancer, if you'd forgive the smell of fish

 below decks.'

  

 Keridil had the feeling that the man volunteered

 reluctantly, but he wasn't about to refuse the offer - and

 besides, ten gravines or so would doubtless ease the

 sailor's burden. 'Thank you,' he said, glancing out to sea

 once more and then looking quickly away. 'I appreciate

 your generosity.'

  

 The seaman looked down at the ground, then nodded

 at Cyllan's huddled, motionless figure. 'And what of

 her, sir?'

  

 He'd forgotten Cyllan . . . Keridil stared at her,

 considering. Left at the Margravate in the care of ser-

 vants, she'd either trick her way to freedom, or make

 telepathic contact with Tarod and summon him to her

 aid. He could be searching for her already and the

 thought of the Margrave's defenceless household at his

 mercy wasn't pleasant. There was no time for him to

 bind and isolate her magically; and that left one

 alternative.

  

 The High Initiate smiled. The incoming barque would

 take them to the one place in all the world where Chaos

 could have no influence. Should Tarod follow them

 there, he would find himself stripped of his power, help-

 less before the ultimate justice. And the one lure that

 could force him to follow was in Keridil's hands.

  

 'Take her on board the Blue Dancer,' he said. 'She

 sails with us to the White Isle.'

  

 Chapter 10

  

 This time, there were no cheering crowds to wish them

 good speed. They had crossed the precarious board

 between the jetty and the deck of the Blue Dancer in a

 constrained silence broken only by the slap of water

 against the quay and the subdued grunts of the crew as

 they made ready to cast off. Now Keridil stood at the

 fishing boat's rail, listening to the crack of sail and boom

 as the vessel tacked about ready to head for open water,

 and aware of the hunched, unhappy figure of Fenar

 Alacar a short distance away. The young High Mar-

 grave's face was pale and tight in the darkness, his

 profile made harsh by the faint glow of a lantern in the

 wheelhouse where the skipper steered steadily on his

 new course. Though the others were old enough and

 experienced enough to hide their disquiet, they all

 shared the boy's unspoken fears; even the Matriarch had

 ceased her complaints and sat silent and brooding in the

 cabin below decks.

  

 The wind strengthened suddenly, filling the sails, and

 Keridil felt the hull beneath his feet buck and then surge

 forward in a new rhythm as they cleared the harbour's

 shelter and the full power of the tide took hold of them.

 Nothing now between themselves and the phantom

 waiting ahead in the dark; nothing but black swell and

 deep straits . . .

  

 As though the boy had picked up his uneasy thoughts,

 Keridil saw Fenar Alacar shiver suddenly and turn away

 from the rail. They had, as they must, left all but their

 closest companions behind; and though old Isyn accom-

 panied him, the High Margrave needed more than one

 familiar face to bolster his courage. For a moment it

  

 looked as though Fenar was about to approach him and

 speak; then the boy thought better of it and instead

 stumbled along the deck to the dimly lit companion-

 hatch. He disappeared, and for a moment his footfalls

 clattering down the steps broke the smooth rhythm of

 sea and sails until they faded and were gone, leaving

 Keridil alone.

  

 He didn't want to peer ahead into the darkness but a

 fascination he couldn't fight made him turn and stare

 beyond the ship's bows. And there she was . . . indis-

 tinct still, but closer, a white ghost of a ship rocking

 gently at anchor. The dark shrouded her and made it

 impossible to judge her size; sometimes she seemed to

 tower into the night murk, sometimes he thought that

 even the Blue Dancer might dwarf her. At her stern a

 cold, colourless witchlight flickered uncertainly but

 there was no other sign of life. She might have been

 something out of a disturbed dream . . .

  

 'Sir?' The voice that spoke behind him was softly

 pitched, but Keridil started nonetheless. He turned, and

 saw one of the crew standing at a respectful distance, cap

 in hand.

  

 'Captain's compliments, sir, to say as there's hot

 mulled ale ready below, with a tot of something stronger

 in it to keep the cold away.' The sailor smiled, gap-

 toothed and fearsome in the ragged glow from the

 wheelhouse. 'Be half an hour, thereabouts, before we

 get where we're going, sir.'

  

 His father would have called it coward's courage . . .

 but in the circumstances, Keridil thought, he would also

 have understood.

  

 'Thank you,' he said, taking his chilled hands from the

 rail and rubbing them. 'I'd be glad of it.'

  

 The mulled ale was good despite a faintly fishy flavour,

 and for a while the group in the cramped and primitive

 cabin were able to maintain a spirit that kept their

 private thoughts at bay. Keridil sat beside Sashka, who

 held his hand in a clasp that communicated how tight a

 hold she was keeping on her composure. He had never

  

 known her to feel fear before and the discovery touched

 him in a new way, awaking in him a protectiveness that

 lessened his own apprehension. Fenar Alacar sat

 hunched in a corner, gripping his cup as though it were

 his most precious possession, while, flanked by two

 handmaids, Lady Ilyaya Kimi kept up a flow of mur-

 mured and trivial conversation, seemingly unconcerned

 as to whether or not anyone listened.

  

 And in the hold, guarded by one of the captain's men

 and still unconscious, was Cyllan.

  

 The news of her capture, when he had delivered it to

 his companions as they assembled at the harbour, had

 shocked them all. Only Fenar had questioned Keridil's

 decision to carry her with them to the White Isle, argu-

 ing that it might be better simply to execute her and have

 done - a sentiment that echoed Keridil's own doubts.

 The Matriarch, however, would have none of it.

  

 'The High Initiate is quite right,' she said in a tone that

 brooked no argument. 'The girl is far less important to

 us than the Chaos-demon she abets, and there is no

 better way to secure his capture. Besides,' she added

 with a faint gleam of relish in her eyes, 'the girl's immor-

 tal soul will fare no worse in the afterlife if she suffers the

 rightful terror of Aeoris's judgment before she dies.'

  

 Keridil had looked at Sashka, who thus far hadn't

 spoken, and asked in an undertone, 'What do you think,

 love?'

  

 Sashka met his gaze. 'However much she suffers, it

 can be nothing by comparison with what she deserves.'

 For a moment she looked more malicious than he had

 believed her capable of being, though her expression

 quickly altered and he thought it must have been merely

 a trick of the light. And so, as Fenar's dissent was half-

 hearted, Cyllan's limp body was carried on board and

 dumped unceremoniously among the fish-boxes, nets

 and ropes below deck.

  

 Now, as the Blue Dancer sailed on, they had all had a

 respite from what lay ahead . . . but all too soon they

 felt the motion of the boat beneath them change subtly,

 losing rhythm, and muffled orders were shouted above

  

 their heads. Keridil tensed, hearing a moment before his

 companions the sound of feet heading down towards

 them. The cabin door opened and he saw the captain's

 bulk framed in the doorway.

  

 'We're there, sir - or at least as close as they'll allow us

 to get. I've ordered the dory to be made ready.'

  

 Keridil rose, having to stoop in the low-ceilinged

 cabin, and saw the flicker of near-panic on Fenar

 Alacar's face before the youth could get himself under

 control once more.

  

 'Thank you, captain.' He glanced at his companions in

 turn. 'I believe we're all ready . . . '

  

 *****

  

 He didn't dare look up. From his seat in the stern of the

 Blue Dancer's dory, the hull of the White Barque filled

 his field of vision, blotting out sky and Moons and hori-

 zon like a giant fog bank. He could hear the creaking of

 her aeon-old timbers, the ominous, rattling moan of her

 towering sails as they shifted and flapped with the wind.

 Everything about her was white - a dim and sickly white,

 making her, at close quarters, more an apparition from a

 ghost realm than ever she had seemed from shore. Once

 Keridil had looked, trying to glimpse the tip of her

 mainmast, but vertigo and another, less explicable feel-

 ing had swamped him and he turned away hurriedly, left

 only with the disturbing impression of a vast, phan-

 tasmic wing of sail and a single cold star glaring in the

 black sky above.

  

 Beside him on the dory's damp, narrow bench seat

 Sashka huddled into her coat and stared at the curving

 floor. In front of them Fenar Alacar seemed to be shiver-

 ing uncontrollably and their other companions fared

 little better. Only Ilyaya Kimi stared at the slowly

 approaching monstrosity with a peculiarly resigned

 calm, as though it had no power to affect her.

  

 The dory was nearing the White Barque's side; a wall

 of white toppling out of the sky towards them. The bump

 as they touched the ship was inaudible against the groan

  

 of water under her hull, and Keridil jumped when,

 apparently from nowhere, a rope came snaking down

 and struck the ship's side with a dull crack. One of the

 sailors who had rowed them across snatched the rope's

 end and lashed it to the dory's prow; then a shadow fell

 across them and Keridil looked up to see a crude sling

 that dangled like a hangman's noose being lowered

 slowly from the barque's deck.

  

 The Matriarch shifted stiffly in her seat and smiled an

 old, ironic smile. 'If I read my scriptures rightly, High

 Initiate,' she called back, 'the privilege of boarding first

 is yours.'

  

 'Keridil - ' Sashka couldn't disguise her fear and held

 on to his hand as he rose cautiously to his feet. He

 disentangled her fingers with what he hoped was a re-

 assuring squeeze, but couldn't bring himself to speak

 before stepping carefully over the seat and making his

 way towards the prow. As he reached it, he heard

 Fenar's voice above the sea-surge, a terrified whisper.

  

 'I've forgotten the words - gods help me, Isyn, I've

 forgotten what it is I must say to them ..."

  

 The High Initiate shut his eyes tightly for a moment,

 then grasped firm hold of the waiting sling.

  

 The ascent seemed an endless dream but at last a

 moment came when Keridil glimpsed light flaring from

 above, and seconds later he swung inwards to stumble

 free on to the deck of the White Barque. For a few

 seconds he was near-blinded; then, as his eyes adjusted,

 he saw them.

  

 There must have been twelve or fifteen of them,

 ranged in a semi-circle on the pale boards of the deck.

 The shifting sails overhead cast bizarre Moon-shadows

 across their motionless figures, and for an instant Keridil

 had the hideous sensation that these were not true men

 but dead things reanimated, old beyond reckoning and

 unthinkably alien. The words he had so carefully

 rehearsed caught in his throat - then one of the figures

 moved, and the spell - or at least its worst element -

 shattered.

  

 Like his fellows, the Guardians' spokesman was

 dressed from head to foot in white; a sailor's garb,

 though he was like no sailor Keridil had ever seen

 before. A seamed, milk-white face untouched by the

 Sun; unkempt grey hair swept back from his skull; his

 face utterly without expression. He looked at the High

 Initiate with empty eyes and Keridil had the disconcert-

 ing feeling that the Guardian either didn't see him or

 deemed his presence irrelevant.

  

 It was his place to speak first - but the words codified

 in the Circle's law-scrolls seemed very different now

 from when he had so carefully rehearsed them with

 Gyneth playing the role of Guardian. Keridil resisted an

 almost overwhelming compulsion to cough, and said:

 'Keridil Toln, High Initiate of the Circle, comes in peace

 and humility, and craves the sanction of the Guardians

 to set foot upon the White Isle.'

  

 The Guardian continued to gaze through him. 'What

 is the High Initiate's purpose in so doing?'

  

 'To join with the High Margrave Fenar Alacar, and

 the Lady Matriarch Ilyaya Kimi, in the Conclave of

 Three.'

  

 'By the laws of Aeoris, the Conclave of Three may be

 convened only when all other sanction has failed. Does

 the High Initiate attest that this is so?'

  

 Feeling as though he were taking part in some mum-

 ming drama on a plane far beyond anything earthly,

 Keridil replied firmly, 'It is so.'

  

 Silence but for the creak of timber and sail followed

 his words, and Keridil sensed that the Guardian com-

 municated with his fellows, though no obvious sign

 passed between them. Then, after what seemed an

 interminable wait, the pale man spoke again.

  

 'The petition of Keridil Toln, High Initiate of the

 Circle, is heard and granted. Let those willing to share in

 his duty be brought aboard.' The Guardian stepped

 back, distancing himself from Keridil with the move-

 ment, and the High Initiate saw the sling swing pon-

 derously over the White Barque's side once more to

 begin its downward journey. Involuntarily he looked

  

 back over his shoulder to see how his companions fared,

 but from this height the dory was invisible.

  

 He cleared his throat, drawing the Guardian's atten-

 tion. 'We have a prisoner,' he began, still unsure of his

 ground despite the fact that the formalities were done.

 'She - '

  

 The pale man interrupted him with a wintry smile.

 'The girl may be brought aboard. She will be confined in

 the appropriate manner until her presence is required.'

  

 What they knew of Cyllan, or how they knew it,

 Keridil didn't care to speculate. He merely nodded an

 unspoken acknowledgement, then turned to the ship's

 side as, with its second passenger secured in its folds, the

 sling began to rise slowly, slowly towards the deck.

  

 The blow which had stunned Cyllan insensible had left a

 violent blue-black bruise on her forehead, and her

 skull beneath the bruise throbbed sickeningly as con-

 sciousness began to return. At first she was reluctant to

 open her eyes, knowing only that she was emerging from

 an ugly dream in which conflicting images had become

 confused; Tarod sleeping in their room at the tavern, a

 wet rope that grazed her hand, and, ludicrously, Keridil

 Toln's face seen against the backdrop of the Moonlit

 harbour in Shu-Nhadek . . . wild, mad nightmares. Her

 limbs were numb with cramp; she made an effort to sit

 up - and fell back painfully on to a hard surface with a

 jolt that jarred her eyes open.

  

 She was surrounded by whiteness. White shrouds

 formed vast, menacing wings all around her, climbing

 above her to such a height that for a moment her con-

 fused mind thought they must be clouds. But clouds

 didn't descend to earth . . . and the surface beneath her

 was moving in a way she found disconcertingly familiar.

  

 Alarmed, Cyllan tried to scramble to her feet, and

 sprawled again. Her wrists and ankles were tied. . . And

 the movement beneath her was the steady, rhythmic

 motion of a ship beating its way out to sea . . .

  

 It was then that she saw the motionless figure standing

 behind her. Clad in white like some phantom sailor he

  

 stared into the middle distance, apparently unconcerned

 by her efforts to free herself. His sheer impassiveness

 chilled her marrow as she realised that, though he

 guarded her, he was utterly indifferent to anything she

 might try to do; that he knew, even if she did not, how

 helpless she was.

  

 White. . . White ship, white sails, white-garbed crew

 . . . the truth began to dawn hideously in Cyllan's mind.

 Keridil! So his face hadn't been her dream; he was

 here -

  

 Here? she asked herself, and instantly knew the

 answer to the unvoiced question. She had been taken,

 caught in a trap and brought to this ship; a ship which,

 with bitter irony, was bearing her to the very place which

 she and Tarod had so desperately needed to reach.

  

 But not this way - gods, not this way!

  

 Knowing that she'd have but one chance, and it was

 her only hope, Cyllan gathered all the mental strength

 she could muster, her mind reaching back towards Shu-

 Nhadek and the darkened room in the tavern. From

 some distance away she heard a choked-off imprecation,

 then someone whose coloured garb was in startling con-

 trast to the white all about her appeared and ran towards

 where she lay.

  

 TAROD! Frantically the mental cry went out, though

 in her panic and confusion Cyllan didn't know if she

 could hope to reach him. The white-clad sentry shifted

 from one foot to the other but gave no other sign that he

 had sensed her call - then he moved aside to make way

 for the other man, who stood looking down at her with

 anger and contempt.

  

 Keridil knew what she had done; she read the under-

 standing in his eyes. Then he smiled and she felt despair.

  

 'Call your demon lover if it pleases you,' the High

 Initiate said almost gently. 'Chaos wields no power here,

 and he can't reach across the water to your rescue.' He

 paused, then the smile widened. 'Yes; call him. Let him

 follow you, if he's fool enough - and if he dares!'

  

 He turned and walked away, and she watched him go

 with misery in her eyes. Of course, that was exactly what

  

 the High Initiate wanted - for Tarod to be drawn to the

 White Isle in pursuit; to the absolute source of Aeoris's

 power. And Tarod would follow them; and when he

 arrived, what would he find waiting for him . . . ?

  

 She turned her head aside, staring over the rail of the

 barque to the slate-dark sea beyond. She wouldn't cry-

 nothing would induce her to give them the satisfaction of

 seeing her tears - but within, her soul was tearing apart.

  

 TAROD!

  

 The cry ringing in his mind was as loud as though

 someone had screamed his name in the room. Startled

 violently out of sleep Tarod sat up, his consciousness still

 vibrating with the sound - and in the same moment that

 he recognised the agonised voice, he realised that Cyllan

 was no longer beside him.

  

 'Cyllan -' Her name formed on his lips in a sharp hiss

 of alarm and he rose quickly, lithely from the bed, drawn

 by an unrecognised instinct to the window, where he

 hacked back the curtain.

  

 The street and the market square beyond were empty.

 The first Moon had sunk below the level of the rooftops

 and the second, smaller satellite was following, a dim

 and worn crescent in the West. Dawn wasn't far away

 and, but for a faint scatter of stars mirrored by a few

 remaining lights in the harbour, there was nothing to be

 seen.

  

 Tarod swung round and stared at the room's bland

 shadows. Mentally he sought the source of the cry, but

 found nothing. His only certainty was that Cyllan had

 gone.

  

 Swiftly he turned his concentration to the bounds of

 the inn itself and let his mind probe and seek. Other

 lodgers asleep in their beds; a couple, back to back, who

 had quarrelled before retiring; an austere merchant

 sharing his bed with a dockside whore whom he'd smug-

 gled in; the tavern-keeper, his pallet made uncomfort-

 able by the coins stowed beneath it ... downstairs the

 deserted taproom, silent dining room; outside, the

  

 stables filled to capacity with dozing horses . . . but not

 a trace of Cyllan.

  

 Tarod's left hand throbbed suddenly and the stone of

 his ring glared, drawing his attention. With the throb-

 bing came the surge of an unhuman intuition that made

 his skin crawl, telling him that, wherever Cyllan was,

 he'd not trace her by normal means. He sank back on to

 the disordered bed, covering the ring with his right

 hand. He was reluctant to use sorcery, but there was no

 other choice open to him if he was to find her. And this

 way - he had to steel himself to the thought - he would

 know whether she was alive or dead.

  

 His green eyes closed and he felt the ancient power

 begin to awaken in him. It was painfully, exquisitely

 familiar and despite his misgivings he welcomed it, let-

 ting it rise through the many levels of awareness, finally

 to take hold of his consciousness. His eyes opened frac-

 tionally again, narrow emerald slivers that glittered now

 with an alien intelligence as Chaos-born understanding

 mingled with and then eclipsed the mundane. Scrying

 was a talent he'd developed during his years as an

 Adept, but this way bore no resemblance to the Circle's

 formalised practice. He needed no glass, no invocation;

 and the planes on which his mind moved ranged far

 beyond anything his one-time peers might have aspired

 to.

  

 Darkness. The darkness moved, slowly and rhyth-

 mically, like the flank of some huge, amorphous beast as

 it breathed. A knife-blade of cold light stabbed across it,

 shivering and breaking with the swell, and he knew he

 looked down at the sea under the Moon's last rays.

  

 It sailed on the sea, and yet he couldn't reach it. . . He

 sensed the presence of something out there on the deep,

 but it was occluded, protected by a force that resisted his

 will, so that it slipped mockingly away when he thought

 he had it fast. Anger licked at his mind like fire; the

 proud, cold anger of an entity that would not tolerate

 being thwarted. He felt the power focus as he cast off the

 last links with the human body in the tavern at Shu-

  

 Nhadek; and that which sought out and finally, tri-

 umphantly grasped the elusive presence on the sea was

 nothing mortal.

  

 White sails swelled ghostly in the dark as the huge

 white hull cleaved black water. The tongues of angry fire

 in Tarod flared to hatred and contempt as the great

 ship's aura met and clashed with his own; it was inimical

 to what he had become, the vessel and the symbol of his

 despised enemy, and only a great exertion of will kept

 him from recoiling in revulsion.

  

 He could see no detail of the ship, but he needed none

 - this astral image was enough. The barque had taken

 her passengers in the dead of night, and now she sailed

 for the White Isle and the Conclave of Three. And

 Cyllan was on board . . .

  

 The fury erupted in him as Tarod's mind smashed

 back to the body he had left behind in the dark bedcham-

 ber. Muscles contracted and jack-knifed him to his feet,

 and a black aura flickered into life and blazed about his

 frame. He couldn't contain the rage; it was too great, too

 unhuman, out of control - but he had to contain it, had

 to hold fast to his humanity, fight the Chaotic will -

  

 With a choked-off shout he reeled back and fell on to

 the bed, and as his body struck the pallet something

 seemed to wrench free from his skull and disintegrate

 with a sound that was no sound but a jarring, sickening

 sensation. His head spun dizzily and he clawed at the

 pillow beneath him, needing something real and earthly

 that would give him an anchor. After a few moments the

 spinning receded, though it left him sick and drained.

