ECHO OF ETERNITY 
The Curtain Walls have fallen—leaving the world of Myrial vulnerable to 
unknown enemies from other realms. A slaughter by brutal winged invaders 
has left the city of Tiarond reeling, and the laws governing reality itself no 
longer seem to hold. 
Under the rule of a renegade leader, the Shadowleague slowly gathers itself 
together from its tattered remnants and braces for a devastating attack meant 

to shatter it forever. Missing is a ring, the symbol of Myrial’s divine 
power—and a reminder to its new ruler of the part he played in the collapse 
of the Curtain Walls. It must be found before his secret is discovered. 
Missing also is the one man whose mind holds the Dragon Seer’s knowledge 
of all tribal memories. 
Two warriors and a firedrake embark on an urgent mission to find 
him—before the Dragons do. 
When all hope seems lost, a young boy points the way to an amazing 
discovery. Caverns beneath Tiarond hold ancient artifacts that just might be 
the key they’re all searching for—but which they may be sorry they’ve 
found.... 
Between a rock and a hard place . . . 
Finally, Dark appeared to have come to a decision. He turned aside from the 
route they had been taking, and followed the curve of the slope around the 
bottom of a steep hill. Suddenly, the unnerving glow of the Curtain Walls 
was straight ahead. Scall’s mind quailed from the sight, refusing to believe 
they could be heading directly for that glowing barrier. What would happen 
to someone who rode right into such sheets of frightful energy? Would he 
survive the experience? 
Scall very much doubted it. Dark, however, appeared to have other ideas. 
With his goal clearly in sight, he picked up the pace, dragging a reluctant 
captive, on his equally reluctant horse, behind. 
Suddenly, the shrieking in the air that Scall had assumed to be the wind grew 
louder—loud enough to drown out the buzz of the Curtain Walls—and he 
recognized the shrill, discordant voices which had haunted his blackest 
nightmares ever since he had left the city. The winged fiends from Tiarond 
were coming, and here he was, penned in this bottleneck of a valley like a 
cornered rat. 
Scall’s mouth went dry. Panic caused his heart to thunder in his chest. 
Desperately he tried to move, to speak, to warn Dark of their peril, but the 
Summoner’s hold on him was too complete. All he could do was sit 
helplessly in the saddle, and wait for death to come plummeting from the 
skies... 

Books by Maggie Furey 
Aurian 
Harp of Winds Sword of Flame 
Dhiammara 
Heart of Myrial 
Spirit of the Stone 
ECHO of ETERNITY 
BOOK 3 OF 
THE SHADOWLEAGUE 
Maggie Furey 
BANTAM BOOKS 
ECHO OF ETERNITY 
A Bantam Spectra Book / July 2003 
Published by Bantam Dell 
A Division of Random House, Inc. New York, New York 
All rights reserved 
Copyright © 2003 by Maggie Furey 
Cover illustration © 2003 by Paul Youll 
Map by James Sinclair 
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any 

means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by 
any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission 
of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address: 
Bantam Books, New York, New York. 
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this 
book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the 
publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment 
for this “stripped book.” 
Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra and the portrayal of a boxed 
“s” are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc. 
ISBN 0-553-58575-4 
Manufactured in the United States of America Published simultaneously in 
Canada 
To my new girls, Freda and Sparkle. Welcome to the family. 
CONTENTS 
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 
23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 
Map 

CHAPTER 1 
To the Rescue 
Everything looked the same as usual. The scattered buildings of the 
Loremaster community were unchanged, their lichened grey stone blending 
with their surroundings as though they were a natural part of the landscape. 
Though the usual bank of low cloud hung over the Upper Lake, the waters of 
the Lower Lake glittered in the pale, cool sunlight of an early-autumn 
morning. The great oak forest that cloaked the steep southern slopes of the 
valley was resplendent in bronze and gold, and fallen leaves lay like hoarded 
treasure across the paths and down to the shores. 
It could have been any normal day in Gendival had it not been for the 
strange absence of inhabitants. At this hour, both in the Shadowleague 
settlement and the village beyond, people were usually going about their 
business, sparing time from their errands to stop a while and engage in talk. 
Today, however, was not a normal day. Cergorn, the Archimandrite, was 
grievously wounded and barely clinging to life. Amaurn the renegade had 
returned, and had proved to have a number of covert supporters in Gendival. 
There had been a titanic battle between two Senior Loremasters: many legs, 
and the mantislike Skreeva—the former a supporter of the renegade Amaurn, 
and the latter a Dragon-folk spy. 
In the aftermath of these events, an uneasy, unnatural quiet had fallen. The 
villagers were at home with their families, aware that the future of the 
Shadowleague hung in the balance, and keeping out of the way while its 
members settled the differences that had split their ranks. The Senior 
Loremasters—those few who remained in Gendival—were convening at the 
lakeside. It would be up to them to make sense of the last few hours and pull 
the Shadowleague back into a cohesive team. 
It was one meeting that Veldan would be glad to miss. She considered 
herself, Kaz, and Elion extremely fortunate to be heading out of the 
settlement. With luck they would be far away before anyone got round to 
considering the part they had played in Amaurn’s sudden bid for power. And 
hopefully, by the time they returned, all the fighting would be over and the 
important decisions made. On Amaurn’s instructions, they would travel 
downriver to the coast to find their lost companions Toulac and Zavahl, who 
had been kidnapped by agents of the Dragonfolk. Zavahl carried in his mind 
the spirit of their Seer, guardian of the tribal memories, and the Dragons 
wanted him back. The Shadowleague, however, were desperately in need of 
the information he carried, and Amaurn wasn’t prepared to let him go. 

Veldan, Kazairl, and Elion parted from Amaurn on the lakeshore. “Are you 
sure you don’t want us to stay, and explain to the Afanc about Zavahl and 
the Dragon?” Veldan asked in mind-speech. The lake monster was the only 
other Senior Loremaster in Gendival at that time. Given his close friendship 
to Cergorn, she had a feeling that he would object in the strongest possible 
terms to this interloper from the past, and he would be a good deal less easy 
to persuade than the other Loremasters. Though Amaurn had managed to 
snatch the reins of power from Cergorn, whether he could hold on to them 
remained to be seen. 
Amaurn shook his head. “I’ll manage Bastiar—and any other objectors.” His 
face was set and bleak, as though he had pulled the mantle of Lord Blade 
around his shoulders once again. Veldan shivered. It was as though the 
moment of closeness that they had shared in the aftermath of the battle had 
never existed. “You and your friends get out of here,” he continued, “before 
you become embroiled any further. I’ll have Bailen send messages 
downriver to arrange for your transport. Just get Zavahl back. Everything 
depends on that. If we can show Bastiar that we were right, and Cergorn was 
wrong, then even he cannot deny my claim.” 
He turned away and looked out across the waters of the lake. Veldan and 
Elion exchanged a glance, she raising her eyebrows and he replying with a 
shrug. Clearly, they had been dismissed. 
The firedrake snorted loudly—there was no need to ask what he thought of 
Amaurn’s attitude. “It’s a good thing for him that the Wind-Sprite isn’t 
here,” Kaz muttered. “He may be able to get round the Afanc, but Shree 
wouldn’t allow him to take over from her partner.” 
The three Loremasters set off back up the wooded slope toward their own 
hillside dwellings. At Veldan’s side, the firedrake rumbled softly in his 
throat. Clearly, there was a lot he didn’t like about this business—which was 
no surprise, as she found herself harboring the same doubts. How had it 
happened so quickly, the transformation from Blade the foe to Amaurn the 
ally? It felt as though she and Kaz had been swept away in a torrent of 
circumstances, and had been too busy fighting the conflicting currents and 
trying to keep their heads above water to know, or care, where they would be 
washed ashore. She couldn’t understand how they had ended up supporting 
Blade, yet somehow it had happened, and now they would have to live with 
the consequences. Waiting until Elion had left them at the fork of the path, 
heading for his own home, she mentioned her misgivings to the firedrake. 
He tilted his head in a draconic shrug. “Me too. Well, we won’t be the only 
ones.” 
Veldan glanced back over her shoulder, toward the settlement. “True. And I 
don’t think Blade, or Amaurn, or whatever he wants to call himself, is home 
and dry yet. Now that all the excitement has died down, there are a lot of 
doubts flying around.” 
“Doubts?” The firedrake snorted. “You mean they’re scared out of their tiny 
wits.” He stopped for a moment, turning his great, glowing eyes on his 