 Slowly, painfully, Tarod sat upright.

  

 He hadn't been prepared for the power of the pri-

 meval hatred that had surged up within him as he

 encountered the White Barque of Aeoris. It had been an

 enmity too ancient to comprehend, and he had reacted

 with all the loathing and contempt locked away in mil-

 lennia of preternatural memories. Clinging to his iden-

 tity at the last, he had fought the power and conquered

 it; but he had paid a price for the victory. And though he

  

 might have found Cyllan, he couldn't cross the barrier

 that separated them.

  

 Still dazed, and hardly knowing what he was doing,

 Tarod reached for his clothes and began to dress. Every-

 thing took too long; he was acutely conscious of being

 hampered by the constraints of a physical body, and

 memory of the power that still lurked, though dormant

 now, in his soul tore at him.

  

 It would be so simple ... He paused, staring at the

 ring on his left hand. Chaos was a titanic force - but on

 this earthly plane he was master of Chaos. Once he had

 banished Yandros, destroying his one sure foothold in

 this world, and the golden-haired lord couldn't return

 unless Tarod were to revoke the banishment and sum-

 mon him again. If he did, the White Barque and all its

 crew would be no match for such an adversary . . .

  

 Appalled rejection came hard on the heels of the

 thought, and Tarod was shocked to realise how close he

 had come to falling prey to the temptation. With the

 aftermath of the Chaos force still making his skin tingle

 he had felt the old affinities rising; had wanted Yandros's

 presence as ally and long-time companion . . . and he

 knew that such a temptation was the opportunity for

 which the Chaos lord had been waiting all along.

 Yandros would answer the summons, should he utter it.

 And with his return, all Tarod's hope of petitioning

 Aeoris would be ashes. If he was to prove his loyalty to

 Order, then to call on Chaos now, even in desperate

 need, would be the ultimate betrayal.

  

 Even to save Cyllan's life . . .  ?

  

 The silent question was as insidious as it was deceitful.

 To summon Yandros might save Cyllan from the peril

 she faced aboard the barque, but beyond that it could

 achieve nothing. The Circle wouldn't harm her, not yet;

 with the White Isle and the Conclave so close, Keridil

 would have other plans for her. And that gave him time

 - little time, true, but enough.

  

 Tarod's hands were steadier as he continued to dress.

 Though the unholy thoughts were banished, the dark

 seemed to have closed in about the room; had he not

  

 known better, he might have imagined that a presence

 stood motionless in the deepest shadows of the far cor-

 ner, watching: if he attuned his mind he could almost

 convince himself that he wasn't entirely alone.

  

 He made to gather up his cloak, then thought better of

 it. There was no need for disguise now. As he moved

 quietly to the door he paused, and smiled towards the

 dark, silent corner.

  

 He said softly: 'Not this time, Yandros . . . '

  

 The door tapped gently to behind him.

  

 The second Moon's distorted crescent was sinking into

 the sea, and, with dawn less than an hour away, mist had

 stolen up from the water to drift patchily through the

 town and lie in pale, deceptive pools about the streets

 and the market square. Tarod, dark as a shadow in the

 plain black clothes for which he'd abandoned the richer

 merchant's garb, moved silently down a long alley, past

 shuttered taverns, and emerged on to the harbour

 docks.

  

 The harbour was deserted. With only the last scatter-

 ings of starlight to relieve it the dark was almost absol-

 ute; only the silhouette of a fishing boat hunched at its

 mooring and rocking lightly showed blacker against the

 leaden water. Tarod moved towards it, found the jetty

 steps and climbed down until a faint shifting glimmer

 and a sullen, rhythmic slapping sound told him he had

 reached the tide level.

  

 He crouched on the algae-coated stair and gazed at

 the water, clearing his mind of all but the one, immedi-

 ate thought that concerned him. To his left and above a

 shadow moved; he saw the eyes of a feral cat reflecting

 the sea's faint phosphorescence as it peered curiously

 over the wall at him; then, noiselessly, it ran away.

 Tarod took a fresh hold on his concentration, and sent

 out the soft mental call . . .

  

 He had never attempted to communicate with such

 creatures before, but something beyond even his normal

 instincts told him that they would come. They had aided

 Cyllan once when without them she would have

  

 drowned in the ferocious seas off the Castle stack. And

 he felt intuitively that they would aid him now.

  

 When the first sleek head broke surface a short dis-

 tance out from the dock, Tarod released the pent breath

 that had been tightening in his lungs and smiled with

 relief. He had thought he might sense their presence

 before they arrived, but the fanaani had allowed him no

 forewarning. Curious, but aware that his was a mind of

 an order they had never touched before, they had made

 their approach in secret, and only when three of the

 beautiful, cat-like sea beasts had risen to the surface did

 Tarod feel the first faint brush of telepathic contact.

  

 Strange . . . The word was the nearest interpretation

 a human being could make of the thought that reached

 him from the fanaani's alien minds. They were unsure of

 him, and nothing he could say or do would persuade

 them to hasten their judgement, or influence it. These

 sea-creatures were a law unto themselves; no one could

 fathom their thoughts or motivations. But, if a mind

 were truly open, it was possible to communicate with

 them in their own bizarre way.

  

 He let his thoughts touch them in turn, sensed the

 curiosity again.

  

 Will you aid me? Like them, Tarod used concepts

 rather than words, images which he translated into a

 form they might understand far better than speech. The

 nearest of the three creatures rolled in the water, hardly

 creating a ripple; it was man-sized and he had a glimpse

 of deep intelligence in its eyes as it solemnly regarded

 him.

  

 Secret. The thought was accompanied by a quiver of

 voiceless laughter, and he realised that the fanaani had

 read in him the need to reach the White Isle unbeknown

 to anyone, and were amused by the idea. Then came

 another concept: a land-animal slipping down through

 green depths, not breathing, fading, dying. Tarod

 smiled faintly as he realised that he was that land-animal

 and the fanaani were commenting pityingly on his

 inability to swim a distance which was, to them, nothing.

  

 He responded with the idea of a fanaan attempting to

  

 walk on land, completing the image with an ironical

 query. The fanaan blinked, rolled again, then slid

 beneath the sea's surface with barely a ripple. When it

 reappeared some seconds later, there was a new concept

 in its mind.

  

 Why?

  

 It was probing his purpose, and Tarod sensed that any

 attempt to dissemble would alienate it and its fellows.

 The fanaani demanded honesty in return for their aid,

 and he opened his thoughts to them, allowing them to

 probe his intentions and his purpose and make what

 sense they could of them. The wait seemed inter-

 minable; but at last he felt the strange, seeking minds

 withdraw from his. And then:

  

 Too soon. Light above.

  

 Tarod glanced involuntarily upward. The stars were

 gone, and the sky had begun to lighten. When he looked

 again at the fanaani he saw that their dense, brindled fur

 was losing its night phosphorescence.

  

 Dark above. Come then. Come to this place. . . And,

 clear in his mind though the image was from a seaward

 viewpoint, he saw a cove where waves rushed on a

 narrow bar of grey sand. To one side the cliff jutted

 aggressively out, and here the tide's constant assault had

 worn away a soft stratum and cut a soaring arch through

 the rock spur. It was an unmistakable landmark, and it

 was all he needed.

  

 Two of the fanaani, which throughout the exchange

 hadn't come close to the jetty, were already turning and

 moving slowly out to sea. Tarod exchanged a last look

 with the third creature and projected gently, My thanks.

  

 They were gone with scarcely a ripple, and he rose,

 flexing cramped muscles and satisfied with what had

 been achieved. Uncertain allies though they were re-

 puted to be, the fanaani hadn't failed him; and when the

 Sun set tonight they would return to fulfil their promise.

  

 A line of colour like dark, dried blood lay along the

 Eastern horizon now. Tarod climbed the jetty steps,

 paused a moment to look back at the slow swell of the

 sea, then walked away towards the tavern.

  

 The cove which the fanaani had shown him lay some

 nine miles East of Shu-Nhadek, where the previously

 gentle shoreline changed to form the far higher and less

 hospitable cliffs that dominated the coastlines of three

 provinces before finally falling away to the Great

 Eastern Flatlands. The place was known locally as

 Haven Point and had been the salvation of many a

 fisherman caught far from harbour in bad weather; but it

 was only rarely used, and there was no habitation near

 by. Tarod had left the tavern early, telling the landlord

 that he intended to spend the day riding for pleasure,

 while his wife, who was feeling tired, would remain in

 bed. By the time anyone tapped on the door to ask if the

 vintner's lady required food or drink he would be long

 gone, and the money he had left in the room, when

 added to the value of Cyllan's abandoned mare, would

 more than pay for their lodging.

  

 He was glad to leave the busy town behind for the

 peace of the countryside, and took the narrow track

 along the coast. His horse was skittish after being con-

 fined in the inn stables and he gave it its head, enjoying

 the sensations of a ground-eating canter as he rode

 towards the climbing Sun.

  

 He saw the cove's location long before he reached it; a

 long spur of rock jutting out into the sea ahead, with an

 almost perfectly symmetrical arch cut through its narrow

 finger. He had perhaps a mile or two more to go, and

 slowed the gelding to a walk, allowing it to loiter and

 crop at the lush Spring turf. He had the day ahead of him

 with nothing to do but wait; there was no need to hurry.

  

 Half an hour later Tarod reached the cove and sat in

 the saddle gazing down the steep, crumbling cliff to the

 triangle of beach below. Noon was approaching and the

 bay was filled with red-gold light; from here he could see

 a narrow gulley in the cliff that formed a steep but

 negotiable way down to the sand.

  

 He slid to the ground, and with relief shrugged off the

 heavily embellished cloak which had helped him main-

 tain his assumed role as a merchant of substance. He

 also discarded his soft leather boots, knowing that from

  

 now on he'd be better served by going barefoot, and his

 belt-pouch, dropping them all carelessly on the grass.

 Then he turned his attention to the horse, unsaddling it

 and leaving the harness beside his cloak. He rubbed the

 animal's nose and it whickered softly at him before

 turning its attention eagerly to feeding. It didn't as yet

 realise that he had given it its freedom; but rather than

 sell it for money that he'd have no use for, Tarod pre-

 ferred to let it go. Doubtless in time someone would find

 it and take it for their own, as they'd find the clothes and

 coin he had left behind. If the abandoned possessions

 were recognised as belonging to the vintner who had

 stayed in Shu-Nhadek there would no doubt be specula-

 tion as to his real identity and his fate - but by then he

 would be beyond caring.

  

 The gelding raised its head and watched with mild

 curiosity as Tarod walked away towards the head of the

 gulley, then it lost interest and resumed grazing. He

 didn't look back at it, but stepped on to the steep path

 and began the precarious, slithering descent. It was

 easier than it had looked, and within a few minutes he

 reached the beach and walked out across the narrow

 strand to where the sea licked and surged. The sand was

 cold and damp underfoot, and sharp; composed of the

 tide-worn remains of uncountable millions of tiny shell-

 fish. He stood at the water's edge staring out to where he

 judged the White Isle must be, but the horizon was lost

 in haze and he could see no trace of it.

  

 By now, the barque must have reached its destination

 . . . thoughtfully, Tarod turned back to where tumbled

 boulders provided a resting place. He believed Cyllan

 must still be alive and unhurt; knowing Keridil as he did,

 he doubted that the High Initiate would make any hasty

 decision on her fate. More likely he saw her as the

 perfect bait to lure his enemy to the Isle - and he was

 right; though the manner of Tarod's arrival wouldn't be

 quite what Keridil anticipated.

  

 And when he did arrive, he asked himself, what then?

 He had made his plans and was determined to see them

 through; but prior to this moment he had always turned

  

 aside from thinking too deeply about the consequences

 of what he meant to do. Now though, with the long

 afternoon stretching before him and nothing to do but sit

 and watch the sea, he had little defence against the

 questions and apprehensions that lurked unanswered in

 the back of his mind.

  

 He was gambling not only his life but his very soul in

 the hope that he could appeal to the ultimate arbiter and

 be heard with sympathy. But so much had happened

 since he had first pledged to surrender the Chaos stone

 on the White Isle that he was no longer sure he could

 trust his own judgement. Innocent people had died at his

 hand and at Cyllan's; and however great his justice or his

 mercy even Aeoris could not overlook those deeds or

 excise them. His own word must stand against Keridil's

 when he made his plea - would the greatest of the Seven

 Gods be willing to hear an accused servant of Chaos,

 when the accuser was his High Initiate?

  

 Tarod turned abruptly, angered by his thoughts.

 There was no room for doubt; he daren't let it get a

 foothold, for once it did it would take root and grow too

 fast to be contained. He had made his decision and

 mustn't waver now; and besides, the choice was clear.

 Order or Chaos - there was no middle way. He had

 begun on this path; he would see it through.

  

 Nonetheless, his mood was far from happy as he

 returned to the rocks and settled himself for the long

 wait.

  

 He realised later that he had slept a good part of the

 afternoon away, and when he woke the last light was

 glaring sullenly in the West, setting the cliff edges on

 fire. The cove was plunged in shadow; with the tide at

 the ebb it looked dank and chill and unfriendly, and cold

 was striking through Tarod's thin shirt.

  

 He rose, flexing his limbs to ease stiff muscles, and

 walked slowly down the beach to the tideline. Foam

 showed as a pale fringe at the water's edge but beyond

 the waves all was dark, sea and sky no longer dis-

 tinguishable. He wondered when they would come, and

  

 suppressed a shiver that had little to do with the bitter

 air.

  

 Tarod couldn't calculate how long he stood on the

 shore while the light faded finally into complete dark-

 ness. But at last he heard a faint, eerily sweet note, far

 away but discernible amid the hush of the sea. Moments

 later it was joined by another and then another, a bit-

 terly pure harmony that thrilled through his bones and

 made his throat constrict. The song of the fanaani . . .

 they were here, and they were waiting for him.

  

 Tarod drew a deep breath and opened his mind to the

 first stirrings of the alien thoughts that probed his. At

 first they were composed of nothing but strange, phan-

 tasmic sea-images, but gradually they coalesced until

 clear words took form in Tarod's mind.

  

 Come . . . Join us . . . join us  . . .

  

 The dark was all but absolute, but as a wave rose to

 break at his feet he could see them, blacker shapes

 against the swell. Doubt and fear assailed him; he forced

 the feelings down and walked forward.

  

 The sea swirled around his ankles, around his knees.

 The beach shelved steeply, and the first wave that broke

 over him was an ice-cold shock that set his teeth on edge.

 Tarod waited for the following wave and dived to meet

 it, surfacing in its backwash and shaking water from his

 hair and eyes. He had one last glimpse of the silent,

 brooding cove, then he struck out strongly for open

 water.

  

 The fanaani met him as he cleared the cliffs' embrace;

 three of them, as before, though whether they were the

 same creatures with whom he'd communicated at Shu-

 Nhadek harbour he couldn't tell. Sleek, lithe bodies

 flanked him and he felt one beast brush against his body;

 treading water he reached out and laid an arm over its

 back to grasp the powerful, thickly furred shoulder,

 while a second swam to his other side to complete the

 link. Ahead of them now he could see the third clearly; a

 bigger animal, its coat dappled and its eyes, as it turned

 to regard him, calm and wise. He smiled, formed words

 of thanks in his mind, and the leading fanaan uttered a

  

 series of shivering, silver notes on an alien scale. As

 though the sound were a signal, the two creatures to

 either side of him surged forward. Tarod felt the heavy

 muscles bunching under his hands, saw the sea's swell

 surging to meet him, then the fanaani were swimming

 easily and swiftly away, bearing him towards the black,

 empty horizon.

  

 Chapter 11

  

 The most eerie thing of all, Cyllan thought, was the

 profound silence with which the White Barque sailed

 slowly into harbour. There were no shouts or cries from

 her strange crew, no rattle and thunder as her towering

 sails were furled and the lines made fast; she seemed

 almost to have a life and a will of her own, for the ease

 with which she manoeuvred to her resting place and

 finally docked was unnerving.

  

 A gaunt, indifferent Guardian had loosed the knots

 which bound Cyllan's ankles, and though her wrists

 were still tied she had been able to kneel on deck and

 watch the sacred island approaching in the first cold light

 of dawn. Mist shrouded it until the ship was almost

 under its lee; then the Sun's weak rays slanting in from

 the East had severed the mist and the Isle rose before

 them with shocking clarity. Grim rocks that seemingly

 offered no landing-place loomed out of the sea, domi-

 nated by a single titanic crag at the island's centre; the

 huge, brooding shell of a long dormant volcano, a black

 silhouette against the paling sky. Cyllan had felt some-

 thing of the aura that radiated from the place and turned

 her head away with a fearful shudder.

  

 The barque sailed on, her crew caring nothing for the

 treacherous rocks that lurked just beneath the ocean's

 surface and sometimes showed savage teeth above the

 creaming water. Then with no warning she turned land-

 ward, heeling in straight towards the cliff face so that

 Cyllan shut her eyes and hissed an imprecation under

 her breath. But there was no grinding, jarring impact,

 and when she dared to look again she saw that the vast

 rock face before them had split countless centuries ago

  

 to create a narrow channel through which the tide

 surged, and the barque was heading into its maw. They

 slid between giant, spray-soaked cliffs whose surface she

 felt she could almost reach out and touch; then gradually

 the tide-race quieted until the barque sailed in deep,

 calm water, silent as a white ghost.

  

 And before them was their final destination . . .

  

 Overhead the cliffs towered and almost met, the sky a

 thin, vicious dagger of brilliance far above. The shadows

 were so deep that the pier where the barque had come to

 rest was half hidden in gloom; but Cyllan could see that

 everything about this harbour, such as it was, had been

 hewn to a scale that bore no relation to human dimen-

 sions. The stones of the pier were monstrous blocks that

 an army of labourers would have been hard pressed to

 move an inch, and now men, pale as phantoms, were

 emerging from some unseen place to secure the ship to a

 gigantic capstan that dwarfed their figures. Behind them

 a flight of steps had been cut into the rock face, so huge

 that they might have been the work of giants; and she

 shivered as she recalled the nature of the unhuman feet

 that trod those stairs a millennium ago.

  

 There was movement on deck, and she turned her

 head to see the barque's other passengers emerging

 from whatever quarters they had inhabited below. At

 first, she didn't recognise Keridil Toln; he had changed

 his clothes for more formal garb, and on his shoulders

 was a heavy ceremonial cloak, the fabric invisible

 beneath the weight of its gold-thread embroidery. The

 cloak's high collar shadowed his face, but she could see

 the gold circlet that banded his fair hair, and in his hands

 he carried the staff of office of the High Initiate. He

 walked slowly towards the barque's side, flanked by two

 of the Guardians, and Cyllan's lungs and throat con-

 stricted; however much she hated him, however great an

 enemy he might be, she couldn't help but be awed by the

 figure he presented.

  

 Behind Keridil came Fenar Alacar, whey-faced and

 looking pitifully young in his ceremonial garb, his cloak

 a cascade of white fur over crimson and the huge single

  

 ruby that was the High Margrave's badge glittering at his

 right shoulder. And lastly, with the careful tread of old

 age and infirmity, the Matriarch Ilyaya Kimi. As always

 she was dressed in the white robe of the Sisterhood, but

 her usual belt had been replaced by a silver sash, and on

 her head she wore a silver filigree circlet from which a

 cloth-of-silver veil swept almost to her feet.

  

 Cyllan stood rigid as the small procession passed by

 only three paces from her. For a brief moment her gaze

 met Keridil's; she saw the strain in his face and thought

 he gave her a look that mingled pity with contempt; then

 he was past and she turned away from the scrutiny of his

 companions.

  

 The massive wall of the pier was on a level with the

 White Barque's deck, and as the three members of the

 triumvirate crossed over, the waiting Guardians formed

 a tightly ranked escort to flank them as they stepped on

 shore. Cyllan stared after their retreating shapes until

 only a dim blur of white in the gloom marked their

 whereabouts - then her pulse lurched sickeningly as a

 hand, cold and light as a spider's web, touched her

 shoulder.

  

 The pale-eyed crewman didn't look at her and didn't

 speak. He simply gestured towards the rope-railed gang-

 way that separated the ship from the dock, and before

 she was aware of what she did Cyllan found herself

 walking unsteadily towards it. She heard movement at

 her back but didn't dare look round; then she was cross-

 ing the narrow divide over still, black water, to set foot,

 afraid and awestruck, on the White Isle.