partner’s face. “What do you think, Boss? Honestly?” 
Veldan shook her head. “I don’t know. I can scarcely believe I could support 
a man who has been capable of such ruthlessness, but I do. I don’t trust him 
entirely, but I think Gendival needs new blood and new vision right now. 
What worries me, though, is that he seems so familiar, somehow. Even 
though I never met him before, I feel as if he’s always been there, 
somewhere in the back of my mind, just waiting to emerge. Does that make 
any sense to you at all?” 
“Are you crazy? Of course it doesn’t!” snorted the firedrake. 
“You’re probably right.” Veldan sighed. “All my life I’ve had the tale of 
Amaurn the renegade held up before me as an example and a warning. In a 
sense, I grew up with Amaurn, and that’s probably why he seems so familiar 
now.” 
“It’s as good an explanation as any,” the firedrake agreed. “And you’re tired, 
Boss; no wonder you’re not thinking straight. There’s enough to worry about 
in this Amaurn business as it is, without clouding the issue with fancies.” He 
turned his head to look at her. “Just think about it. Firstly, the world’s in a 
state of crisis, and we need to take some kind of positive action. Secondly, 
Cergorn wouldn’t listen when we tried to tell him that the Dragon Seer was 
trapped inside Zavahl. Thirdly, it turns out that Amaurn was a friend of your 
mother’s, so it’s natural that you’d want to trust him. Fourthly, he offered to 
help us save Toulac and Aethon, not to mention the Heirarch, when Cergorn 
wouldn't. We have enough reasons to make us change sides without 
worrying about mysterious feelings.” 
“I suppose you’re right. Anyway, it won’t make much difference what we 
think. We’d better leave the problem of Amaurn to the Senior Loremasters 
right now, and attend to our own affairs.” 
Veldan’s mind leapt ahead to their journey. By this time, Bailen would be 
sending messages down the river, and a boat would be waiting for them at 
the nearest settlement of the Navigators. These river traders were an 
essential part of life in Gendival. The realm consisted mainly of mountains 
and lakes, and the land was so wild and broken that the easiest way to get 
from place to place was by river. The Navigators were nomads of the 
waterways; they built locks, they dredged the shallows, and in truly 
inaccessible places, they constructed portage ways and transferred their 
goods to smaller boats that could be hauled on rollers by sturdy horses. All 
up and down the rivers they carried news and goods, and sometimes 
passengers. Their great sailing barges even went to sea, trading along the 
coastlines as far as the Curtain Walls would permit, and like all the natives 
of the Gendival realm, the Navigators worked to support the Shadowleague 
whenever necessary. 
“It’ll make a nice change,” Kaz remarked, “to float down the river at our 
ease and let somebody else do the work. My poor old legs have been 
practically worn down to stumps, these last months.” 
“Make the most of it,” Veldan warned him. “With the Curtain Walls still 

failing, our work is far from done. Somehow I get the feeling that Amaurn 
will have plans for us when we get back.” 
“If he’s still in charge when we get back,” the firedrake snorted. “He hasn’t 
convinced Bastiar yet.” 
There was a harsh edge to Veldan’s laughter. “Want to bet on it? Let’s not 
forget that Amaurn is still Lord Blade, and a man doesn’t change overnight. 
If it comes to a contest, I’ll back him against Afanc anytime." 
When Kaz and Veldan reached their home, they found the indefatigable 
Ailie already there. While they had been down by the lakeside, the innkeeper 
had clearly been busy. She was in the middle of making breakfast, and the 
glorious smell of frying bacon filled Veldan’s kitchen. The innkeeper looked 
up as they entered. “Just in time,” she said cheerfully. “But where’s Elion 
got to?” 
“Gone back to his own house to change and get a few things together.” 
Veldan had to swallow hard before she could get the words out. It had been a 
long, eventful time since last night’s supper, and her mouth was watering at 
the smell of the food. 
The firedrake was stretching his neck out as far as it would go to sniff at the 
bacon in the pan, oblivious to the spits of hot fat that stung his nose. “What 
about me?” he demanded. “Veldan, ask her if she brought anything for me.” 
“Shut up, Kaz.” Veldan cast a despairing look at the frying pan. “Ailie, this 
is tremendously good of you, but we have to leave as soon as possible. The 
Navigators will have a boat going downriver this morning, but they won’t 
delay too long, because of catching the right tides at the estuary. We just 
haven’t got time for breakfast.” 
“That’s all right,” Ailie said tranquilly. She began to fish crisp, brown 
rashers out of the pan, slipping them between the halves of round, flat 
loaves, split lengthways. “We can take these with us and eat them on the 
way.” 
“We?” Veldan’s eyebrows shot up almost to her hairline. For the first time, 
she noticed several bags and bundles that had been stacked neatly in the 
corner. “And just what are those?” 
“Oh, that stuff isn’t for me,” Ailie told her. “Well most of it isn’t. I brought 
that disreputable sheepskin coat Toulac is so attached to, and one of my 
dad’s old coats for Zavahl, plus a change of warm, dry clothes for the pair of 
them. Then I thought we should take some food, and blankets, and—" 
“Now just hold on there, Ailie. I really appreciate all your help, but I can’t 
possibly take you.” 
“Whyever not?” Ailie interrupted. “If this had been one of your normal 
missions, I would agree with you. I’m no Loremaster, and I don’t want to be. 
But this time you’re only going to pick up Zavahl and Toulac. We’ll be 
traveling by boat most of the way, and we aren’t even going outside the 
Gendival Curtain Walls.” 

“But Cergorn doesn’t let villagers—” 
“Oh, stuff Cergorn,” Kaz interrupted with a snort. “He’s not in charge 
anymore. For goodness sake, Veldan, the woman has food! Bring her along. 
And you forgot to ask her if she had any breakfast for me.” 
With a laugh, Veldan surrendered. “All right,” she said aloud to Ailie as well 
as the firedrake. “It’ll be a joy and a revelation to have someone with us who 
can cook, for a change.” 
The innkeeper grinned. “I knew you’d see sense.” 
Leaving Ailie to finish packing up the food, Veldan went to throw together a 
few things of her own. Although a quick wash and a change of clothes made 
her feel better, she couldn’t keep her thoughts from dwelling wistfully on a 
steaming bath followed by her soft, warm bed. Stifling a yawn, she splashed 
cold water on her face. You can sleep on the boat, she told herself. Once we 
get going, there’ll be plenty of time. 
At that moment, she heard the sound of voices. “Slimebag’s here,” Kaz 
informed her, but she noticed that the usual venom had vanished from the 
epithet. Wisely, Veldan said nothing, but hurried back to the kitchen, where 
Ailie was using Elion as a packhorse, and loading him up with her collection 
of bundles. 
“What did you bring?” Elion was grumbling. “The entire contents of the 
inn?” Turning away from the innkeeper, he glanced across at Veldan, and 
she saw the faint line of a frown between his brows. “Is this wise?” he asked 
her in the silent mind-to-mind communication of the Loremasters. 
She replied in mind-speech with an almost imperceptible shrug. “What harm 
will it do? As Ailie was quick to point out, this isn’t like one of our normal 
missions.” She grinned slyly. “And since she gets along so well with Zavahl, 
it should be greatly to our benefit to have her along.” 
“I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right.” Aloud, for Ailie’s benefit, he 
added, “Let’s go then, before I collapse under the weight of all this 
baggage.” 
They walked down through the trees to the bottom of the hill and turned 
right to follow the river as it flowed out of ; the valley, which began to 
widen as the settlement was left behind. Stubbled harvest fields and green 
meadows had replaced the shining lakes. Farther down the valley, cows and 
sheep were browsing peacefully in the cool autumn sunlight, but first, not far 
from the outskirts of the village, there was a cluster of neatly kept stables 
and barns, and horses grazed in the surrounding fields. Elegant heads were 
raised as the Loremasters and Ailie approached. Unlike the beasts in the 
realms outside, the horses of the Shadowleague were far too accustomed to 
the presence of the firedrake to be afraid. They all seemed to sense that he 
was not permitted to eat them, but Kaz always seemed to fascinatethem, 
nonetheless. 
The proximity of so much food, however, was driving the firedrake wild 
with hunger, so he elected to wait outside while the others went on into the 