  

 Another hand touched her shoulder - she shuddered

 at the contact, finding it repulsive - and she was guided

 to the foot of the monstrous steps that wound up and out

 of sight. Keridil and his companions were no longer

 visible and she wondered if they had been taken this way

 - it was hard to believe that the aged Matriarch would

 have the stamina for such a climb. The stairs drew her

 gaze, frowning and fearsome; again she felt the chilly

 touch of the island's aura, and shivered.

  

 Other people were now being escorted from the ship -

  

 two men she'd not seen before, wearing the badges of

 Adepts; another, older man whose garb suggested a

 scholar; two Sisters of Aeoris; and - Cyllan felt her jaw

 tighten - a tall, patrician girl with auburn hair that

 rippled over her shoulders. Sashka Veyyil . . . Tarod's

 one-time lover, who had betrayed him to the Circle and

 who was now enjoying her triumph as the High Initiate's

 new consort. They had met once before, at the Castle,

 and the encounter was still a goad in Cyllan's memory.

 Sashka saw the fair-haired girl staring at her, and a

 flicker of a scornful smile crossed her beautiful face.

 Then a white-clad Guardian moved between them, and

 gestured silently towards the gigantic stairs.

  

 Cyllan had steeled herself for an exhausting climb to the

 gods alone knew what destination at the top of the

 terrible flight, but it was not to be. Instead, the small

 party had toiled a bare hundred stairs when their escort

 led them off into the black maw of a tunnel that gaped

 out of the dark rock. For a while they walked in dark-

 ness, the quiet broken only by the stertorous breathing

 of the old scholar as he tried to regain his wind; then the

 tunnel opened into a high but narrow chamber, lit from

 some undetectable source above and furnished only

 with a wooden table and several benches. They moved

 into the chamber, uncertain what was required of them,

 and one of the dispassionate Guardians spoke.

  

 The Conclave of Three is about to begin.' His voice

 echoed thinly in the vault. 'Those who have accom-

 panied the triumvirate will remain here until

 summoned.'

  

 One of the Sisters spoke up, though diffidently. 'The

 High Margrave's adviser has been adversely affected by

 the climb, Guardian. He needs something to help him

 recover his strength.'

  

 'Sustenance will be given.' The Guardian's manner

 didn't waver and Cyllan was unnerved by the way in

 which these strange men - if men they were - seemed

 incapable of addressing anyone directly. He started to

 turn away, but suddenly Sashka stepped forward.

  

 'Guardian.' She clearly wasn't hampered by the Sis-

 ter's diffidence, and there was an indignant edge to her

 voice. 'You're surely not intending to leave this creature

 here?' One finger pointed imperiously at Cyllan. 'She's

 the High Initiate's prisoner, and an ally of Chaos! She

 should be confined somewhere where she can present no

 threat to the rest of us!'

  

 The white-clad man turned his disinterested gaze on

 her and appeared to stare straight through her; and two

 spots of colour flamed high on Sashka's cheeks.

  

 'All will remain here until summoned,' the Guardian

 repeated flatly. There will be no opportunity for mis-

 chief.' And turning on his heel he left the chamber,

 closing the door behind him.

  

 Sashka whispered something under her breath and

 swung angrily about, pacing towards the far end of the

 vault. The Sister intercepted her path and spoke to her,

 clearly intending to soothe, but she snapped a harsh

 word and the other woman retreated. Cyllan sank down

 near the door, squatting on her haunches and ignoring

 the others as they milled about and murmured uneasily

 to each other. Sashka's remark to the Guardian had

 stung, but was no less than she might have expected; at

 their first encounter intuition had told her that there was

 more to the auburn-haired girl's enmity than met the

 eye. No matter; Sashka was nothing to her . . . and she

 had far more immediate and deep-rooted worries to

 concern her.

  

 The Conclave was taking place at this very moment;

 and Tarod's future hung in the balance of its outcome.

 Since the moment when Keridil Toln had mockingly

 challenged and encouraged her to call on Tarod and

 bring him to her aid she had known that her presence

 here was playing into the High Initiate's hands, and she

 bitterly regretted the fact that Tarod's love for her would

 make him seek her out, no matter what the risk to

 himself. If he had heard her psychic call, the scruples

 that had so far prevented him from using his power

 would count for nothing. He'd use it and he would come

 to find her - as Keridil well knew. It was a perfectly

  

 baited trap, and nothing she could do would put matters

 to rights. Even as the White Barque glided slowly into

 harbour she had sensed the peculiar isolation of this

 island, and knew that any attempt she made to contact

 Tarod again and warn him would fail. He'd follow her

 here, and when he stepped on to the White Isle's shore

 his enemies would be waiting.

  

 Her unhappy reverie was broken by the sound of the

 door beside her opening, and she looked up to see an

 empty-eyed youth in the now familiar white garb of the

 Guardians entering the vault. He carried a tray laden

 with a pitcher, several cups and a plate of what looked

 like coarse black bread, which he set down on the table.

 He didn't utter a word, no one spoke to him, and sec-

 onds later he was gone and a key grated metallically in

 the lock.

  

 Glad of a diversion, however small, Cyllan watched as

 the Sister who had asked for sustenance filled a cup from

 the pitcher's contents and took it, with a piece of the

 coarse bread, to the old scholar. Their hushed voices

 reverberated in the rock chamber although it was impos-

 sible to discern what they said, and Cyllan looked away

 again, slumping forward and resting her head on her

 folded arms.

  

 'You must be thirsty.' The voice impinged on her

 thoughts and she looked up with a start to see Sashka

 standing over her. She held a cup in one hand and the

 faint traces of a smile touched her features. 'Or do you

 have other matters on your mind?' the girl added with

 undisguised malice.

  

 Cyllan ignored her, and with a graceful movement

 Sashka seated herself on a convenient bench. She sipped

 at the cup's contents, grimaced and said, 'Water, and

 brackish water at that ... I suppose we can expect no

 better in these barbarous surroundings. Although I'd

 advise you to make the most of it. It's quite probably the

 last drink you'll ever taste.'

  

 Her taunt was a clear indication of her temper, and

 gave Cyllan an insight into the depths of Sashka's anger

  

 and resentment. She allowed a small bark of laughter to

 escape her lips, and the other girl's cheeks coloured.

  

 'I'm glad to find you in such good heart, Cyllan.

 Lightness of spirit is a rare quality in one on the brink of

 death - you're an example to us all.'

  

 Cyllan's only response to her sarcasm was to lean her

 head back against the wall and close her eyes. Sashka's

 mouth tightened into a vicious line. 'So you're not

 moved by the idea of dying?' Her voice had risen in pitch

 and some of the others were watching her curiously; she

 ignored them, caring nothing for their opinion. 'You're

 very courageous. I'm sure that courage will prove most

 entertaining when you watch Tarod destroyed before

 your turn comes!'

  

 That provoked the reaction she had hoped for.

 Cyllan's eyes snapped open, filled with a mixture of rage

 and misery which gave Sashka considerable satisfaction.

 She would have been more gratified had it been Tarod

 rather than Cyllan bearing the brunt of her venom - she

 had often lain awake at night, imagining how she would

 taunt him, what she would say - but this was pleasurable

 enough, and a small revenge.

  

 'Ah,' she said softly. 'So you are afraid . . . Have you

 only just realised that your lover isn't invincible? That

 he will die, and his death will be no less ugly and agonis-

 ing than your own?' She stood up, took three slow paces

 until she was directly in front of Cyllan, and sighed

 theatrically. 'I believe I rather pity you.'

  

 Cyllan wanted to maintain her stony silence, but the

 churning, bitter rage inside her was too strong.

  

 'Save your energies,' she said ferociously. 'I want

 none of your taint.'

  

 Sashka made a moue and studied her fingernails with

 an air of infinite, martyred patience. 'It's a shame that

 you're so stubborn, Cyllan. You could still save your-

 self, you know.' She looked up, saw Cyllan glaring at

 her, and smiled with sweet kindness. 'Even after all

 you've done, I believe the High Initiate could be per-

 suaded to show clemency towards you, if you were to

 renounce your - let us say, your misguided loyalties.'

  

 Oh yes, Cyllan thought; that would serve your vanity

 very well! Not only would Sashka succeed in depriving

 Tarod of his one true ally, she would doubtless take

 great satisfaction from letting him know that ally had

 deserted him; and her motives were painfully clear.

 Mingled with her hatred of Tarod was a warped echo of

 the desire she had once felt for him, and perhaps felt

 still. And though she claimed to loathe him, she couldn't

 bear the thought of his allegiance turning elsewhere. She

 wanted him to love her still, so that she could have the

 pleasure of hurting him by her rejection. Suddenly,

 Cyllan could almost feel sorry for Keridil Toln.

  

 Disappointed by her lack of reaction, Sashka shrugged

 carelessly. 'It's of no moment to me, of course. But you

 can hardly be blamed for lacking the wisdom to under-

 stand matters such as these.' She smiled again, and

 added with a patronising confidentiality, 'I suspect I

 know Tarod better than you could ever hope to do, and

 he has always had a talent for persuasion. But there are

 those who are capable of seeing through his deceptions,

 and those who are not. In truth, Cyllan, I feel it's a little

 harsh to condemn you for what is, after all, only unwit-

 ting ignorance.'

  

 For one blinding moment Cyllan wished with all her

 being that she had the Chaos stone in her hands once

 more. She remembered the blazing glory of its power

 when it had flooded and overtaken her; the indescrib-

 able thrill of revenge and bloodshed when Drachea

 Rannak had fallen before her Chaos-driven fury . . .

 getting a grip on herself she drew a deep breath and

 banished the images to the dark recess where they

 belonged. Sashka Veyyil was no Drachea, no threat; she

 was no better than a jealous and spiteful child, and to

 make more of her taunts than was warranted would be

 folly.

  

 But whatever wisdom dictated, her self-control

 refused to bow to it. Nothing she could say or do would

 harm Sashka; the girl was triumphant and relishing her

 ascendancy. Yet - for Tarod's sake if nothing else -

  

 Cyllan couldn't bear to allow her vindictiveness to go

 uncountered.

  

 She looked up, her eyes glittering, and said huskily,

 'Have you ever looked upon Chaos, Sashka Veyyil?'

  

 The words had come unbidden to her tongue, and as

 she spoke she felt an alien sensation, like a psychic

 charge, welling within her, fuelled by her anger. It was

 akin to the uncontrollable and unpredictable power she

 had sometimes been able to command as a fortune-

 reader, but stronger; far stronger. And it made Sashka

 tense with sudden unease . . .

  

 Cyllan smiled, coldly. 'No ... I thought not. But

 you will. One day.' She felt the psychic charge taking a

 tighter grip on her, as though some unnameable power

 were speaking through the medium of her voice, and the

 soft laughter that issued from her throat wasn't pleasant.

 'That's my promise to you, Sashka - and it's my curse on

 you.'

  

 Sashka blanched, and the hand that held the cup

 shook. For a moment stark fear showed in her eyes -

 then fury replaced it, and with a violent gesture she

 hurled the remains of the water directly into Cyllan's

 face, whirled, and strode away.

  

 The shock of the water shattered the hold of the

 peculiar power, and brought Cyllan jarringly back to

 reality. She blinked, shaking her head to clear her eyes -

 her bound wrists made it impossible to do more - and

 looked towards the far end of the vault, where Sashka

 had retreated. In the dimness she could just make out

 the colour of the other girl's gown, and the faces of the

 rest of the company, who were all staring curiously at

 her. She looked away, resuming her slumped posture.

 The brief surge of furious psychism had left her feeling

 desolate, and her threat to Sashka now seemed a hollow

 sham. She had no power to curse, and hatred alone

 couldn't translate her words into reality. She had had the

 momentary pleasure of seeing terror in Sashka's eyes,

 but it gave her no comfort.

  

 She wondered whether Yandros knew what had

 become of his plans and of the promise she had made to

  

 him. Here on the White Isle, the seat of Aeoris's

 strength, he could bring no influence to bear; even

 Tarod, were he to be willing, might find his power so

 diminished in this place that he was unable to call on the

 Chaos lord. And without some aid from a plane beyond

 this earthly world, what hope was there?

  

 A shuffling footfall close by made her look up, and she

 was surprised to see the elderly scholar bending over

 her.

  

 The old man smiled a lopsided smile. 'You seem to

 have greatly displeased our High Initiate's consort,' he

 said drily. 'And I saw that you didn't receive a drink, at

 least not in the accepted sense.' He proffered a brim-

 ming cup. There's more than enough to go around.'

  

 Nothing in his tone suggested mockery or sarcasm,

 and Cyllan returned the smile hesitantly. Then she held

 up her bound hands. 'I'm afraid I can't take advantage of

 your kindness.'

  

 'Allow me ... ' He held the cup to her lips, waited

 while she drank, then smiled again. 'Better, I imagine?'

  

 Cyllan swallowed. 'Yes - thank you.' She hesitated. 'I

 hope you're recovered from the climb.'

  

 'Well recovered - though you're the only one apart

 from Sister Malia who's been courteous enough to ask.'

 He studied her for a few moments before adding,

 'You're not entirely what I'd been led to expect.'

  

 Cyllan's initial feeling of gratitude towards the old

 man soured a little at that; and her tone took on a frosty

 edge. 'And what had you been led to expect?'

  

 'Oh, the usual products of superstition,' he told her,

 unperturbed. 'Something less and yet more than human.

 Certainly not an obviously intelligent and - forgive me -

 ordinary girl who might be anyone's daughter or sister.'

  

 Cyllan bit her lip hard. 'If you're about to tell me that

 I've reached this pass through no fault of my own, and

 that it isn't too late to save myself, you might as well save

 your breath.' Her amber gaze flickered to meet his in

 angry resentment. 'I made my choices a long time ago.'

  

 'I don't doubt that for a moment.' The old man's wry

 smiled returned briefly. 'I'm simply interested by your

  

 story. I'm a scholar, you see - Isyn by name - and I have

 a particular interest in the wide varieties of human

 nature. I'm always seeking to extend the boundaries of

 my knowledge and understanding.'

  

 Cyllan's lip curled. 'You'll find little for your

 researches here, Isyn. I have nothing to offer you.' Her

 anger was returning, though in a quieter form. 'Unless,

 of course, Tarod should come here in search of me. That

 might satisfy your desire for new knowledge.'

  

 Isyn chuckled. 'I trust not! But tell me - and I ask only

 in a spirit of understanding - aren't you afraid?'

  

 'Afraid?' said Cyllan dully.

  

 He gestured towards the vault door. 'Of what lies

 ahead of you. For want of a better word, your fate.'

  

 Cyllan realised suddenly that to Isyn - perhaps to all

 of them - she was a curiosity, like the unfortunate mu-

 tants sometimes exhibited at Quarter-Day fairs; some-

 thing to be tormented, or exclaimed over and discussed

 in erudite language, depending on the viewer's pro-

 clivities; but not a thinking, feeling creature in her own

 right. She had joined the throngs of market-square

 gawpers often enough in the past; she knew, now, how

 such mutants must feel. And suddenly she understood,

 in a way she had never done before, Tarod's contempt

 for them all; Circle, Margravate and Sisterhood alike.

 She must hold to that feeling - whatever else might

 befall her, she must hold to it.

  

 She said with dignity, 'No, I'm not afraid.'

  

 Cyllan's stony indifference at last deterred Isyn, and

 Sashka made no more efforts to taunt her; she was left

 alone with her thoughts while the others kept osten-

 tatiously away. And she couldn't judge how much time

 passed before the sound of a key turning in the lock drew

 the attention of everyone in the vault.

  

 Two Guardians appeared in the doorway; beyond

 them Cyllan could see at least two more in the tunnel.

 One spoke in the now familiar flat tones.

  

 The Conclave is ending. The attendance of those who

 have accompanied the triumvirate is required.'

  

 Glances were exchanged; slowly the vault's occupants

 got to their feet. Only Cyllan didn't respond, and one of

 the Guardians moved to stand over her.

  

 'The attendance of all is required. There are no excep-

 tions.' He stared at the wall as he spoke, and Cyllan felt

 an impulse to lash out and kick him, just to see if it was

 possible to provoke a reaction in one of these bloodless

 zombies. She resisted it, along with the temptation to

 ignore him and simply sit here refusing to co-operate. If

 she didn't go with the party of her own volition she

 would doubtless go by force; and the loss of her dignity

 wasn't worth the hollow satisfaction of resisting.

  

 She struggled to her feet, hampered by her tied wrists,

 and followed the rest of the party through the door and

 along the dark tunnel beyond.

  

 As they emerged from the tunnel's mouth, they were

 bathed in the dim and deceptive light of approaching

 dusk. Full day had come and gone while they waited in

 the underground gloom, and the Sun was an angry crim-

 son ball against the sky's murky backdrop. The Guard-

 ian who led them stared directly at the red inferno for a

 few moments, then turned to his charges and gestured to

 where the giant stairs continued on and up. Cyllan

 looked at the flight stretching away ahead and climbing

 the island's humped shoulder, and saw that it seemed to

 terminate at a thin and razor-sharp ridge, barely discern-

 ible in the fading light. Beyond the ridge, a wall of dull

 grey-brown rock towered into the sky, its summit lost in

 darkening mist. The crater of an ancient and long-

 extinct volcano . . . and there, she knew, lay the sacred

 shrine, and the casket which had remained unopened

 since the seven Lords of Order had fought the last battle

 against Chaos.

  

 The Conclave was over and the decision had been

 taken. Night would fall long before the party reached

 that brooding summit, but when they did she would

 learn which way the decision had gone - and learn, too,

 what fate lay in store for her, and for Tarod should he

 fall into the trap set for him.

  

 She had clung thus far to a fierce pride and determi-

 nation not to weaken, and they had sustained her

 through the voyage to the island and the long wait in the

 vault. But now, gazing up at the volcano's unrelenting

 and lifeless slope, and knowing what lay beyond, she felt

 fear eating into the core of her soul.

  

 *****

  

 The fanaani had let him go as the pinnacles of the Isle

 loomed out of the dark, waves crashing glaringly white

 against their sheer slopes. He felt their sleek bodies slide

 away from beneath his hands, heard a thrilling cascade

 of notes above the sea's roar, then he was striking out

 towards the towering rocks under his own volition. A

 powerful cross-current caught him and bore him at tre-

 mendous speed towards a savage gash in the cliff, where

 titanic boulders had smashed its symmetry in an aeon-

 old fall. He glimpsed the yawning mouth of a cave half

 submerged under the tide, then fanged rocks rose out of

 the blackness and he had to exert all his physical strength

 to avoid being dashed against them. Seeing clear water

 momentarily ahead he struck out towards the cliff fis-

 sure; another wave, breaking, swept him into the shore,

 and twisting about at the last moment, he felt his hands

 graze on rock as he struck hard against the cliff. The rock

 was rough and broken enough to grip; he hung on as the

 huge undertow drew back, and before the next wave

 could come thundering in he had pulled himself clear of

 the sea.

  

 He was on a steeply sloping ledge, and, gaining a

 foothold, he climbed higher until he reached a point

 where the tide could no longer wash over him and drag

 him back. Salt water streamed from his hair; his clothes

 clung to him and his body was bruised and lacerated by

 the impact; for some minutes he could only crouch on

 the precarious ledge struggling for breath.

  

 A sound, faint but clear, mingled with the rolling

 thunder of the sea; the fanaani's shivering, farewell song

 as they swam clear of the island. They were away to

  

 whatever strange depth or shore was home to them; he

 raised a hand in a salute of thanks though he knew they

 could no longer see him, then their bittersweet voices

 faded, faded and were gone.

  

 Both Moons were up; one a thin, chill crescent, the

 other a vaster, dimmer sphere at the full. The speed at

 which the sea-creatures bore him here had been awe-

 some; there were hours yet to go before dawn began to

 break ... he turned his head, gazing up at the stone

 ramparts rising behind him. The dead volcano at the

 centre of the island was invisible, hidden by the night

 and the cliffs, but the cliffs could be climbed, and he

 knew he could reach his final destination before the Sun

 came out of the East to reveal his presence.

  

 He felt the answering tingle of power in his left hand

 as the stone of his ring flared with sudden brilliance. Yes

 . . . here, he could trust himself to use the strength of

 Chaos, knowing that it couldn't overtake him or sway

 him from his goal. He flexed his fingers, and felt a new

 and unhuman strength course through his blood, negat-

 ing tiredness and exhaustion. Tarod smiled and, rising to

 his feet, moved silently across the ledge to where the cliff

 fissure gaped black and waiting.

  

 Chapter 12

  

 The High Margrave Fenar Alacar rose from the cen-

 tremost of the three carved stone chairs. The peculiar

 light that suffused through the musty, windowless cham-

 ber etched lines of shadow on his young face, making

 him look older than his years, but it couldn't disguise the

 uncertainty in his eyes as he cleared his throat and then,

 nervously and with frequent hesitation, spoke the for-

 mal words that ended the Conclave.