stable block. As Veldan and her companions walked into the neatly swept 
yard, they were met by a square-set, stocky man with bristly, greying dark 
hair and a pugnacious jaw. He emerged from the stables with a hayfork in 
his hand, and when he saw Elion, his knuckles tightened around the shaft of 
the fork. “Not you again! How dare you show your face back here?” 
The Loremaster edged backward, trying to put Veldan and Ailie between 
himself and the stableman, but the two women were having no part of it and 
drifted away to the side, leaving Elion to his fate. “Er ... Look, Harral,” he 
muttered. "I'm really sorry about the chestnut..." 
Harral’s black, bushy brows were singularly effective for scowling. “Sorry?” 
he barked. “You’re sorry?. Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself? Against 
my better judgment, and on Cergorn’s orders, I let you have the best mare in 
the place, the darling of my heart, the apple of my eye. And you, you 
incompetent buffoon, YOU GO AND LOSE HER!” His face had turned 
brick-red and veins were standing out on his neck and forehead. 
“But I brought you a replacement,” Elion protested weakly. 
“You call that a horse? That ill-favored, iron-mouthed offspring of a donkey 
and a cow?” Harral brandished his pitchfork menacingly, forcing Elion to 
step back from the flashing tines. “I had plans for that mare, you moron. She 
was going to be the foundation for an entire line. I should never have given 
her to you. If the Archimandrite hadn’t...” He broke off at the mention of 
Cergorn’s name, and changed tack abruptly. “Do any of you know how he 
is?” 
Veldan shook her head. “The healers are working desperately to save his 
life. That’s all we’ve heard so far. We’ll just have to hope they succeed.” 
She was surprised at the strength of her feelings. Despite the recent conflict 
between them, Cergorn and his lifemate had always been a strong, sure 
presence in her life. Though they had not been on the best of terms lately, 
and though she no longer felt that he was the best choice for the role of 
Archimandrite, she owed him far too much to wish him any harm. 
Harral muttered an oath and spat on the ground. “That thrice-cursed 
renegade Amaurn! Why couldn’t he have stayed away? If only we’d 
managed to kill the slippery bastard the first time around ...” 
Veldan, her curiosity piqued, was longing to ask him more about the events 
that had taken place back then, but time was pressing. The Navigators 
wouldn’t wait for passengers. Down near the mouth of the river, the estuary 
waters were strongly tidal, and if they reached it at the wrong time, their 
progress could be held back by hours. 
Harral also knew better than to delay the rivermen. “Well, I’d best let you 
get away,” he said. He beckoned impatiently to the lad who was leading out 
their mounts. “Hurry it up, Sem! These folk haven’t got all day.” 
They were taking four horses, because they would need mounts for Toulac 
and Zavahl, if all went well. Ailie had her own plump dappled mare called 
Daisy. Her bundles were loaded and secured on one of the spare beasts, 

which would be led, and Veldan elected to ride the other on the outward 
journey. Though she was usually carried by Kaz, she still enjoyed the 
occasional ride on horseback. As she mounted, she heard the firedrake’s 
snort of disgust. “How thoughtful of you to bring breakfast along.” 
“You were the one complaining that your poor legs needed a rest,” Veldan 
retorted. 
Elion was given the ex-Godsword horse that he had ridden from Tiarond. 
Harral eyed the nondescript creature critically as it was led out into the yard. 
“The poor thing could do with feeding up, but you won’t be riding it too far 
this time. Anyway, it’ll have to do. I’m not risking any more of my precious 
animals on you, Elion. You have no sense of responsibility toward them. 
Since you brought this bag of bones here, it belongs to you, so I suggest you 
look after it better than the others I’ve allotted you.” 
Elion shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said. “At least this horse is quiet. He 
doesn’t buck, roll, bite, and kick—unlike the beasts you give me.” Patting 
the ugly beast on the nose, he scrambled clumsily onto its back. 
Kaz, who had seen the exchange through Veldan’s eyes, snickered. “Just 
wait until that walking hat rack is fed and rested. I wonder if he’ll find it 
such an easy ride then?” 
“I don’t know.” Veldan grinned. “But it’ll be fun finding out.” 
Down on the coast, the former Hierarch of Callisiora had a few things of his 
own to find out. He had never been in this position before: lost in the woods 
with no food, no shelter, and not even a coat or a cloak to his back. During 
these last few days, he had discovered just how little he knew about himself, 
about the people around him, and about the world outside his city, which had 
turned out to be so much more intimidating than he could ever have 
dreamed. 
At least, thank Myrial, he was not alone. Toulac was proving to be an 
unexpected comfort. When he had first encountered the former mercenary, 
Zavahl had dismissed her as a foul-mouthed, ignorant old harridan with a 
primitive love of violence. Now, in the face of her calm, businesslike 
demeanor, he was revising those opinions. She had informed him that in her 
wandering days, she had learned to live off the land. In their current 
predicament, her knowledge and skills could keep them alive until help 
arrived. 
At least, according to the veteran, they had ended up in a good place. “Look 
around,” she said, with a sweeping gesture. Zavahl looked, but all he could 
see was a long stretch of wild, inhospitable coastline. Great reefs of razoredged 
rock thrust out into the ocean and vanished in the churning surf. The 
sloping shore was strewn with a jumble of stones. On the lower beach seasmoothed 
pebbles rolled and made walking difficult, but nearer the cliffs, the 
rocks at the foot of the escarpment were gigantic boulders, some as big as a 

house, which had been broken off by the inexorable power of the sea. 
The former Hierarch was awed by the bleakness of his surroundings. The 
sky was grey, with a high covering of racing clouds, the sea had a steely 
aspect that made him shiver, and nothing grew on the stark stone of the 
cliffs. It was as though all color and warmth had been leached from the 
world. A cold, cutting wind, damp with salt spray, sniveled and whined 
between the stones, and cries of seabirds added a plaintive counterpoint to 
the rumble and sigh of the churning surf. 
Zavahl shivered. This was a good place? Had the woman lost her mind? He 
yearned with all his heart to go home—but not to Tiarond. To his 
astonishment, he realized that the home he longed for was not the bleak 
mountain city he had ruled, but the bright, cosy room in Ailie’s village inn. 
His wistful thoughts of the innkeeper were punctured by a sharp dig in the 
ribs from Toulac. “I said look around, not stand there woolgathering.” 
“Why?” Zavahl grumbled. “There’s nothing in this place worth seeing.” 
Toulac grinned. “There is if you know what to look for. It may be cold and 
wild and intimidating now, but it’ll seem smaller when we’ve built a shelter, 
and safer when we have a fire.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Why, by 
the time you’ve put some hot food into your belly, you’ll be feeling right at 
home.” 
Zavahl couldn’t help but resent the fact that though she was only clad, like 
him, in breeches and shirt, she didn’t seem to be shivering. She was almost 
twice his age—how in Myrial’s name could she do it? He glared at her. 
“And just where is this hot food going to come from?” 
“The seashore is one of the best places for foraging I know. There are all 
sorts of edibles, right here for the finding. Don’t worry, you’ll soon learn the 
tricks, and by the end of today, you’ll know a fair amount about surviving in 
the wild. Right now, though, leave the business of the food to me. I know 
what I’m looking for. You collect any other useful stuff you can find. Now, 
sonny, we’d better shift ourselves. Freezing our backsides off on a cold 
beach isn’t going to get us anywhere. Don’t forget we’ll need driftwood for a 
fire—as much as you can carry. Keep a lookout for any longer or thicker 
pieces that we might use to make some kind of shelter.” 
“But couldn’t we just shelter in a cave?” Zavahl asked. 
Toulac rolled her eyes up to the heavens. “Can you see any caves?” 
“Well no, but...” 
“Unfortunately, in real life, you rarely get caves just for the asking. And 
even if you do, they’re usually damp, cramped, prone to rockfalls, difficult 
to get into, or they already have a resident bear. All the same, if you did 
happen to find one we could use, a cave would be an enormous help. And 
while you’re looking at the cliffs, keep an eye open for freshwater. There 
may be a spring, or a trickle draining down from that swampy area above.” 
Zavahl nodded. “Anything else?” 