  

 'I, Fenar Alacar, elevated by grace of our lord Aeoris

 to rule as High Margrave, declare that the triumvirate

 has spoken as one, and all have set their seals to this

 resolution. The decision of the Conclave is that the

 casket of Aeoris shall be opened. And I charge and call

 upon the High Initiate, Keridil Toln, to be the instru-

 ment through which this sacred task shall be under-

 taken.' His gaze flickered to Keridil's impassive face and

 he licked his lips nervously, certain that he had spoken

 the words correctly but still unsure of himself in the

 presence of his older and more experienced peers.

  

 Keridil returned the gaze for a moment, then he too

 rose from his seat and stepped forward until he faced the

 young Margrave. Slowly, stiffly, he bowed low before

 Fenar.

  

 'I am sensible of the honour done me, and sensible of

 the grave responsibility which I undertake.' Now he

 turned to face the third and final member of the trium-

 virate, who was also rising, though with some difficulty,

 from her chair. He bowed to her in turn. 'I ask the

 blessing of the Lady Matriarch, mother and comforter of

 us all, to grant me succour in this momentous hour.'

  

 Ilyaya Kimi, magnificent in her silver veil, reached out

  

 an arthritic hand to touch Keridil's brow as he made a

 knee before her. 'The clear light of Aeoris shine upon

 you, my son and my priest. May you walk always in His

 path of wisdom.'

  

 Keridil straightened, and both he and the Matriarch

 turned to face Fenar once more. The High Margrave

 nodded.

  

 'It is done,' he said. 'Let the portal be opened and the

 decision of this Conclave made known.'

  

 They made a strange threesome, Keridil thought with

 a curiously detached part of his mind as he led them

 across the faintly shimmering stone floor; an old, old

 woman barely able to walk, an unfledged boy, and a man

 who, whilst he presented a properly confident face to the

 world, was besieged by doubts and fears which he

 couldn't even name. But they were the best the world

 had to offer to its gods. The ultimate temporal power

 had been invested in them and, whatever their misgiv-

 ings, they must do their utmost to be worthy.

  

 He reached the portal - a huge stone slab which

 pivoted on some hidden and indescribably ancient

 mechanism - and raised his right hand to rap, once, on a

 diamond-shaped section of crystal set into the otherwise

 blank stone face. A terrible grating, grinding sound

 rumbled beneath their feet, and slowly the portal began

 to turn. Cool, clean air rushed into the chamber - he

 heard Ilyaya drawing a deep and grateful breath - and

 they stepped out to meet the deputation of Guardians

 who had kept vigil through the long hours of Conclave.

 Each pair of pale, expressionless eyes was focused on

 Keridil, and the Guardians clearly read the result of the

 Conclave in his face without a word needing to be ut-

 tered. Their spokesman inclined his head in acknow-

 ledgement and said in his toneless, distant voice, The

 triumvirate will be conducted immediately to the

 Shrine. Those who have waited behind are now

 gathered outside and may stand witness to the rite if the

 triumvirate so wish.'

  

 Fenar cleared his throat again and glanced at Keridil

 with the odd mixture of deference and resentment that

  

 he always seemed to feel for the other man. 'I promised

 my adviser, Isyn, that he might accompany me if it was

 permitted . . . '

  

 In other words, his confidence was flagging and he

 needed his old tutor's support. Keridil could hardly

 blame him. He was about to smile back at Fenar but

 thought better of it; with his nerves in such a state the

 boy would probably interpret a smile as patronage.

  

 'It's entirely your decision and privilege, High Mar-

 grave,' he said.

  

 'Yes ..." Fenar's face cleared. 'Yes, of course.'

  

 'I will need two of my Sisters at my side,' Ilyaya Kimi

 declared fussily. 'If I am to endure another lengthy

 ritual, I will need their support, quite literally. I never

 thought I'd be called upon to undergo such trials of

 exertion at my time of life.'

  

 Of them all, Keridil thought, the Matriarch was the

 only one who seemed capable of accepting this extra-

 ordinary and daunting situation with ease. She was

 involved in the making of history, yet she behaved as

 though she were merely undertaking one of the more

 tedious everyday duties of her office. He envied her -

 whether her calm pragmatism stemmed from self-con-

 fidence or senility, it was a feeling he would have liked to

 share.

  

 Keeping his feelings to himself, he nodded. 'Two of

 my Initiates will guard our prisoner, but aside of them I

 shall ask only my consort to accompany me.'

  

 Ilyaya was adjusting her veil with small, impatient

 movements of her hands. 'And what of that girl, High

 Initiate - our prisoner?' She pursed her mouth. 'Our

 baited trap doesn't seem to have yielded up a victim. I'm

 beginning to wonder if the Chaos demon has decided

 that discretion is the better part of valour, and aban-

 doned her.'

  

 They were walking along a narrow, unadorned tunnel

 that burrowed through the shoulder of the volcano.

 Guardians walked before and behind, carrying torches,

 and there was a faintly sulphurous smell in the stale air.

  

 Keridil thought for a few moments before replying to the

 Matriarch's barbed remark.

  

 'No, Lady. He'll come; I'm sure of it.' He knew Tarod

 well enough not to have wavered in his conviction that

 the trap would work. Earlier, before the Conclave

 began, he had requested a few minutes alone and,

 escorted to another of the seeming myriad of empty

 rooms and vaults that honeycombed the mountain - and

 whose function he couldn't begin to imagine - had

 cleansed his mind of all extraneous thoughts and, after a

 short Prayer and Exhortation, used the techniques of

 mind-searching that he had first learned long ago as a

 new Initiate, in an attempt to discover Tarod's where-

 abouts. He had found nothing; but the fact that his

 enemy was untraceable was in itself, he thought, a

 favourable omen. If Tarod was seeking to invade the

 White Isle and rescue Cyllan, secrecy would be his great-

 est weapon; and though he still couldn't locate him by

 magical means, Keridil sensed in his bones that he was

 near.

  

 Ilyaya Kimi sniffed. 'And if he does not?'

  

 'If he does not, his fate - all our fates - will no longer

 rest in our hands.'

  

 The High Margrave shivered, and made a poor job of

 disguising it. 'I still say that girl should have been

 executed without the need for all this subterfuge,' he

 said. 'It could have been done in minutes, and we'd have

 had one less risk to worry about. But I was overruled.'

 This time, the hot look he gave Keridil mingled the old

 resentment with a new and more personal dislike, and

 Keridil choked back the temptation to suggest that, if

 the High Margrave was so set upon that course, he might

 like to take a knife or sword and show the courage of his

 convictions by cutting Cyllan's throat himself. It was

 easy now for his peers to carp and criticise, he thought

 angrily; Ilyaya Kimi cast aspersions on his judgement in

 the matter of Tarod's capture, Fenar on his wisdom in

 allowing Cyllan to live as a lure to their adversary. But

 he had made his decision, and he wouldn't be influenced

 by arguments made from the relative comfort of their

  

 positions. Theirs weren't the hands that must unlock the

 casket and lift its lid; theirs weren't the shoulders that

 must bear the full brunt of responsibility for summoning

 the White Lords to the world. If he refused to give way

 to them, that autonomy was surely the least they could

 grant him in exchange for undertaking such a burden.

  

 A paler rectangle showed ahead, indicating that they

 approached the end of the tunnel. As they emerged on

 to the volcano's gigantic flank Keridil saw that the Sun

 had set, leaving only a last, pallid shimmer in the sky.

 Twilight had drained all colour from the blank rock

 faces, and the Guardians with their white skins and

 clothing looked like great, phantasmic moths in the

 gloom. Ilyaya's veil shone with a weird inner radiance of

 its own; Fenar's circlet glowed nacreously, and for an

 instant something about the scene struck Keridil as

 unhealthy, tainted with an edge of corruption ... he

 shook the thought off hastily, aware that it was little

 short of blasphemous.

  

 They were conducted along the narrow walkway by

 which they had come from the great staircase to the vault

 of the Conclave, and where the parapet ended, the rest

 of the party awaited them. Sashka saw Keridil, and

 didn't wait for anyone's consent before she ran forward

 and embraced him. She didn't speak - something in his

 face told her it would be wiser to stay silent - but she

 took his hand firmly in hers as they walked together

 towards the stairs. The others greeted their companions

 with less of a show; all but Cyllan who stood at the back

 of the group, between two tall, thin Guardians. Just

 once she caught Keridil's gaze, and he blanched at the

 cold, controlled hatred that burned behind her amber

 eyes.

  

 Sashka squeezed his fingers. 'It's done?' she

 whispered.

  

 He nodded. 'It's done.' He didn't need to tell her what

 the outcome had been, and heard her draw in a long

 breath. Then: 'And now? Will they let me come with

 you?'

  

 Keridil had been staring ahead, to where the mon-

 strous stairs wound ever further up the flank of the

 mountain. The sky was almost dark, but he could still

 make out the menacing truncated peak of the ancient

 crater at the volcano's summit. They would climb those

 terrible steps, on and on, and when finally they reached

 the end there would be nothing before them but the

 Shrine itself. Now he looked at Sashka, searching her

 face for signs of fear and finding none. With her beside

 him, he wouldn't feel so appallingly alone. 'They will,'

 he said. 'That is ... if you'll consent?'

  

 She could almost pity him for being so naive as to

 think that she'd not grasp this giddying chance. She,

 Sashka Veyyil, would witness the opening of the casket -

 and when the historians came to write their accounts of

 this momentous night, her name would be inscribed

 alongside Keridil's as the consort of the High Initiate

 who had summoned Aeoris to the world.

  

 She clasped his hand more tightly in hers and gave him

 the sweet smile that could always win him over. 'Of

 course I'll consent, my love,' she said softly. 'Nothing

 would keep me from your side now!'

  

 Cyllan climbed with one Initiate before her and one at

 her back, blocking any escape route, but was incapable

 of giving her attention to anything beyond the huge,

 endless stairs. She seemed to have been climbing for

 hours, each step a strain that made her muscles throb in

 protest, and her mind was numb with the ceaseless,

 toiling effort. Ahead, Keridil Toln led the procession,

 flanked by two more of the white-clad zombies - a new

 escort, for it seemed that only a small and carefully

 chosen few in whatever peculiar hierarchy existed here

 were allowed within reach of the mountain summit.

 Behind him came the High Margrave, then the

 Matriarch, now carried in a strange, carved chair by two

 more Guardians. Torches glittered like small, feral eyes,

 a snake of light winding higher and higher into the night

 and dwarfed by the threatening peak.

 And when they reached the shrine, what then? She had

  

 given up praying that Tarod would not come to her, for

 the fear that had begun to eat at her when they were

 brought from the vault now had a stranglehold that she

 couldn't fight. She was too alone, too lost and too threat-

 ened not to long for his presence, for no one else would

 help her. And if he came too late - she didn't once

 consider that he wouldn't come at all - she would be

 dead, and her soul, having failed both Order and Chaos,

 would be damned for ever . . .

  

 She was so enmeshed in her fearful thoughts that she

 wasn't aware of the procession ahead of her coming to a

 halt, until she collided with the Guardian before her as

 he stopped. Blinking, Cyllan looked up.

  

 The cone of the volcano, which before had seemed so

 distant as to be unreal, now loomed with terrifying

 immediacy ahead and above. She could see the crater

 like a vast, insensate mouth edged with jagged teeth,

 reaching up as though trying to devour the sky; see the

 ugly scar of a fissure where, aeons ago, lava had come

 blazing in a river of fire from the earth's heart, the

 malformations of rock torn and twisted and melted

 under unimaginable heat and pressure. It was pre-

 historic, savage, an aberration; and her fear began to

 transmute into a palpitating sickness.

  

 It seemed that they were waiting for some signal, and

 after long minutes it came. A horn, sounding from

 somewhere near the heart of the crater itself, amplified

 by the towering rock walls so that it echoed like the call

 of some supernatural denizen of a ghost-world. The

 sound wound on and on, finally dissipating out over the

 sea and swallowed by the night, and as the last echo

 faded the party began, slowly and with a new purpose, to

 move again. Onward, upward . . . and the gigantic

 stairs were at an end.

  

 The gateway had been hewn into the rock face of the

 crater; a plain, foursquare portal formed of a single

 massive lintel supported by perfectly angular uprights.

 At the lintel's exact centre a design had been cut and

 filled with gold; an unblinking eye from whose iris a

 single bolt of lightning emanated. It was the ultimate

  

 sign of Order, the sigil of Aeoris himself- and it marked

 the entrance to the heart of the crater, and the Shrine.

  

 The two Guardians who had led the procession with

 Keridil stepped aside and took up new positions, one to

 each side of the huge gate. Their fellows joined them

 and the white-clad figures formed a rigid guard of

 honour at the entranceway.

  

 Keridil realised that these strange men would come no

 further. From now on, he and his companions were

 alone. He stared ahead and saw a chasm-like tunnel

 stretching away, lit by a faint and sullen glow that

 appeared to seep from the rock itself, then heard move-

 ment at his side as the High Margrave and the

 Matriarch, who had dismounted from her makeshift

 litter, moved up to join him. Keridil swallowed, took a

 deep breath, glanced at the nearest of the stiffly atten-

 tive Guardians; and with what might - unless imagin-

 ation deceived him - have been the ghost of a smile, the

 man raised his right hand and made the Sign of Aeoris.

  

 It was the signal to embark on the last stage of this

 ritual journey, and Keridil knew he couldn't delay it

 any longer. He stepped through the maw of the gaping

 portal, heard Fenar and Ilyaya a pace behind him, and

 forced down the sudden inrush of dread that tried to grip

 him. It must be done - it would be done. Quickening his

 pace as determination overcame the fear, Keridil strode

 forward into the chasm.

  

 The rift which millennia ago had been torn in the vol-

 cano's side by an eruption of lava, and which now

 formed the one and only entrance to the ancient crater,

 was not a long passage. It cut directly through the cone,

 following an uncannily straight path, and after only a

 bare few minutes Keridil saw a pinpoint of light ahead.

 He couldn't identify its source, though instinct and

 knowledge of lore prompted him to guess, and his throat

 constricted with apprehension. Only a short way more

  

 The chasm opened abruptly and shockingly, and they

  

 emerged on to a wide ledge that overlooked a vista

 awesome in its sheer simplicity.

  

 All around them, dizzying, the crater walls rose in vast

 ramparts, pitted and scarred and creating a terrible

 sense of vertigo. Perhaps two or three hundred feet

 below lay the bowl, a plain of pumice and basalt fused in

 incredible patterns and lit by the faint night radiance

 filtering down from the open sky. In the bowl's centre

 was a single, gigantic slab of volcanic stone which some

 long-dead hand had carved into a perfect cube to form

 an altar - and here, the pinpoint of light which Keridil

 had glimpsed from the chasm revealed itself as a golden

 chalice in which burned an unwavering, eternal white

 flame. This votive light, he knew, had shone since

 Aeoris and his brethren left their awesome gift to the

 world; it was the Guardians' task to tend it; one they had

 never neglected. And before the chalice, shimmering

 blindingly in its spilling light, was a simple casket no

 bigger than a man's clenched fist, also made of solid

 gold. The casket of Aeoris . . .

  

 Fenar Alacar made the Sign with awed and clumsy

 haste, while the Matriarch lifted one edge of her veil to

 her lips and kissed it, murmuring a prayer. Keridil

 couldn't begin to define the feelings that this first sight of

 the Shrine awoke in him - awe, yes, and fear and rever-

 ence, but also a sense of destiny which was impossible to

 put into words, but which made him forget everything

 beyond the short ritual, and its culmination, which lay

 ahead.

  

 From the ledge a steep but far from impossible path

 wound down into the crater's bowl, and the High Initiate

 turned to his companions. 'Those who wish to witness

 the ritual at close quarters may come to the Shrine with

 us,' he said quietly. 'Though if any of you would prefer

 to remain here and watch from a distance, you're per-

 fectly at liberty to do so.'

  

 Silence greeted his words. Though he had the impres-

 sion that one or two of the party felt trepidation, no one

 would be first to back away. Only Cyllan seemed

 unmoved, standing now with two of Keridil's Initiates

  

 flanking her; her gaze, when he reluctantly met it, was

 blank and empty.

  

 'Very well. I ask only that you all keep silence until the

 rite is over.' And with a small bow to Fenar and Ilyaya in

 turn, he began the descent to the crater floor.

  

 Beyond the volcano's wall, the Guardians who had

 escorted the triumvirate and their company still stood in

 twin rigid rows at the portal. They had brought their

 charges this far, but the laws laid down for this even-

 tuality centuries ago forbade them to go further. Their

 duty now was to wait, and they would fulfil it with the

 same impassive stoicism with which they approached

 every task. If they were curious or apprehensive about

 what might befall before the night ended, their distant

 expressions gave nothing away.

  

 The slight movement in the shadows, some minutes

 after the last of the company had vanished in the gloom

 of the chasm, caused the two Guardians furthest from

 the portal to turn their heads in surprise. Both Moons

 were now well risen, illuminating the titanic stairway

 cascading back down the mountain slope - and on the

 first stair they sensed an untoward presence. Their fel-

 lows picked up the psychic disturbance an instant later,

 but before any of the Guardians could react or issue a

 challenge, the air before them shivered as though dis-

 turbed by an invisible hand - and a figure, silhouetted

 against the Moonlit staircase, stood before them.

  

 As one, the Guardians moved to block the way, still

 keeping to their precise formation.

  

 Those without sanction are not permitted to set foot

 on the island.' Their spokesman's tones were clipped,

 but there was a trace of disturbance in his voice. The

 intruder laughed softly, and something glinted with a

 starburst flicker of brilliance on his left hand. 'One

 without sanction has already done so. The Guardians

 will stand aside.'

  

 To touch their minds was child's play, making a mock-

 ery of the awe in which they were held. Centuries of

 isolation, undisturbed in their stronghold, had caused

  

 the Guardians to overestimate their invulnerability -

 any occult skills they had once possessed but never

 needed had atrophied as their complacence grew, and to

 a will such as Tarod's they presented no obstacle.

  

 'The Guardians will stand aside.' This time the words

 were a sibilant command, and the white-clad figures

 shrank back as the interloper took a pace forward, then

 another. He looked from one pale face to another and

 another; slowly, like hypnotised children, they drew

 back to their old positions, reforming the double guard

 of honour as all motivation drained from them. The

 stranger waited until the formation was complete. Then

 he walked quietly between them, and away into the

 towering rift towards the crater.

  

 The opening words of the ritual were, to Cyllan, like a

 death-sentence. She didn't want to listen, but a terrible

 fatalism made her concentrate on the High Initiate's

 gold-robed figure as he offered up a solemn prayer to the

 gods, while behind him the Matriarch and the High

 Margrave knelt in homage before the Shrine of the

 Casket. Her last hope was gone, and she bitterly regret-

 ted that she'd not thrown herself over the appalling drop

 as they neared the top of the staircase, or, perhaps

 better, hurled herself into the sea from the deck of the

 White Barque before it reached its grim destination.

 Now, it was too late. She must live through this night-

 mare and face what was to come as best she could. Tarod

 had failed in his attempts to find her, she could not

 contact him, she could only pray - and not to the White

 Gods - that, somehow, he would survive the insanity

 being loosed against him.

  

 Despite the night's cold the atmosphere pervading the

 crater was stifling, and growing more claustrophobically

 intense with every moment. It was like the rising tension

 before a storm; a sense that something was coming,

 lurking beyond the horizon and marching nearer, build-

 ing up its power towards fever-pitch before the first roll

 of thunder would boom out and shatter the breathless,

 unnatural calm. Keridil spoke - a prayer now that

  

 Aeoris might forgive what he was about to do, echoed by

 the chanting of Fenar Alacar and Ilyaya Kimi as they

 lent their voices to his - but the words lacked all reson-

 ance, swallowed, or so it seemed, by the thick air almost

 before they could take full form.

  

 Cyllan looked fearfully around at the other witnesses,

 who formed a rough semi-circle at a respectful distance

 from the triumvirate at the altar. The old scholar, Isyn,

 craning forward to hear the ritual words; two Sisters

 with their veils to their faces, silently mouthing prayers;

 and furthest from her the tall, graceful figure of Sashka,

 whose eyes were feverishly alight, face avid with excite-

 ment and pride. There, Cyllan thought, was the greatest

 betrayer of all - the fickle and greedy heart whose self-

 interest had brought them all to this . . .

  

 Suddenly a hollow silence fell as the prayer Keridil

 had been intoning ended. Fenar and Ilyaya raised their

 heads, and the High Initiate stepped forward so that the

 light pouring from the sacred chalice fell on him, setting

 his gold robe and circlet on fire with brilliance and

 casting a vivid halo around his fair hair. Cyllan heard

 someone - she thought it must be Sashka - gasp with

 poorly controlled eagerness, and then Keridil raised

 both hands high to begin the Exhortation to the

 Ultimate, the final words that he would speak before

 raising the lid of the gold casket. The High Initiate tilted

 his head back to gaze heavenward - and stopped, move-

 ment arrested as though a dagger had pierced his heart

 and struck him dead. Everyone heard his sharp, invol-

 untary intake of breath - then he turned, staring up past

 the company, back to the opening of the chasm in the

 rock wall.

  

 Cyllan knew what he must have seen even before she

 read the confirmation in his face. And there, on the

 ledge overlooking the crater's bowl, a solitary figure

 stood staring down at them. Barefoot, dressed only in a

 black shirt and trousers, his hair salt-matted and dried to

 wild tangles by the wind, he had none of his enemy's

 magnificence - but a quiet, deadly power radiated from

  

 him that dwarfed Keridil's ceremonial splendour to a

 hollow parody.

  

 Amid shocked silence the High Initiate took a step

 forward. His right hand reached unthinkingly for a

 sword that wasn't there, but he was the only one of the

 company who moved as Tarod crossed the ledge to the

 path and began to descend. He reached the crater floor,

 and for long moments the two adversaries gazed at each

 other from a distance while a myriad emotions crossed

 Keridil's face. Then, slowly, Tarod approached.

  

 Cyllan felt her upper arms suddenly and painfully

 gripped by the two Initiates beside her, and as Tarod

 drew nearer she was pulled roughly back, away from

 him. He stopped. For an instant venom glittered in his

 green eyes, then he looked at the High Initiate once

 more.

  

 Tell your Adepts to stay their hands, Keridil. I wish

 no harm to anyone here.'

  

 'How did you - ' Keridil started to say; then stopped.

 The whys and wherefores of how Tarod had duped or

 evaded the Guardians to reach the crater undetected

 were irrelevant - he was here; that alone mattered. But

 though he had planned for this moment, the manner of

 Tarod's arrival had thrown Keridil's scheme into dis-

 order and caught him unawares. He didn't know what to

 do ...

  

 Aware of Keridil's discomfiture. Tarod turned and

 walked to where Cyllan was held by her guards. The two

 Initiates fell back as he approached; with no direct com-

 mand from Keridil they were unsure of themselves, and

 afraid of the man before them. Tarod took Cyllan's

 wrists; she felt a small tingling shock, and the cords that

 bound her fell away, writhing, to the ground before

 Tarod raised her hands to his lips and kissed her fingers

 in a brief but significant gesture. As he raised his head

 again Cyllan saw, over his shoulder, Sashka staring at

 them. Her face was frozen into a look that confirmed

 everything - hatred, blind jealousy, rage, the final re-

 alisation that she had lost all sway over Tarod, and her

 utter refusal to accept that such a thing could be true. By

  

 his simple gesture to Cyllan, Tarod had delivered

 Sashka a vicious blow, and her pride couldn't bear it. As

 Tarod turned back to the company she continued to

 stare at him, ready, it seemed, to tear him apart with her

 fingernails in sheer fury; but he looked through her as

 though she didn't exist, and his eyes focused on Keridil.

  

 'There's no more need for conflict,' he said. 'And no

 need for what the Conclave has resolved to do.'

  

 Keridil's face went white. 'You dare to presume that

 you can stop it? Gods, I thought you arrogant, but never

 as arrogant as this!' He had recovered from the initial

 shock of Tarod's appearance, and his confidence was

 restored. 'We're not in the Castle now. This is Aeoris's

 sacred place; the greatest stronghold of Order - you

 have no power here, whatever your dark masters might

 have deluded you into believing!'

  

 Tarod shook his dark head and smiled thinly. He

 looked tired, Cyllan thought - tired and drained and

 troubled. 'I am not deluded, Keridil,' he replied, 'and

 you misunderstand my meaning. I haven't come to chal-

 lenge you.'

  

 Keridil's eyes narrowed. 'You wear the ring of Chaos,

 and you expect me to believe that?'

  

 'Yes,' Tarod said. He looked at the High Initiate for

 another moment as though trying to calculate whether

 or not he would intervene. Then he drew the silver ring

 slowly from his finger and, holding it in the palm of his

 hand, turned to where Fenar Alacar was standing star-

 ing as though transfixed at him. This was the first time

 the young High Margrave had set eyes on the Chaos

 demon of whom he had heard so many horrifying tales,

 and when his gaze met Tarod's he blanched visibly.

  

 Tarod took two steps towards him, then, to Fenar's

 and Keridil's astonished chagrin, bowed formally and

 with the greatest courtesy.

  

 'High Margrave. I pledge to you my loyalty and my

 fealty, and my word that I serve you in the name of

 Aeoris.' He made the Sign and straightened, his eyes

 suddenly intense. 'I have been accused of a great many

 crimes, High Margrave - in some instances I am guilty;

  

 in many I am not. Above all, my fealty to our gods, the

 Lords of Order, has never wavered. I don't serve Chaos

 -I renounce it and reject it, as I have done since the day

 of my Initiation. And I surrender this stone as proof of

 my good faith.'

  

 Fenar Alacar, his eyes wide, backed away as though

 Tarod held a Warp in his hand. Tarod hesitated, and his

 fingers closed over the stone once more.

  

 'Yes, sir; it's an evil gem; I won't deny it. But what-

 ever might have been said of me, I don't want to bring

 Chaos back to this world - I've already seen the madness

 that the mere fear of Chaos has loosed on the land, and if

 the Conclave's resolve is carried out, and Order and

 Chaos conflict, that madness could erupt into full-scale

 destruction. Enough harm has already been done. I

 have the means to destroy this stone by commending it

 into the hands of Aeoris himself - and I ask you to stop

 this rite and allow me, instead, to carry out that pledge.'

  

 'M-madness?' Fenar's voice squeaked on the second

 syllable and his face flushed angrily. 'You speak of mad-

 ness, but the only madness I see is that which you have

 perpetrated - and which you try to perpetrate with your

 lies now! You think that a few cleverly chosen words can

 sway us from our rightful and holy duty - you're wrong,

 demon! You're wrong!' He licked his lips and looked to

 his peers for confirmation. Keridil's expression was

 indecipherable but the Matriarch nodded grim

 encouragement.

  

 'You come too late to use your trickery, creature of

 Chaos,' Ilyaya Kimi told Tarod with venom. 'You have

 been the source of much evil in this world, but that evil

 will be tolerated no longer! Aeoris shall return - he will

 destroy you, and when you are destroyed he will root out

 all who have strayed from the ordained path and they

 will be punished! There'll be none of your wicked spawn

 left behind to carry on your work when you are gone!'

  

 Tarod had a sudden and terrible insight into the

 Matriarch's vision of the gods' judgement. 'How can you

 say that Aeoris will punish his own people, when their

  

 only failing has been that of fear?' he demanded. 'There

 has been no crime!'

  

 Fenar, whose confidence was growing by the moment,

 said contemptuously, 'Ha!' and Ilyaya's eyes glinted

 coldly. There has been sin,' she said implacably 'We

 have seen its corruption throughout the land, and we

 have seen the brave efforts made to bring its perpetra-

 tors to account - but it's not enough! It must be utterly

 expurgated, and the greater the sin, the greater the

 expurgation.'

  

 Tarod stared at her, appalled, and remembered the

 sickening injustices he had seen as he travelled; the

 burning fields, the slaughtered animals, the mockeries

 of trials that sent innocent folk to their deaths. And the

 Matriarch spoke of brave efforts . . . He said, his voice

 harsh with emotion, 'But there's no call to resort to such

 savagery! The stone can simply be destroyed - surely

 you can see the wisdom in that? This way, there will be

 bloodshed and misery of such an order that it doesn't

 bear thinking about. It could be avoided!'

  

 'Aeoris will extract his price,' said Ilyaya stubbornly.

 'And we, who are his chosen, will be the instruments of

 his justice and mercy.'

  

 'Mercy?' Tarod's face was haggard.

  

 'Yes, mercy.' She all but spat the word back at him.

 'And those whose souls are pure need not fear, for

 though they suffer greatly in the trial, they will not be

 found wanting.'

  

 It was blind dogma - the Matriarch spoke nothing but

 meaningless cant, and yet, Tarod realised, no reason in

 the world would shake her. As for Fenar Alacar - per-

 haps he could expect no better from an arrogant and

 inexperienced boy in the throes of his first true taste of

 power, but the High Margrave's refusal to listen made

 mockery of Tarod's hopes. He was about to entreat

 them one last time to consider what he had to say, when

 a new voice spoke harshly behind him.

  

 'Kill him, Keridil.' He knew the tones only too well.

 'He lies, and he attempts to blind us, as the High Mar-

 grave and Lady Matriarch have already seen. Kill him

  

 now. Send him to Aeoris, and let's see how his pro-

 testations of loyalty fare when he confronts the god he

 professes to worship!'

  

 A shocked silence followed Sashka's outburst, but as

 everyone turned to look at her Tarod saw a glint of

 approval in Ilyaya Kimi's eyes. The girl was staring at

 Tarod, every fibre radiating loathing and fury, and

 before Keridil could react Ilyaya Kimi said, 'Your con-

 sort speaks out of turn, Keridil, but she speaks good

 sense nonetheless.'

  

 'Yes, Keridil.' Fenar Alacar was determined not to be

 in the minority. 'Your lady is right - and you yourself

 have warned us often enough of this demon's duplicity! I

 say, kill him.'

  

 Tarod was looking at Sashka, his eyes contemptuous.

 'I'd expect little better counsel from the High Initiate's

 consort,' he said almost gently, 'And, to me at least, her

 motives are pitifully clear.' He bowed sardonically to the

 girl, 'I'm sorry, Sashka, that I disappoint you by my

 refusal to wring my hands in anguish at your rejection of

 me.'

  

 Sashka's mouth tightened into a vicious line and her

 cheeks flamed; Tarod saw Keridil's quick, chagrined

 glance in her direction and realised just how successfully

 Sashka had blinded her new lover to her true nature. It

 seemed that the High Initiate was about to make an

 angry outburst, but Tarod forestalled him.

  

 'Very well. Kill me now, Keridil - or try. But there is

 an alternative, if what I've already said can't move you.'

  

 Keridil stared at him. 'It cannot. And any .alternative

 you may suggest is pointless.'

  

 'Is it? Even if I were to ask that I be allowed to plead

 my case to Aeoris himself?'

  

 The slight frown that appeared on the High Initiate's

 face rekindled the last slender hope that remained.

 Unreason might prevail amongst his peers, but Keridil

 had never been one to allow dogma alone to sway him,

 and he could see that his adversary's offer left no room

 for trickery. Before he could speak, however, the

 Matriarch hissed deep in her throat and said,

  

 'The demon has a silver tongue! I counsel you not to

 heed him, Keridil. He must die. There is no more to be

 said.'

  

 Sashka smiled, and Fenar Alacar nodded vigorously.

 'Kill him.'

  

 Keridil glanced at the auburn-haired girl beside him

 and saw the unholy light that gleamed with a clear

 message in her eyes.

  

 'He deserves far worse than death,' she said. 'But

 death is a beginning . . . '

  

 And Keridil, though he wished with all his heart that

 he could have remained in ignorance, began to under-

 stand . . .

  

 Tarod watched them all, his unquiet gaze flickering

 from one to another. It took great self-control to keep

 silent but he knew that to speak now would be to wreck

 this one final, perilous chance. Keridil's hatred of him

 was intense but beneath the High Initiate's prejudice

 reason was struggling to find a foothold. And Tarod was

 gambling on his one-time friend's unwillingness to be

 pressurised into a decision to which he might be irrever-

 sibly committed.

  

 Encouraged by Keridil's silence, Sashka said sud-

 denly, 'My love, if - ' but got no further as, to her

 discomfiture, Keridil looked quickly at her with suspi-

 cion and anger in his eyes. Wo,' he said, then raised both

 hands as his other companions made to protest. 'No. If

 Tarod is willing to face the ultimate arbiter, I won't deny

 such a request.' He looked at them all in turn, his eyes

 suddenly cold and challenging. 'I haven't the sanction to

 deny it. What temporal power may refuse any man - '

 he touched his tongue to his lips, 'any man, whatever his

 nature, the right to plead directly to the gods who rule us

 all?' He looked at Tarod, his eyes suspicious and

 unhappy. 'Ironically, you and I seem to agree on one

 matter at least - that it is better if needless suffering can

 be avoided. I grant your request.'

  

 Sashka hissed, 'Keridil - ' and the Matriarch's face

 reddened with impotent anger. 'Keridil, think what

 you're saying! This demon has duped you before and it's

  

 plain to me that he means to dupe you again! You cannot

 do this; I forbid it!'

  

 The High Initiate turned to her. Something within

 him had turned to ashes, and the bitterness - which, as

 yet, he couldn't even begin to comprehend - brought

 anger and a sense of personal injustice in its wake.

  

 'You cannot forbid it, madam.' His tone was cold,

 bleak. 'Unless, that is, you would care to stand before

 that votive light and raise the lid of the casket with your

 own hands . . . ? Or you, High Margrave . . . ? No;I

 thought not. That responsibility is mine alone, and if I

 am to accept it - as I do - then I'll brook no interference.'

 He smiled faintly but with no pretence at humour.

 'Besides, to believe that any duplicity Tarod might be

 planning could prevail in the face of Aeoris's power

 would be, I think, tantamount to blasphemy.'

  

 Ilyaya's jaw dropped and the High Margrave paled.

 Sashka moved towards Keridil, one hand outstretched

 as though to touch his arm then thought better of it.

 Keridil faced Tarod once more.

  

 'I give you this one chance, Tarod. Not for your sake,

 but because I've seen what's afoot in this land and I want

 it to end. I hope . . . ' he hesitated then shook his head.

 'No matter. Let it be done.'

  

 He had been about to say, I hope Aeoris extracts

 payment threefold for the evil you've done, but suddenly

 the words seemed hollow, meaningless; and Keridil was

 no longer sure of their validity. This wasn't the time to

 question his own subconscious motivations; all he knew

 was that a goal which once had seemed so bright had

 been tarnished and at the heart of the tarnish was doubt.

 Sashka's eyes, as she gazed at Tarod, mixed hatred with

 a desire that betrayed the High Initiate's deepest-rooted

 suspicions; his peers' determination to have revenge at

 any price and without thought for the consequences . . .

 He had learned a good deal on the long journey South

 through stricken villages and frightened towns and

 ruined farmlands, and the harshest lesson of all was the

 fallibility of human judgement, not least his own. If it

  

 wasn't too late to redress the balance, history might at

 least grant that achievement to his credit.

  

 He said: 'I ask you all for silence. If anyone is not yet

 prepared in mind and heart for what is to come, I exhort

 you to prepare yourselves now.'

  

 No one spoke. The two Initiates had relinquished

 their hold on Cyllan but she didn't move. Tarod stood

 motionless, the silver ring with its deadly stone glinting

 in his cupped hands as Keridil turned his back on the

 assembly and walked, with the slow deliberation of one

 in doubt of his own strength, towards the votive altar at

 the centre of the great bowl. The light from the eternally

 burning chalice spilled over and around him, casting a

 grotesque shadow; for perhaps two or three minutes he

 stood with his head bowed. Tarod's arrival had inter-

 rupted the Exhortation to the Ultimate, the final rite

 which tradition dictated must be completed before his

 hand touched the casket. Keridil had carefully memo-

 rised the formalised phrases, the long, elaborate sen-

 tences . . . and suddenly he thought: damn tradition.

 Briefly, silently, his lips formed the words of a very

 private prayer. Then he reached out both his hands and

 brought his fingers to rest on the glittering casket.

  

 It felt cold and yet hot together; a sensation his senses

 couldn't assimilate and which defied description. No

 human hand had touched this artefact since the day

 Aeoris himself had commended it into the custody of the

 first High Initiate of all ...

  

 His fingers tightened on the golden surface and he

 lifted the lid.

  

 Chapter 13

  

 Overhead, in the circle of visible sky, the stars went out.

  

 The towering walls of the volcano's crater lost their

 colour and texture, fading through the brown of long-

 dried blood to grey to an utter absence of hue, as though

 something were draining their pigment, their solidity,

 their very existence. The figures grouped about the altar

 seemed to lose their reality, becoming two-dimensional,

 ghost images with no semblance of life. Only Keridil,

 now framed by a glaring and brilliant halo, was real;

 Keridil, and the blinding radiance that had begun to

 issue from the open casket, a light that eclipsed all in its

 path, gaining strength, growing, slowly taking form.

  

 A sound like titanic wings clashing together, a noise

 beyond thunder, beyond anything imagination could

 conjure, crashed against the ears of the mesmerised

 watchers, and in its wake came a slow, clopping, terri-

 fyingly measured tread, as though some monstrous

 supernatural horse bore an unnameable rider towards

 them, stepping between dimensions and threatening to

 break into a world too small to contain it. The two

 Sisters who had accompanied Ilyaya Kimi fell to their

 knees, sprawling in the dust of the crater bowl; one cried

 out, but her voice was no more than a tiny, wounded cry

 against the vast cliff of noise.

  

 The brilliant light that poured from the casket inten-

 sified, pulsed, intensified again until no one could bear

 to look at it - no one save Tarod. Even the High Initiate

 recoiled from the radiance as it threatened to burn his

 eyes to ash in their sockets, flinging his hands up to

 protect himself while behind him his companions turned

 away and covered their faces. Only Tarod stood still,

  

 staring fixedly at the incredible brilliance swelling above

 the casket. And only Tarod bore full witness to the

 manifestation when it came.

  

 The wall of sound suddenly ceased. One moment it

 dinned and echoed throughout the crater; the next it was

 gone, and the shocking peace was broken only by a last,

 incredibly pure harmonic before that too faded and

 died. The white light still burned but its edges were

 turning to gold and at its heart a face was forming;

 proud, wise, beautiful. Then the sphere of radiance

 seemed to rise above the altar stone; there was a

 moment of utter silence -

  

 A single bolt of white lightning sheared from the core

 of the light in silent glory and the great stone split in two.

 For a moment even Tarod was blinded, then his vision

 cleared and he could see the stone once more.

  

 The casket and the votive chalice were gone. The altar

 was severed into two perfect halves - and before it stood

 Aeoris.

  

 The greatest of the Lords of Order had chosen to take

 the form of a tall and perfectly proportioned warrior.

 His clothing was a simple white jerkin and trousers, over

 which a light white cloak had been cast, falling almost to

 his feet. A plain golden circlet held back long white hair

 that framed a strong, impassive, stern face. He might

 have been human - but for his eyes. They had no pupil,

 no iris; instead, the deep-set sockets were filled with

 pulsing golden light.

  

 Keridil dropped to one knee, bowing his head almost

 to the ground in the ultimate gesture of obeisance. All

 around him Tarod glimpsed others following his lead;

 even Cyllan, stunned and awed by the implacable aura

 that radiated, both physically and astrally, from the

 White Lord's figure, sank, fearful and trembling, to her

 knees in the dust of the crater. He, too, should have

 knelt - this was the god he had revered all his life, the

 supernal being, ultimate judge of all in and beyond the

 world - but he couldn't do it. However loudly reason

 and right cried out to him, he couldn't make the gesture

  

 - and he didn't know why. Instead he stood, immobile

 and alone, facing Aeoris.

  

 The White Lord stepped forward until the light that

 burned around him also encompassed the hunched fig-

 ure of the High Initiate. He reached out and his right

 hand came to rest on Keridil's brow. Tarod saw the

 shudder that racked Keridil; heard his whispered words:

 'My lord Aeoris . . . '

  

 'You have called me, High Initiate, and I am here.'

 Aeoris raised his head and surveyed the scene before

 him. The terrible, featureless gaze, which looked blind

 and yet saw far beyond physical dimensions, lingered on

 Tarod's face for a moment, then dropped to the ring

 cupped in Tarod's hand. His aura drowned the Chaos

 stone's small brilliance, but nonetheless Tarod felt the

 gem pulse hot against his palm.

  

 Keridil spoke again, more clearly this time, and there

 was real and painful fear in his voice. 'My lord Aeoris, I

 beg your forgiveness if I have transgressed, or shown

 haste or rashness in my judgement. I believe - we all

 believe - that only your justice and your mercy can save

 our land from the dark threat of Chaos.' Summoning all

 his courage, he dared to look up. 'We have done all we

 could, and we have failed.'

  

 Aeoris was still gazing at the gem. His eyes were cold,

 remote; his mouth set in a harsh line. 'You were not

 wrong to call upon me,' he said. 'For I know that evil

 walks abroad once more in this world and must be

 expunged.' The golden eyes pulsed. 'And I see before

 me the quintessence of that evil.'

  

 Tarod took a deep breath. His throat was dry and

 speaking was painful; but he forced himself to break the

 silence.

  

 'My lord, you see before you a loyal and faithful

 worshipper of the Order which was your greatest gift to

 this world. I come before you in humility and truth, to

 commend this stone of Chaos into your hands, that it

 may never again taint or threaten our land.'

  

 There was an ugly taste in his mouth. Did his words

 ring false? They surely couldn't; this was the goal for

  

 which he'd striven since the day when he'd first under-

 stood the Chaos stone's nature . . .

  

 'A loyal worshipper who does not kneel to his god?'

 There was an edge to Aeoris's voice; sharp, angry,

 almost pettish.

  

 'I face you as I am, my lord, that you may see me the

 clearer. Not a thing of Chaos but a true follower of

 Aeoris.'

  

 'Yes, I see you the clearer.' The god did not smile, did

 not unbend in any way. 'I see the worm of corruption,

 the flouter of my law, the threat to my rule. There is no

 place in the world, or in the life beyond, for such a one.

 You have transgressed. And for those who transgress

 against me there will be no mercy!'

  

 Cyllan's head came up sharply, her face ashen, and

 she cried out, 'No! Tarod isn't evil! Lord Aeoris, I beg of

 you, grant him - '

  

 'Silence!' The word had the impact of an Arctic wind

 and Cyllan recoiled in terror. The White God's gaze

 fastened on her with distant contempt. 'I will hear no

 pleadings from the corrupt. You have sinned against my

 law and there will be no forgiveness. You are damned.'

  

 'My lord, I ask you to hear me!' Tarod stepped a pace

 forward and the god's blank eyes turned to him. 'I don't

 plead for myself: though I might seek to cleanse the taint

 of my own nature, I can't deny what I am. But I entreat

 you to show mercy to Cyllan. Her only crime has been to

 fall under my influence, and - '

  

 Aeoris interrupted him. 'That is crime enough. The

 girl has sinned and sin will be punished. My word is law -

 I judge her guilty and she shall be annihilated.'

  

 Tarod's jaw-muscles tightened. 'And is there no room

 for mercy in your rule, my lord?'

  

 'You dare to question me?' Aeoris thundered. 'I am

 Order, and Order is supreme! I have set the pattern of

 this world and those who deviate from the pattern will

 know my wrath!' His voice dropped but the menace in it

 was the greater for that. 'Many have strayed away from

 the path. There will be a reckoning, and the trans-

 gressors will learn what it is to fear their lord and suffer

  

 his vengeance.' He began, slowly, to walk towards

 Tarod and the huddled figures about him cowered away.

 The mercy of Order is justice. And justice lies in the

 punishment of those who have erred. There is room for

 nothing else!'

  

 Tarod felt as though a shell of ice were forming

 around his heart, freezing and constricting him. Where

 was the clemency, the temperance, the open hand of

 kindness which he had been taught to expect from the

 greatest of all the gods? Instead, he faced an implacable

 and savage avenger; that which didn't conform rigidly to

 Aeoris's law, Aeoris would destroy; and there could be

 no compromise.

  

 The White Lord had halted a few paces from Tarod

 and now he extended his right hand in a commanding

 gesture. 'I will take that evil jewel,' he said coldly. 'I will

 destroy it. When it is destroyed, the power of those who

 seek to oppose Order will be broken and our rule will

 once again be absolute. You and your paramour will

 accept utter annihilation as your due punishment, and

 then my brothers and I can begin the work of retribution

 and the restoration of righteousness throughout the

 land.'

  

 Retribution and the restoration of righteousness . . .

 Tarod's fingers clenched convulsively over the silver

 ring. There was no righteousness in Aeoris's plan . . .

 he would scourge all who had strayed from his rigid

 path, with no care for the suffering and misery he would

 inflict. In the wake of this ugly revelation Tarod was

 reminded sharply of his own analogy concerning insects

 trampled by warring swordsmen; but this was worse, for

 the cruelty would be calculated and deliberate. If this

 was the justice of Order, Tarod thought with bitter fury,

 he wanted none of it.

  

 We could challenge their sway . . . The thought came

 unbidden to his mind, and in his hands the Chaos stone

 pulsed again. He forced the concept away, telling him-

 self it was too late. He had come this far; he couldn't turn

 back now. There must be a way to break through the

 White Lord's rigidity, to appeal to his mercy.

  

 He looked again at Aeoris, who still stood with his

 hand extended to take the ring, and hope died. The god

 would never yield, never forgive. He would smash the

 last vestiges of Chaos in the world and then nothing

 could stand against him or temper his influence. The

 reign of Order would be absolute - and it would create a

 terrible imbalance that would set the world not on a

 shimmering road to peace and harmony, but on a dark,

 grim and inevitable path to entropy and death.

  

 He remembered, though he'd been fighting to keep

 the memory at bay, the dream-encounter with Yandros

 while he lay sleeping at the Shu-Nhadek inn. You have

 seen injustice, bigotry, persecution, murder, all per-

 petrated in the name of Order, Yandros had said. Now,

 with the White Lord's cold gaze blazing before him,

 Tarod couldn't deny the truth of those words. Throw

 yourself on Aeoris's mercy, Yandros had said, and where

 there were seven, there will be six. Imbalance . . . the

 realisation, the understanding, struck at the root of his

 consciousness, and it horrified him. Chaos unchecked

 was the ultimate insanity - but at the other end of the

 spectrum, did not Order unchecked threaten to be the

 same? As a man, Tarod had worshipped Aeoris, loved

 this world, believed that Order must be supreme. But

 now he could no longer think as a man thought. There

 was more; so much more - unhuman experience and

 wisdom that warned him of the consequences of letting

 the balance slip beyond redress. Day must be countered

 by night, cold by heat, love by hatred . . . and Seven

 must be countered by Seven.

  

 Your cherished ways are crumbling back into the arid

 dust out of which they were born. It was as if Yandros

 stood beside him and spoke the words aloud; and though

 he had first heard them so long ago, and had rejected

 them, Tarod remembered them now with dreadful clar-

 ity. Without Chaos, there can be no true Order . . .

  

 It had gone too far. There must be balance - for

 without one force to temper the other, the world would

 finally collapse into utter destruction. Yandros had been

 right . . .

  

 'I still wait.' Aeoris's voice cut into his tumbling

 thoughts, and Tarod felt an involuntary surge of hatred

 and contempt for the White Lord. He quelled it, licked

 dry lips . . .

  

 'Why do you hesitate, worm of corruption?' The god's

 voice was a challenging mockery. 'Do you fear, at the

 last, the retribution which you deserve? Well you might!'

  

 Beside him Tarod felt Cyllan stir fearfully. He

 reached down, took hold of her hand and felt a terrible

 grief tear at him. He had been prepared to sacrifice

 everything for her sake. But the nature of the sacrifice he

 was about to make was greater than he'd dreamed; for it

 would divide them more surely than mere death could

 ever do. He would lose her, forever- and yet they would

 both live on with the eternal knowledge of that loss.

  

 He looked at her and knew it had to be. For the sake

 of the world he loved, for the sake of life itself . . .

  

 'Give me the jewel, demon of Chaos.' Aeoris's face

 was darkening with the anger of one thwarted.

  

 Tarod gazed back at him. His fingers relaxed, so that

 the silver ring with its clear jewel shone, struggling

 against the brilliance of the White Lord's aura. Then,

 slowly and icily, he smiled, and said with soft mal-

 evolence, 'I think not.'

  

 'What is this?' Aeoris's voice was thunder.

  

 Tarod laughed softly. 'You have become blind,

 Aeoris of Order. You have reigned unchecked for so

 long that you have forgotten what it is to be opposed. I

 think the time has come for you to learn that lesson

 afresh!'

  

 At the periphery of his vision he saw Keridil rising to his

 feet. The High Initiate's face was a study in shock as

 intuition warned him of what was about to happen;

 beyond him the Matriarch and the High Margrave

 stared without comprehending. Tarod raised his left

 hand which held the ring; he touched the stone against

 his heart and saw Aeoris's arrogant confidence replaced

 by astonishment - and then the first fires of the power

 within Tarod took hold.

  

 He knew the door and he knew what lay beyond it.

 Through all his years in this world he had barred that

 door fast, shutting out the knowledge and the memories

 to which it led, shutting out the titanic, nameless, ageless

 forces even as they cried for release. But no longer. In

 his mind - in his soul - Tarod felt the bar lifting. He was

 not human - he had never been human - and now it was

 time to relinquish the mask of humanity he had worn for

 too long . . .

  

 A cry that might have been the last protest of a

 fallible, mortal man was wrenched from his throat as the

 door that had separated him from his heritage smashed

 open and, as the long-dead volcano in which they stood

 had once erupted, the power exploded to life within

 him. A screaming, shrieking wind roared down on the

 crater bowl, the rock floor bucked and heaved, throwing

 the terrified company into sprawling tangles of limbs -

 and a light as black as Aeoris's aura was white began to

 emanate from Tarod's tall, gaunt figure. The semblance

 of humanity was slipping from him; the wild mane of his

 hair snatched and whipped in the gale about a white face

 in which every bone was etched to razor sharpness, and

 in their dark sockets his eyes burned like emerald

 flames, alight with an unholy, insane joy. Black tendrils

 smoked around his frame, forming a terrible cloak that

 hid all but one skeletal hand, and as his lips drew back in

 a smile he was the dark twin of Yandros, essence of

 Chaos incarnate.

  

 Somewhere, a world away, Ilyaya Kimi began to wail

 on a thin, pitiful scale, rising and falling. Fenar Alacar

 crouched, retching with blind terror beside her; others

 covered their ears, hid their faces. Cyllan, who had been

 flung aside by the monstrous power erupting from

 Tarod, could only stare like a trapped, mesmerised ani-

 mal at the man - being - she had loved, as understanding

 threatened to split her mind apart. She had faced

 Yandros, but Yandros had been able only to manifest a

 fraction of his true self. What she witnessed now was

 Chaos in its triumphant entirety, and Chaos had a

 malevolent beauty and perfection that stirred pride, joy,

  

 despair and a savage longing to clash and battle together

 in her mind.

  

 The wind died, and the silence was appalling. But it

 lasted only a moment before a deep, shattering throb,

 almost at the limit of mortal discernment, began far

 beneath the rocks of the crater, in the mountain's heart.

 The ring in Tarod's left hand started to pulse with its

 rhythm, growing stronger with each grim beat so that the

 stone's light began to challenge the aura of the White

 Lord. And slowly, gradually, the ring was changing. The

 intricate silver base faded, leaving only the soul-stone,

 unsupported, hovering over Tarod's heart. And then

 the stone, too, lost its solidity, seeming to merge with

 the smoking tendrils that shrouded Tarod's form. Stab-

 bing points of brilliance radiated out from it in rhythm

 with the inexorable throbbing, and suddenly the jewel

 was gone, and in its place, pulsing like a monstrous

 heart, was a seven-rayed star - the emblem of Chaos.

  

 Tarod raised his head and pointed towards the shim-

 mering form of Aeoris before him. When he spoke, his

 voice was a shifting, sibilant whisper that drew its

 essence from dimensions beyond comprehension.

  

 'Do you know me, Aeoris of Order?'

  

 Aeoris's eyes turned from molten gold to white fire,

 searing Tarod's black aura. 'I know you, Chaos! And I

 will destroy you!'

  

 'If you can, White Lord. If you can!'

  

 Aeoris raised a hand, and a single bolt of lightning

 smashed the crater floor at Tarod's feet, shattering rock

 and fusing it into a new and tortured shape. The White

 God smiled. 'If I can?' His voice was mocking. 'You

 presume a great deal, creature of Chaos, if you presume

 to challenge me! I am Lord of Life and Death. I and my

 brothers are sole masters of the forces that govern this

 world.' His tone grew harsher. 'Do you dare to defy the

 reign of Life and Death? The rule of the Lords of Time

 and Space, and of Earth and Air, Fire and Water?'

  

 As Aeoris spoke, naming the ranks of the seven White

 Gods, six iridescent columns shimmered into existence

 at his back, in utterly perfect symmetry. They turned,

  

 spun, their facets reflecting brilliantly; then they

 coalesced into six appallingly beautiful human figures,

 white-haired, golden-eyed, each bearing a massive dou-

 ble-handed sword and each the perfect twin to Aeoris.

 As one, the Lords of Order smiled pityingly on their

 adversary, and their swords came up in a smooth,

 sweeping movement to reflect their own auras into a

 single dazzling coruscation of pure light.

  

 Tarod raised his face to the ragged circle of sky and

 the seven-rayed star at his heart pulsed anew. High

 above in the black void a pinpoint of light flashed into

 being out of utter darkness; a single, glaring white eye in

 the centre of the firmament. It, too, began to pulse with

 the same primordial rhythm until the two cold stars were

 as one in terrible harmony.

  

 Long ago it seemed now, and far away, in the Marble

 Hall deep beneath the Castle of the Star Peninsula,

 Tarod had banished Yandros from the world. He alone

 had possessed the power then to thwart Chaos; and he

 alone had the power, now, to reverse that banishment

 and break the barrier which kept the dark Lord from

 returning to challenge his ancient enemy.

  

 Where there were seven, there will be six ...

 Yandros's words rang again in Tarod's mind, and he

 smiled an old, knowing and affectionate smile. The time

 for doubt was past. He had shed his humanity, allowed

 the mask to shatter and reveal what lay beneath,

 accepted the truth of what he was. The Lords of Chaos

 would number seven again - and, after long centuries of

 waiting, they would reclaim their place in the world.

  

 He looked at Aeoris and the six glittering figures who

 flanked him, and spoke softly but with chilling pride.

  

 'You seem to have forgotten, My Lord of Life and

 Death, that you and your six brethren each has one who

 shadows him in the realm of Chaos.' His gaze slowly

 raked the six shimmering figures ranged at Aeoris's

 back. 'Which of these great princes, I wonder, calls

 himself the master of Time? I would be most interested

 to meet my own pale twin.'

  

 Aeoris's hot golden eyes blazed ferociously. 'You

  

 dare to mock the gods who granted you your miserable

 life - '

  

 'The gods of Order granted me nothing!' Tarod inter-

 rupted, his voice searing. There is another lord of Life

 and Death, Aeoris; another who now comes to chal-

 lenge you. And it is to him that I owe my allegiance.' He

 raised his head again, staring through the dark to the

 threatening, pulsing white star overhead. Then he

 smiled, and gently spoke a single word. The word was an

 acceptance and a summoning together, and it broke the

 strands of the web that had, for centuries, held two

 worlds apart.

  

 'Yandros.'

  

 For a time that no mortal observer would have dared

 to judge there was silence; the stifled, oppressive silence

 that afflicts the elements in the moments before the

 breaking of a storm. Then maleficent laughter showered

 down into the crater, skimming around the rock faces to

 echo insidiously across the bowl. The empty space at

 Tarod's left side seemed, momentarily, to become an

 utter vacuum; he turned his head - and the gaunt figure

 of Yandros stood where the emptiness had been.

  

 The great Lord of Chaos had taken human form. Gold

 hair, wild and unkempt, rippled over his shoulders; the

 colour of his eyes changed and changed again, and his

 perfect features were made harsh and preternatural by

 the shivering rainbow of his own aura.

  

 My brother of Time. You have learned - and you are

 whole again. A surge of kinship, amusement, affection,

 shared knowledge, accompanied the silent thought, and

 this time Tarod welcomed it, and the sense of triumph

 that suffused through him. He smiled in exquisite under-

 standing. 'I am whole, Yandros. And returned to my

 rightful place.'

  

 Yandros looked at the rigidly motionless Aeoris, and

 touched the tip of his tongue to his lips like a predator

 contemplating its prey. 'And you . . . Greetings, old

 friend,' he said softly. 'It is a long time since we last met.'

  

 Aeoris's brows met in a savage frown. 'And it will be

  

 long before we meet again, demon; for I will send you to

 a place from which you may never return!'

  

 Yandros smiled. 'Perhaps. But if you would reckon

 with me, Aeoris, you must also reckon with my kins-

 men.' He raised one hand in a calm gesture. 'With Chaos

 that is Fire.'

  

 A sound like a heavy door slamming shattered the

 deep, throbbing rhythm which still beat far under-

 ground. To Yandros's left another figure appeared; an

 image of pride, disdain, incredible venom. Again,

 Yandros smiled.

  

 'With Chaos that is Water.'

  

 A hiss this time, like a death-rattle. The fourth dark

 lord lurked against the far wall of the crater. His hair was

 the colour of rotting weed, his eyes insane; he made no

 move.

  

 'With Chaos that is Air.'

  

 The rock floor shifted again. Something rose from a

 fissure which moments ago had not existed; white-

 haired, face like a bird of prey.

  

 'With Chaos that is Earth.'

  

 Another, disturbingly akin to Yandros, his calm,

 peaceable smile deceiving no one.

  

 'Chaos that is Space.'

  

 And the seventh ... a dull noise like a single, dead

 drumbeat blotted out all other sound for an instant, and

 when Tarod turned his head he saw, on a ledge where

 the chasm mouth opened to the crater, a shadow, darker

 than any blackness, etched into the rock.

  

 Yandros clasped his hands together, steepling his

 fingers and contemplating them. 'Life and Death,' he

 said. 'Fire and Water and Air and Earth and Space.' He

 looked obliquely at Tarod. 'And Time.' Then his gaze

 flicked back to his adversary, and now it was venomous.

 'Challenge us, old friend - or be damned!'

  

 While the Lords of Chaos took form, matching their

 counterparts and enemies, Aeoris had stood motionless,

 gazing down at the veined rock beneath his feet. But at

 Yandros's taunt he raised his head, and his eyes burned

 with a power that could shatter Suns.

  

 'I pity you,' he said thoughtfully. 'I pity your pride and

 your arrogance that compels you to stand against the

 rightful rule of Order. Will you not accept the

 supremacy of my reign and concede to me now? For if

 you do, I might be moved to show mercy to those

 unfortunate mortals who have been duped by your false

 promises.'

  

 Yandros laughed, and the laughter fell like poison,

 melting rock where he stood. 'Order does not change,

 order cannot change. My brothers, our ancient adver-

 sary stands before us and pleads reason. What does

 Chaos know of reason?'

  

 Mirth shivered the crater; a vast sliver of stone

 detached itself from high in the cone and crashed to

 smithereens at Yandros's back. He glanced at the

 shards; they disintegrated and became dust. Then he

 smiled at Tarod.

  

 'It is time,' he said.

  

 Cyllan didn't know if anyone else was still conscious.

 She had watched the manifestation of the six Chaos

 Lords with a numbness that inured her to the worst

 shock: after such an experience, nothing could appal her

 now. But she heard the first rumbling of thunder in the

 distance, the herald of a storm moving in towards the

 island, and then in its wake a high, thin screaming that

 turned her blood to water.

  

 A Warp . . . Chaos made manifest. . . Bile rose in

 her throat and she choked it back. Above the Warp's

 faraway howl another sound was rising, clashing with

 and countering the storm's terrible voice. A single note,

 pure and piercing, its harmonics vibrating in incredible

 accord as the Lords of Order summoned their power to

 meet the challenge of Chaos. She felt the ground

 beneath her shake with the onslaught of forces it could

 barely contain. And in the midst of the warring cacoph-

 ony, she heard a voice - molten silver, fearsome with

 malignance - cry above the mayhem:

  

 'NOW! WE SHALL DESTROY THEM!'

  

 His form was a star and his dimensions spanned a uni-

 verse. Screaming with the power that blasted from the

 furnace within him he turned and wheeled, hurling vast

 bolts of molten crimson at the stabbing, spearing comets

 of light which surged out of the blackness to maim him.

 Beside him a star exploded in a furious inferno; crimson

 through yellow through white through blue, tentacles

 hurtling across the void to snare the white comet-blades

 as they seared at its heart. Beneath him black emptiness

 gaped to swallow the singing, deadly bolts; iridescent

 fire splashed against the black and it twisted, whimper-

 ing, in on itself.

  

 A new Sun erupted into life no more than a handspan

 beyond the reach of his arm. Golden, blazing, Order

 incarnate, it burned steadily, eating the darkness around

 it. He howled a command, and black, formless creations

 of pandemonium zigzagged and gyrated from nowhere

 to attack and devour the gold brilliance. The Sun

 flickered, faltered, gathered its failing strength for a last

 defiant surge; died. Voices shrieked in triumph, were

 drowned by a pure bolt of energy; something came at his

 back and he turned, flinging red lightning at its core,

 shattering, destroying. Chaos rampaged out of infinity

 to tear at the struggling remains of his broken enemy and

 he laughed, the laughter ricocheting from vast, invisible

 walls. This battle was older than form, older than time;

 in victory or in defeat it had never been resolved, but the

 joy of the primeval conflict was enough. He glimpsed

 faces twisted in malice or triumph or pain or all three

 together; sound dinned and howled beyond the

 threshold of bearing, hands clenched and clawed, and all

 the memories, the experiences, the knowledge and the

 understanding of the oldest conflict of all were fresh

 blood in his veins, new adrenalin, a power that could

 never be crushed but which would live, however bat-

 tered and however bruised, to fight again and again.

  

 Gold light blazed before him but it no longer had the

 power to dazzle; and the laughter which greeted every

 victory was merging into an endless, shrieking cacoph-

 ony of sound. He felt other presences touching and

  

 merging with his being, sensed the proximity of the

 greatest of his brethren and the satisfaction that burned

 at that being's heart.

  

 They are falling back . . . they are defeated . . . We

 have won, my brother of Chaos; we have won!

  

 He heard the wailing cry of bitter defeat, felt a back-

 lash from the sting of shame as his ancient adversaries

 drew away, their light shining sullenly now, a poor

 mockery of its old glory. He joined with his brother-

 Lords to form the implacable dark that drove them

 back, twisted and broke their hold, compressed and

 compacted them within a pulsing ring of power through

 which they no longer had the strength to break. The sky

 darkened through purple to black ... it was done . . .

  

 Images flickered like half-forgotten dreams across his

 consciousness, and at first he couldn't assimilate them or

 their significance. Bare rock; twisted forms that cowered

 and cried and prayed; a shattered altar - Laughter rang

 in his mind as his brethren poised themselves for the

 final blow -

  

 'NO!!'

  

 His voice rang across dimensions, shattered the link

 between the seven Lords of Chaos, and he felt their

 shock as he hurled the full power of his will against their

 intent. The two forces collided, and a titanic upheaval

 snatched him and smashed him with the force of a ham-

 merblow back to the mortal world he had left behind.

 He felt the sudden, violent constrictions of flesh, blood

 and bone as his consciousness exploded back into

 human form; felt his body twist and wrench, rock flow-

 ing beneath him, towering walls falling out of the sky.

 Above and around him he heard the insensate scream-

 ing of the Warp, and in his mind the sound swelled and

 spread until other voices - myriad voices, but human this

 time - joined the cacophony. It was as though his being

 encompassed the entire world. Oceans raged in his

 arteries and the roar of monstrous tides, whipped to

 frenzy by the warring powers of Chaos and Order, was

 the pounding of his own pulse. Mountains shook and

 cracked in his bones, opening mile-wide fissures that

  

 seared across the land and engulfed all in their path; he

 saw villages crushed and obliterated by massive walls of

 moving rock. Storm-gales that were his breath ram-

 paged beyond control, smashing forests, destroying

 crops, leaving devastation in their wake. And above the

 pandemonium still came that vast throng of massed

 human voices, a ceaseless wailing that seared him and

 tore at him and racked him with its terror and its pain; a

 damned and desperate cry for salvation.

  

 Man, demon and god met and merged in Tarod's

 mind, and in the crater-bowl he fell sprawling to his

 knees as the raw, unleashed power threatened to over-

 whelm him. He had to stop it-he had to control it, pull it

 back, or it would destroy the world - He gathered his

 will and felt the unchained forces fight back. Sternly,

 though knowing he was at the limits of his endurance, he

 commanded the raging seas, the quaking earth, the

 thundering storms; taking their fury upon himself, draw-

 ing it back, drawing it inward, holding it, calming it -

  

 He couldn't do it! The power was too vast and he

 couldn't contain it, couldn't overcome the pain and the

 destruction that beat against him like a ceaseless tidal

 wave. Alone, he hadn't the strength; it would destroy

 him. There was but one hope.

  

 He cried out across the world, across dimensions,

 seeking his kin. 'Yandros, this must not be! Help me -

 help me!'

  

 In his mind the seven-rayed star blazed out of dark-

 ness and he felt the presence of his brothers. Their minds

 joined with his; slowly, slowly, the madness of the ele-

 ments began to lessen, calming. The rushing in his blood

 slowed, the mountains ceased to shake; the crying,

 pleading voices were quieting at last - all fading,

 fading -

  

 Above the bowl of the ancient crater the Warp howled

 once and flashed out of existence - and Tarod's con-

 sciousness was slammed back into his mortal, physical

 form. His mind reeled with shock and he fought for

 breath; hardly aware of what he was doing, stunned by

 the terrible contradiction between his true self and the

  

 mortal memories that assailed him, he staggered to his

 feet and at last was able to open his eyes.

  

 The crater was a wrecked wasteland. Huge slabs of

 rock had been torn from the walls and hurled down to

 shatter on the floor of the bowl; great fissures had ripped

 through the mountain cone; the volcano's North face

 had split, and gaped to the indifferent sky like the open

 mouth of a corpse. Aeoris and his brethren were gone.

 Yandros and his own kin were nowhere to be seen. The

 only witnesses to his return were a small group of fallible

 and pitifully human figures who had somehow survived

 the insanity and now crouched in the scant shelter of the

 smashed altar-stone. One by one they raised their heads

 to stare fixedly at him, like cattle sensing, though not

 truly comprehending, that the hour for their slaughter

 had come.

  

 Yet there was one, just one, not bound by such mind-

 less fear. Tarod's emerald eyes raked the gathering and

 saw her. She got to her feet, unsteady but determined,

 and her amber gaze met his, seeking the humanity she

 had known behind the image of Chaos. What she saw,

 he couldn't tell; but in her face was a pain and a love that

 snatched him back to the humanity he had abandoned.

  

 She said, her voice shaking, Tarod . . . ?'

  

 He couldn't bring himself to speak her name; mem-

 ories hurt him like a knife-thrust. Instead he took a step

 towards her, knowing all the while that he dared not

 touch her, that the gulf between them was immeasur-

 able. At last he said, with the voice she knew, 'We are

 victorious. Order is defeated ... ' He wondered why

 the triumph meant nothing to him.

  

 'Oh, Tarod ... ' Understanding broke her com-

 posure, but despite what she knew she couldn't stop

 herself from stumbling forward, towards him, her hands

 reaching out as though in supplication.

  

 Behind her, someone moved. Tarod didn't react

 immediately; he was too intent on Cyllan and her

 unspoken grief. Only when red-brown hair flickered in

 the cold light from above, and a figure interposed itself

  

 between himself and Cyllan, did he realise what was

 afoot - and by then it was too late to intervene.

  

 Sashka was screaming; formless, wordless obscenities

 that spilled from her throat and lips as though she were

 possessed by the ultimate corruption. Cyllan started,

 swung round, tried to defend herself, but the knife in the

 other girl's hand was already shearing down. Where

 Sashka had found the blade Tarod couldn't begin to

 guess, and it was irrelevant - she had it, and the jealous,

 thwarted fury that possessed her was warped out of all

 proportion by terror and a mindless lust for revenge.

 Cyllan yelled as the blade came glittering at her

 unprotected body, a drover's oath that flung Tarod back

 in confusion to other, lost days - then the knife sliced her

 upraised arm, drawing a fountaining first sacrifice of

 blood, before the blade bit deeply, greedily through her

 flesh and into her heart.

  

 She didn't cry out again. Instead, she dropped her

 wounded arm to clutch at her breast, fingers locking

 round the hilt of the dagger protruding obscenely from

 her ribs. Her coarse shirt flowered brilliant crimson and

 she sagged to her knees, coughing, eyes filmed with

 shock. For a moment her amber gaze locked with

 Tarod's in what seemed a last, desperate plea. Then

 blacker blood vomited from her throat, cascading over

 her chin, and she keeled sideways to sprawl on the hard

 rock floor, and her eyes stared at nothing.

  

 There was utter silence. Tarod stood rigid, staring at

 Cyllan's corpse, his face utterly without expression.

 Sashka began to back away, her mouth working in a

 spasmodic, rictus grin of shocked pleasure. The others

 stared like hypnotised sheep . . . until Keridil broke the

 spell.

  

 He got to his feet, moving like an old, crippled man,

 and stumbled one, two paces forward. At first it seemed

 he would turn towards Sashka, and Tarod felt his whole

 body begin to shake with an emotion he couldn't con-

 tain. But then Keridil stopped, looked down, moved

 again. He dropped to his knees beside Cyllan and

 covered his face with both hands. The small part of

  

 Tarod's being which had retained its humanity realised

 that the High Initiate was crying.

  

 Green eyes, fathomless and filled with a savage light,

 lifted their gaze from Cyllan's huddled body to the girl

 who stood, shivering with an ugly blend of fear and

 defiant triumph, not seven paces away. Sashka met

 Tarod's stare; for a moment only her defiance held, then

 it was replaced by a look of horror.

  

 'No . . . ' Her lips formed the word, but whether it

 was plea or exhortation Tarod neither knew nor cared.

 He took a step towards her; her eyes widened.

  

 'Keridil . . . ' She stumbled backwards, one hand

 flailing, groping towards the High Initiate. 'Keridil, help

 me ... ' Her fingers found his shoulder and Tarod saw

 him flinch violently at the touch.

  

 'Keridil!' Sashka shrieked, and spittle flecked her lips.

 'Stop him - you've got to stop him! Help me, damn you -

 do something!'

  

 Keridil stared at her and his eyes were utterly blank.

 She was gasping incoherently, terrified now, but he

 made no move to aid her. Instead he shook his head,

 incoherent, incapable of communicating what he felt.

 Then, with a shudder that racked his entire body, he

 pulled himself out of her reach and turned away.

  

 'Keridil . . . ' This time Sashka's voice was barely

 more than a whisper; she was too petrified to move.

 Tarod's left hand started to rise, slowly, steadily, fingers

 forming a symbol; with the gesture came a resurgence of

 the power that had crushed gods, fuelled by a loathing

 that transcended all human limitations. He raised the

 hand, outstretched his arm, spoke a single word in a

 tongue never uttered by a human throat.

  

 Sashka began to moan. She moaned as her cascade of

 rich, red-brown hair shrivelled as though consumed by

 invisible flames and fell in shredded clumps from her

 scalp. Her hands came up, snatching at her skull; Tarod

 smiled a savage smile of pleasure, and the skin and flesh

 of her hands lost their form and began to melt

 repellently into her wrists, leaving bones stark and white

 in their place. She touched her own face and screamed;

  

 this time there was no challenge but only naked, animal

 panic. Tarod whispered another word and her face

 began to disintegrate, layer after layer of skin peeling

 back to reveal raw, crimson flesh beneath; sinew and

 muscle and vein exposed to the stricken gaze of the

 company. Someone gagged, vomited; Tarod smiled. As

 the girl dropped to her knees, he caught hold of her

 mind, twisted it, drew from its struggling tendrils the full

 knowledge of what was happening to the beauty and

 power which she had wielded as a weapon for so long.

 He felt her hatred of him, her desire for him, writhing

 under his control; he turned them into grovelling fear

 and let her consciousness flail in the emotion until he

 knew that agony and terror had devoured the last ves-

 tiges of her sanity and there was nothing more to be

 drained from her empty shell.

  

 Keridil, kneeling on the uneven rock, stared trans-

 fixed at the scene, though he was shocked beyond all

 ability to move or speak. Tarod continued to hold the

 shrieking girl in a pain-racked thrall, but bleak reason

 was struggling within him to be heard. There was

 nothing to gain from prolonging Sashka's suffering; his

 revenge was done and in ashes, and no savagery he

 might inflict on her could bring Cyllan back to life . . .

  

 His vision misted as tears filled his eyes, a legacy of

 mortality that ate at his soul, and he spoke for a third

 time. Sashka shrieked, once; then her body twisted and

 collapsed to the crater floor, blackening, losing form,

 her flesh falling away from staring bone, bone darken-

 ing, crumbling as the last echo of her scream died with

 her withering corpse. A white, bloated worm writhed

 briefly on the fused rock; he pointed, carelessly, and it

 was gone.

  

 As Sashka's last traces vanished into the hell to which

 he had consigned her, the mortal man that had been

 Tarod struggled back to the surface of the Chaos Lord's

 mind. He looked down at Cyllan and found himself

 biting back a grief that couldn't be assuaged; that owed

 nothing to Chaos's legacy but stemmed solely from the

  

 humanity which had taught him what it was to love and

 be loved.

  

 Keridil was moving away. He had abandoned all pre-

 tence of dignity, and crawled on hands and knees to put

 as much distance between himself and the place where

 Sashka had been as he could. The hideous manner of her

 death was burned indelibly on his mind, but as yet it had

 no power to affect him; he could only stare, mesmerised,

 at his one-time friend and old adversary. His breath

 rattled in his throat.

  

 Around them, others were rising. Tarod sensed them,

 saw them moving uncertainly, sensed the crazed terror

 in their minds as they realised what he had done. He

 hated them all, and that hatred could make him destroy

 again . . .

  

 No. Not that. They didn't deserve such blind retali-

 ation; to harm them without reason would make him no

 better than Aeoris.

  

 He flung out a hand and felt the power surging in him.

 They dropped where they stood, like felled trees, cast

 into an instantaneous sleep that would bring few dreams

 and fewer memories. Now, only he and Keridil were

 awake and aware.

  

 Tarod looked at the High Initiate's stricken face, and

 his loathing lost all meaning. What point was there in

 vengeance, when between them lay the dead body of the

 one human being who had mattered, whose life had

 been worth the price he had paid?

  

 He reached towards her and gathered her into his

 arms. Her blood was warm and wet against him and he

 raised her head, kissing her stained face, willing her to

 respond. She didn't respond. Even Chaos couldn't call

 back the dead.

  

 'Damn you . . . ' Tarod whispered, his voice break-

 ing. 'Damn you all . . . '

  

 Chapter 14

  

 They faced each other across a mental abyss. Somehow

 Keridil had found the strength to get to his feet, though

 his body was shaking feverishly and his facial muscles

 twitched with uncontrollable spasms. Between them,

 Cyllan was a still, stark testimony to Sashka's last act of

 revenge. The knife she had used had been Keridil's own;

 he had tried to stop her as she snatched it but in the

 confusion she had evaded him. Now Sashka was gone

 and he couldn't bear to think on what manner of torment

 Tarod might have committed her soul to suffer. She was

 dead; that was all he could ever know. And while his

 mind screamed out in grief for her, his heart was torn in

 two by the savage lesson he had learned. Sashka had

 betrayed him. His love had meant less to her than the

 chance to vent her unassuaged spite on Cyllan, and

 through Cyllan on Tarod. Keridil had doubted her

 motivations for some while, but had pushed the doubts

 aside and refused to face them until this moment. Now,

 he felt shamed and used. The knowledge couldn't kill his

 love for her - memories of her sweetness, her lithe body,

 her beauty, haunted him and would continue to haunt

 him through whatever life he had left; he would mourn

 her as any ardent lover would and should mourn. But he

 knew, now, what she truly had been.

  

 And Tarod . . . bizarre though it seemed, he knew

 that his friend-turned-enemy, despite the fact that he

 had shaken off any pretence of mortality, mourned for

 his lover just as he did. Though he'd never really known

 Cyllan except as an adversary, Keridil couldn't help but

 admire the loyalty and courage she had shown, and her

 steadfastness. She, far more than Sashka, had proved

  

 herself worthy of the one who loved her, and the know-

 ledge was bitter wine. Keridil deeply regretted Cyllan's

 death - though how he could hope to convey that to the

 being who confronted him now, and hope to be

 believed, he didn't know.

  

 He raised his head at last and said, stumbling over the

 words, 'I'm sorry. She didn't deserve to die.'

  

 'No . . . ' The voice was so like the Tarod he had

 known in the old, lost days that its familiarity made

 Keridil shiver. He felt tears springing to his eyes, and

 they weren't for Sashka but for something deeper; a

 trust, a kinship, something betrayed and gone beyond

 recall. There was so little left to salvage from this night-

 mare, yet he wanted to try. And if nothing else, he had a

 vestige of self-respect left to him.

  

 He said: 'So, you're victorious. At least now I know

 where I stand . . . but I won't worship you, Tarod. I am

 what I am; nothing can change that.' He looked up. 'It's

 one trait, I think, that we still share.'

  

 A startlingly human pain showed in Tarod's green

 eyes, then he shook his head. The black aura still blazed

 around him, his face still bore little trace of humanity;

 but his resemblance to the one-time Initiate of the Circle

 was so strong as to be discomforting.

  

 'I don't deny that, High Initiate; I've no reason to

 challenge it.'

  

 Keridil swallowed. 'High Initiate? It used to be

 Keridil, in the old days.'

  

 'The old days are gone.' A nacreous light glittered in

 Tarod's eyes. 'We can't recall them.'

  

 Keridil nodded. 'It could have been cleaner. Gods, I

 -' he paused, smiled self-deprecatingly. 'I must be care-

 ful. I no longer know which gods I call on.'

  

 'Does it matter?' Tarod's voice was cruel.

  

 'Perhaps it doesn't; not when so much has been lost.'

 He hesitated. 'I sensed - at least, I think I did - some-

 thing of what took place when you . . . defeated them.

 So much of it could have been avoided.' He blinked, bit

 his lip. 'Couldn't it?'

  

 Tarod didn't answer. Instead he closed his eyes,

  

 sighed, and the sigh became a soughing wind that skit-

 tered across the crater. Far overhead the seven-rayed

 star still pulsed in triumph, but the victory was dust in his

 heart. He needed to forget, but he couldn't forget, not

 while he still suffered the terrible conflict between the

 essence of Chaos within him and the humanity which he

 had adopted and which held him in a tighter grip than

 he'd believed possible. That humanity had driven him to

 stop Yandros from destroying the forces of Order

 altogether, and it had driven him to risk his own destruc-

 tion in a frantic effort to stem the forces unleashed on

 the helpless world by the warring gods. Yet he couldn't

 remain in this limbo between the two states of being; he

 had chosen a path, and it was impossible to turn back.

  

 Silently in his mind he formed a name. The wind rose

 to gale force; above them in the sky the seven-rayed star

 flickered as though a cloud had passed across it. Then

 came a sound like a door softly closing, and Yandros

 stood at Tarod's side. His many-hued eyes were quieter

 than usual.

  

 'Brother.' Yandros laid a hand on Tarod's shoulder.

 The world is calm now, and Order vanquished if not yet

 entirely destroyed.'

  

 Tarod smiled tiredly but affectionately at him. 'And

 again I am in your debt, Yandros. If you'd not lent me

 your strength when I called to you, I couldn't have

 stemmed that tide alone.'

  

 Yandros made a dismissive gesture. 'Why should we

 not have answered? We have no true quarrel with

 humanity, and certainly no wish to bring destruction on

 this world. And this world is now ours to command. Our

 only enemies are Aeoris and his insipid brood - and

 those mortals who have actively connived with them

 against us.' His gaze flickered to Keridil and the perfect,

 malevolent mouth curved in a smile which made the

 High Initiate flinch away. 'It will please you, I think, to

 see them take a long while in dying.'

  

 Tarod looked bleakly at Keridil, then said, 'No.'

  

 'No?' Yandros echoed the word. 'My kinsman, I don't

 understand you. The battle's over; we have won. Order

  

 can be crushed to shards under our heel and will never

 trouble us again. All that remains is for us to see the

 destruction of their servants - beginning with vermin

 like this!' He pointed at Keridil.

  

 Tarod hesitated, then shook his dark head. 'No,' he

 said again, and smiled sadly at his brother of Chaos. The

 barriers that had separated him from Yandros for so

 long were down now; there could be no more

 misunderstanding.

  

 'I made a great mistake, Yandros,' he said. 'I turned

 my face from my heritage - my own nature - and I fell

 into the trap of believing in the ultimate righteousness of

 Order.'

  

 Yandros's lips quirked, but before he could comment

 Tarod continued. 'I know what you're thinking - you

 warned me before I took incarnation on this world, and

 you've tried to warn me since. I would be tainted by

 those I moved among, and the purity of Chaos would be

 diluted by the catechisms of Order.' His eyes narrowed.

 'You were right - and yet you were wrong.'

  

 'Wrong?' Yandros shifted a little; his voice held

 thoughtful amusement and the rock beneath his feet

 changed form with disturbing abruptness.

  

 'Yes. I was tainted - and yet I learned lessons which,

 without the shackles of humanity, I couldn't have begun

 to understand.' Tarod's eyes clouded for a moment.

 'I've brought us perhaps the greatest advantage over

 Aeoris and his kin that we've ever possessed, Yandros.

 The advantage of understanding, from experience, the

 hopes and fears and ideals that plague those not imbued

 with our immortality.'

  

 Yandros looked speculatively at Keridil, who was

 watching him uncertainly. He touched his tongue to his

 lips. 'You intrigue me. When we first sought to infiltrate

 Aeoris's stronghold, I didn't imagine that such com-

 plications would result from the experiment.'

  

 'No more did I. But perhaps it isn't possible - even for

 the likes of us - to masquerade as mortals, and to take on

 mortal form and life, without gleaning something of

 mortal thought and emotion.'

  

 'Emotion?' Yandros raised his eyebrows.

  

 Tarod looked back at Cyllan's body; felt something

 within him constrict. 'Emotion, yes. Though that isn't

 the province of humanity alone.'

  

 The Chaos Lord acknowledged the point with an

 inclination of his head. 'She served us well; she was

 faithful to you. It seems such a waste ... ' he drew the

 coruscating brilliance that cloaked him more closely

 about his frame and stepped around the corpse to con-

 front Keridil directly. 'And you. We meet again, High

 Initiate of the Circle, and under happier circumstances -

 at least for us. What have you to say, now that your gods

 are vanquished?'

  

 Keridil didn't flinch. Once he had been afraid of

 Yandros, and he knew that to face up to him now was

 insanity; but it didn't seem to matter. So much had been

 lost, so much had changed; if all he had left was his

 integrity, he could at least hold to that.

  

 'I have served Order all my life, Yandros of Chaos,'

 he said. 'And whatever else I may be, I'm no hypocrite. I

 won't change my allegiance to save my neck; or to save

 my soul, for that matter. I'll admit to you - and if I'm

 damned for it I don't think I care any more - that my

 conscience didn't rest easy with what Aeoris meant to

 do, and I ... ' he hesitated, 'I'm not entirely sorry that

 Tarod chose as he did. But that doesn't mean I'm pre-

 pared to forsake all I've ever believed in, and worship

 Chaos simply because Chaos has triumphed.' He looked

 at Tarod. 'I like to think you might understand that.'

  

 'It's as it should be,' Tarod replied softly, causing

 Yandros to look at him in surprise. His green eyes were

 narrow, but he smiled as he turned to his brother.

 'Keridil Toln was the first true friend I had in this world.

 He betrayed me, but he betrayed me for what he

 believed was a sound principle. He's learned a great deal

 since then, I think. Above all he's learned the meaning

 of equilibrium, and if we destroy him, we'll waste some-

 thing that could prove invaluable.'

  

 'Equilibrium?' Yandros queried gently.

  

 'Yes. Your own words, if you recall them. What use is

  

 Order without Chaos to challenge its rule? And by the

 same standard, what lies ahead for us if nothing opposes

 our ways?' He looked up at the empty sky. Both Moons

 had set, and the seven-rayed star no longer shone over-

 head. There was nothing but darkness. 'Will we stag-

 nate, as Aeoris and his brothers stagnated, so secure in

 our reign that we become anachronisms as he has done?

 The world sickened under that regime, and almost died.

 I wouldn't want to see us make the same mistake.'

  

 Yandros was watching him, and the expression in his

 deep-set, ever-changing eyes ran a full gamut of reac-

 tion. Amusement, anger, speculation, respect, affec-

 tion; it was impossible to judge the thoughts behind his

 unhuman gaze.

  

 Tarod said: 'Perhaps Aeoris would have demanded an

 eye for an eye; but we know better. That's why I say that

 Keridil should live - wherever his loyalties lie.'

  

 Yandros considered for a few moments. 'If he can

 learn, perhaps he deserves the chance to profit from his

 past mistakes. You speak of equilibrium, Tarod, and I

 think you are right. Order and Chaos are old enemies,

 but old enemies are also old friends. Aeoris must be

 taught that he has nothing to gain from tipping the

 balance so far in his own favour. The conflict between us

 can never be resolved - the balance must be maintained,

 for anything that is to grow and prosper must by nature

 contain its intrinsic opposite.' He smiled wolfishly.

 'Opposition will prevent us from becoming complacent.

 Very well.' He looked at the High Initiate with a new

 interest. 'Keridil Toln may live.'

  

 Keridil shut his eyes tightly. He had been prepared

 and willing to die, yet the relief of his reprieve was

 indescribable. He couldn't assimilate the reality of his

 situation; part of him was still convinced that this was a

 nightmare from which he would, at any moment, wake.

  

 He opened his eyes again and saw the two unhuman

 figures gazing at him. He was beyond fear now; all he felt

 was a strange, detached sense of sorrow to which he

 couldn't give a name.

  

 He looked down at Cyllan and said involuntarily, 'I

 wish - '

  

 'No.' Tarod's voice was savage. 'Don't say it. Don't

 ever dare to utter it!'

  

 Yandros regarded him, and a faint frown creased his

 cruelly perfect features. 'Did she mean that much to

 you? Don't answer me as a man or as a Lord of Chaos.

 Answer me as Tarod, who is both.'

  

 The green eyes narrowed with pain and Tarod looked

 away. Yandros sighed. He gazed down at Cyllan, then

 held out his left hand. At first Keridil thought it must be

 an illusion, but his doubt didn't last. Cyllan's eyelids

 fluttered; a soft sound escaped from her lips and her

 body tautened. Then intelligence flooded into her

 amber eyes where there had been nothing but the glaze

 of death, and she whispered a word, just recognisable.

 'Tarod . . . '

  

 Tarod turned quickly away, his face tortured.

 'Yandros, you can't - she's dead; I watched her die!'

  

 'Peace.' Yandros was still looking at Cyllan but he

 reached out to touch Tarod's arm. 'I've not reanimated

 her. This is not merely her soulless body which moves

 and speaks. She lives.'

  

 Tarod stopped, turned his head to regard the Chaos

 Lord in shock and confusion. The power to defy death,

 to reverse the stroke of its hand, was one that he knew

 Yandros alone in the Chaos realm possessed . . . but it

 was a power Yandros had not chosen to command for

 thousands of years.

  

 Yandros took Cyllan's hand and drew her to her feet,

 though she could do nothing but stare back at him in

 mesmerised confusion. He smiled and laid one hand first

 on her bloodstained face, then on the ugly wound

 between her breasts. At his touch, the blood and the

 gaping gash vanished.

  

 'I owe Cyllan a personal debt,' Yandros said with

 gentle amusement. 'And if by paying it I can also ease

 my brother's distress, so much the better.'

  

 Cyllan was beginning to recover from the inertia of

 shock; she put a hand to her face, tried to speak, but

  

 found no words that could express what she felt. Her

 eyes, suddenly wild, focused on Tarod and she made a

 violent movement to free herself from Yandros's hold.

 He released her and she ran to the dark Lord, stopping

 only when they were face to face as though at the last she

 lacked the courage to reach out and touch him. He said

 nothing, but held out his hands towards her; hesitantly

 she went to him, and her shoulders began to shake as

 tears streamed down her cheeks.

  

 Yandros approached them. 'Make your farewells,

 Cyllan,' he said. 'Tarod and I must depart this world,

 and you must remain behind.' He paused, smiled.

 'Unless, that is, you are prepared to make the sacrifice

 that will allow you to come with us?'

  

 Slowly she turned to look up at him, not comprehend-

 ing. Tarod, however, realised what Yandros was saying,

 but the Chaos Lord forestalled him as he made to speak.

  

 'Chaos is in your debt,' he said to the bewildered girl.

 'And it is within my power to grant you a gift which will,

 should you accept it, allow you to stay with Tarod.' His

 eyes changed suddenly to a burning, searing crimson.

 'For all time.'

  

 Cyllan began to understand, and her skin crawled

 with a resurgence of hope which she hardly dared

 acknowledge. Her throat dry as the dusty crater bowl,

 she whispered. 'You mean that I -I might - '

  

 Yandros smiled again, this time with a touch of ironi-

 cal humour. 'Is the prospect of life in our realm so very

 daunting, Cyllan? You know more of Chaos, I suspect,

 than any other mortal in your world.' He reached out

 and lightly touched her arm, tracing the scar which he

 had inflicted back in the Castle of the Star Peninsula.

 'And you would not experience our world in the vul-

 nerable guise of a human being. You would become a

 part of Chaos, immortal in your own right. I offer you

 this in recognition of your courage, and your loyalty to

 my brother. Such a life is yours, should you wish it.'

  

 To leave her existence behind, leave humanity

 behind, and enter the unimaginable realm of Chaos

 itself ... to become immortal, unbound by earthly

  

 things, untouched by time or by the prospect of death

 . . . Cyllan couldn't assimilate the gift Yandros prof-

 fered; understanding and even imagination failed her.

 But one fact stood out like a clear jewel in the miasma of

 her confused reactions. If she accepted what Chaos

 offered, she and Tarod would be together through eter-

 nity. If she did not, then she would never see him again.

  

 Distressed, she turned to the dark figure at her side.

 Man, demon, god, whatever he might be, she loved him

 more than the world, and she needed his guidance now

 as never before.

  

 'Tarod, what shall I do?' Her voice was close to

 breaking.

  

 Tarod shook his dark head. 'I can't help you, love. I

 haven't the right to try to sway you, not in this. But

 Yandros speaks the truth.'

  

 His green eyes, so unhuman now, were focused in-

 tently on her face. She knew that look so well, and it told

 her what she had hoped above all else to learn. Without

 him, there was nothing worth the having.

  

 She let her fingers close tightly over his, and her

 amber eyes closed. 'I'll come. If Tarod will have me, I'll

 come - and gladly.' She blinked, looked at Yandros

 again. 'How can I ever thank you?'

  

 Yandros made a careless gesture, his face suddenly

 vulpine. 'It's a whim; no more. Chaos has no logic, as

 you should know. It simply pleases me to please Tarod.'

  

 Tarod laughed softly. 'If that's what you like to

 believe, Yandros, so be it.'

  

 Yandros inclined his head in faint self-mockery. 'And

 now,' he said ,'there is one last matter . . . ' He turned

 on his heel and faced Keridil Toln.

  

 Keridil had watched the exchange between the three

 in numbed stupefaction, unable to move or to react in

 any way. He comprehended - or thought he compre-

 hended - what Yandros had granted to Cyllan, and the

 knowledge of it awoke a sore, ravening hurt deep within

 him. Yandros had proved more merciful than Aeoris -

 and if the greatest of the Chaos Lords could restore the

 dead to life once, then surely he might do so again . . . ?

  

 Sashka's face, beautiful as it had been before Tarod

 wreaked his vengeance, materialised before his inner

 eye and made the pain worse; he thrust the image away

 though it took a great effort, and knew when he looked

 at Yandros again that what he had, for a brief moment,

 hoped, could never be. And perhaps - though he

 couldn't yet acknowledge it - he wouldn't have wanted it

 to be ...

  

 Yandros and Tarod were moving towards him. Still

 Keridil couldn't quite accept the knowledge that the

 gods he had worshipped all his life were vanquished, and

 that these reckless, mercurial and unpredictable entities

 had taken their place. Chaos had returned . . . and

 what future could there be for him now?

  

 Yandros read his thoughts, and the golden-haired

 Chaos Lord smiled. 'The future, High Initiate, is what

 you will make of it,' he said, and his silver voice seemed

 to strike sparks in the depths of Keridil's being. The

 world will change. Order no longer rules - but we will be

 very different masters. We welcome conflict, and if you

 wish Order to have a role here, to stand against Chaos, it

 is your privilege to fight for it. Go back to the Star

 Peninsula, Keridil Toln. That is your rightful place.

 Make what you can of what we have left you. It's more

 than you yet realise.'

  

 Keridil couldn't answer him. He looked, momen-

 tarily, at the cruelly beautiful face, into the changing

 eyes, then had to look away. Tarod stepped forward.

  

 'Where there is conflict, there can truly be growth and

 life,' he said. 'Understand that, and you'll understand

 everything. I believe - ' He glanced at Yandros, and a

 private communication passed between them. 'I believe

 that you, above all other mortals, are equal to the tasks

 ahead, Keridil.' To the High Initiate's surprise and con-

 fusion he stretched out his left hand and took Keridil's

 right in a grip that sent a shock through his arm and into

 his shoulder. 'I wish you well, old friend.'

  

 The hand that held his relaxed its grasp, the long,

 gaunt fingers curling as Tarod withdrew them. He

 smiled - and for a moment the smile echoed that of the

  

 12-year-old waif who had come, a stranger and an out-

 sider, to the Castle and befriended the son of the High

 Initiate. It echoed, too, the rebellious, black-haired

 Initiate who had grown and developed within the Circle;

 the Adept who, leaving that Circle behind, had wielded

 a power that smashed the barriers of Time; the demon

 who had challenged the ultimate, and won. It was the

 smile of a Lord of Chaos. Keridil watched, unable to

 speak, as Tarod drew Cyllan to his side and the three

 faced him. He thought he saw - afterwards he could

 never be sure, although the image was to haunt his

 dreams for the rest of his life - a landscape so alien, so

 indescribable that his mind couldn't truly register it

 superimpose itself over the harsh, dead rock of the

 crater; a place where colour and form and sound clashed

 and mingled in mad pandemonium. Chaos - Keridil

 glimpsed it only for an instant; then, with a sound like a

 vast door being gently closed, the three figures before

 him were gone.

  

 He stood still for a very long time. Behind him was the

 split altar where the casket of Aeoris had stood, but the

 casket itself had vanished now. All around him lay his

 companions; Fenar Alacar, Ilyaya Kimi, the old scholar

 Isyn, two Sisters, his own Adepts: they all slept on, and

 the silence that had descended on the dead volcano's

 crater was almost unbearable. Keridil looked around as

 though seeking inspiration or comfort from the towering

 rock walls, but there was nothing. All he saw was the

 first tell-tale glimmer of light in the sky high above which

 told him that dawn was starting to touch the eastern

 horizon. In his present mood, it gave him little solace.

  

 Someone stirred with a breath no stronger than a

 zephyr, and he turned to see the High Margrave moving

 slowly, like one in a trance, shivering as his con-

 sciousness rose up through the deep levels of sleep

 towards morning. Others, too, were showing signs of

 waking, although the elderly Matriarch still lay motion-

 less, pale, a shrivelled and fragile doll.

  

 Fenar  Alacar's  eyes  met  Keridil's,  but Keridil

  

 couldn't respond to the mute, bewildered plea that

 burned in the High Margrave's stunned stare, and

 turned away. Perhaps in time he could begin to answer

 the myriad unspoken questions; but not yet. Not yet.

  

 So much was gone; so much that he had taken for

 granted all his life now swept away. And yet Keridil felt

 an unwarranted sense of release beginning to settle on

 him, as though a burden of which he'd never been fully

 aware had been lifted from his shoulders. As yet, it gave

 him no comfort . . . but there was a promise in it,

 echoing the promise of the dawn that crept slowly,

 quietly across the sky. Whatever the future might hold,

 he had been granted a chance to live and to rule as his

 conscience dictated, freed from any unquestioning

 fealty to Order or to Chaos. And he hoped - believed, he

 told himself sternly - that he could prove worthy of that

 responsibility.

  

 Slowly, Keridil sank to his knees on the hard rock

 floor. His head bowed as he hunched over his own

 clasped hands, and he began to pray.

  

 But he no longer knew which gods to pray to.

  

 Epilogue

  

 If he turned his mind to that dimension, he could see the

 Castle. Such an old edifice, built by hands that were

 not quite human, inhabited by ensuing generations,

 usurped by others whose vulnerability and mortality

 were painful to behold. Now, the circle had come full

 turn - or almost.

  

 The watchers on the heights of the four dizzying spires

 were at their stations, faces stained by the last gory light

 of the Sun as it slipped towards the western horizon.

 They were waiting, as they waited each evening, for the

 supernatural storm that would come wailing out of the

 North at the moment of Sunset, hurling its chaotic flares

 of lightning across the heavens while the great, pulsing

 bands of colour marched inexorably in its wake. They

 waited for the Warp that heralded the night, that spoke

 of the power of Chaos in their world, and when it came,

 the rites would be conducted and the supplications

 made, and the balance would be maintained once more.

  

 He had an odd affection for the grim black Castle. It

 held recollections which amused him to contemplate; in

 the confines of its walls he had learned a great deal,

 suffered a great deal, and finally had regained the mem-

 ory of his own true nature. He had, too, encountered the

 human soul for whom he had been prepared to sacrifice

 everything . . .

  

 At his side she moved, and he felt her smile. Here, in

 the realm beyond human understanding but which now

 was her own, she chose to adopt the guise of a pale-

 haired woman, solemn-faced, amber-eyed, only the

 shimmering stuff of Chaos that clothed her slim frame

 belying the illusion of humanity. She chose the image

  

 because she knew it pleased him; he turned towards her

 and adopted a form that complemented hers, black hair

 tangling with her white-gold, green eyes regarding her

 affectionately as he drew her to him and held her close.

 Somewhere in the distance a voice sang an awful har-

 mony; he frowned, and the sound changed to a pure,

 shivering note that reminded him, pleasurably, of the

 brindle-furred sea creatures he had once known, and

 who had served Chaos well.

  

 The blood-red Sun was slipping into the sea far

 beyond the Castle stack, and he felt in his veins the first

 pre-echoes of the coming Warp. The storm was his

 blood, his sinew; he exerted a little of his will and felt the

 power rise, sweeping and screaming over the sea

 towards the land. And as it came roiling towards the

 Castle he saw, as he had seen before, a solitary figure at a

 high window facing out to the darkening North. A man

 who, once, had been his friend.

  

 He called himself High Initiate because the title was

 an old and noble one; and, more than any of his peers

 Tarod believed, he was deserving of it. He no longer

 wore a badge of rank because the old sigil of Order had

 lost its significance and he could not bring himself to

 wear the emblem of Chaos. Perhaps one day that would

 change; but it didn't truly matter. The balance was

 restored, and Keridil was free to choose his loyalties as

 he pleased.

  

 The memories which had drawn Tarod to the Castle

 caused his thoughts to dwell on the figure at the window.

 He remembered what it was to be mortal, and a stirring

 of pity for the man with his drawn face and haunted eyes

 beneath the tawny hair moved him. Keridil had learned

 what it was to betray and be betrayed, and the lesson had

 changed and hardened him. He had looked on the faces

 of the gods of Order and the gods of Chaos, and knew

 that neither could prosper without the other. He had lost

 the woman he loved, and in losing her his eyes had been

 opened to her true nature, so that while he grieved for

 her he was nonetheless painfully aware of how she had

 duped and almost corrupted him. He had seen the death

  

 of the old Matriarch, whose frailty had succumbed dur-

 ing that last monstrous encounter with Chaos on the

 White Isle, and with her had gone the last bastion of the

 old, rigid ways. The Lady Fayalana Impridor, who had

 in surprise and trepidation put on the mantle of

 Matriarch when the ailing Kael Amion declared herself

 unequal to the task, was young enough not to be touched

 by her predecessor's inflexibility. And Fenar Alacar, 19

 now and deeply sobered by his recent experiences,

 deferred to the High Initiate and was striving to learn

 wisdom.

  

 The world was at peace; perhaps more at peace than it

 had been in the memory of any of its inhabitants. It

 wouldn't last - Chaos thrived on conflict, and even now

 Tarod's mind was roused by the anticipation of the next

 confrontation with the Lords of Order. It would come;

 the balance had been set and must be maintained, but it

 would be constantly challenged, and he and his brethren

 would relish their joy when that ancient battle was

 enacted yet again. But the pivot of that conflict, the final

 axis about which its outcome would revolve, lay in the

 hands of the fallible mortals who for centuries had wor-

 shipped Order, and who now found themselves released

 from its strictures and free to choose their own way.

 How they would choose, neither Tarod nor Yandros nor

 any of the entities that served them in the Chaos realm

 could tell; invincibility was not omniscience, and

 besides, uncertainty added spice to the future. But what-

 ever his path, Tarod thought with a faint stirring of

 affection, Keridil had shown, at the last, that he could

 withstand the challenge of his new role. There would be

 change; for there must be change. And Keridil, he

 believed, would prove a worthy instigator.

  

 Fingers brushed lightly against him, and colours that

 vibrated far beyond the visible spectrum shimmered

 about the figure of the woman at his side. Tarod smiled,

 and the tiny microcosm that was the Star Peninsula and

 the world it ruled quivered away into the stuff of mem-

 ory. He rose, holding out a graceful hand to her; white

 fingers curled about his and together they moved away

  

 from the watching place. For a moment two pulsing

 columns of radiance took their place; then they too

 merged back into the swirling mists of Chaos from which

 they had formed. Somewhere, laughter that was almost

 but not quite human rang sweetly; then the two figures

 were gone, leaving a brief-lived but profound stillness in

 their wake.