“You can bet your life on it.” Toulac’s eyes twinkled. “The shoreline can be 
a real treasure trove. Stuff gets washed off boats in rough weather. People 
throw their garbage into rivers or harbors—it’s a foul habit, but they do it 
anyway— and all sorts of things end up here. And with all these rocks and 
reefs, it looks like a wrecking coast to me. If ships tend to get smashed up in 
this area we could find all sorts of useful items. Keep a lookout for any bits 
and pieces that might come in handy: bits of rope, discarded fishing nets, 
anything that could be used as a container for cooking or carrying water. The 
possibilities are endless. Just use your imagination. You’ll be amazed at 
what you can find, and I’d be willing to wager that once you get started, 
you’ll find that beachcombing is a damn sight more fun than being 
Hierarch.” 
“The way things have been lately, having my fingernails pulled out with redhot 
pincers would be a damn sight more fun than being Hierarch,” Zavahl 
said sourly, not wanting to be reminded of his failures and the mess he had 
left behind him. 
“Think how lucky you are, then, to be the first person in the history of 
Tiarond to escape from the job with your life,” Toulac told him briskly. 
“Now, you go that way and I’ll go this. Bring anything you find back 
here—you’re sure you can recognize the place when you come back?” 
“With that big bit broken off the cliff top and a pile of soil at the bottom, 
where you nearly went over? Yes, I think I can find it again.” 
Toulac looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You ought to be careful, sonny. 
The next thing you know, people will accuse you of developing a sense of 
humor, and then where 
will you be?" 
Before Zavahl could think of a retort, she was all business again. “We’ll 
meet back here about noon and see what we’ve managed to find between 
us.” 
“What about them?” Zavahl gestured toward the group of large, otterlike 
creatures. Some were fishing beyond the surf, their compact round heads 
occasionally appearing above the waves, while others turned over rocks 
among the tide pools with deft little black paws that seemed, in structure, 
very much like human hands. “You say they are intelligent, but can you be 
certain they can be trusted?” He was still finding it difficult to believe 
Toulac’s claim that she could communicate from mind to mind with such 
creatures. Had it not been for the fact that he had been doing very much the 
same thing with Aethon—the Dragon for whose mind and spirit he was an 
unwilling host—he would have been certain that she was lying, or that age 
was befuddling her thoughts. 
“What, the Dobarchu?” Toulac’s expression softened as she regarded the 
brown-furred creatures. “Well, they’re certainly friendly enough, and I’ve a 
feeling in my bones that they can be trusted. I’m going to have a long talk 
with them later, when we have time but, in the meantime, they’ve offered to 
share their catch with us, and ...” 

“I thought you said that you were going to see about the food?” Zavahl felt 
smug at having caught her out. 
Toulac, however, seemed unperturbed. “I am. I’ll let the Dobarchu take care 
of the fishing—they’re better equipped for it—but they’ve had a very 
arduous journey and they’re exhausted. They’ll have enough to do, taking 
care of their own, without our expecting them to be the sole support of a 
couple of hungry humans. To help out, I’ll be finding crabs, winkles, 
mussels, limpets ... Oh, all sorts of shellfish. And there are some seaweeds 
that can be eaten, too...” 
“All right, all right,” Zavahl grumbled. “You don’t have to show off.” 
Toulac’s eyes twinkled. “But I was having so much fun! 
Anyway, let’s see about getting ourselves settled, shall we? We have a lot to 
do.“ 
As he turned to go, she added, “Just one more thing. Unless you find a cave, 
or traces of freshwater, stay away from the foot of the cliff. We already 
know to our cost that the rock in these parts will crumble very easily, and 
having survived being captured by those horrible great monstrosities, you 
don’t want to end up being buried under a pile of stone.” 
“I’m not that stupid,” Zavahl protested. 
“I wouldn’t count on it.” With that, Toulac went stumping off along the 
beach, her eyes fixed on the ground. 
Being on his own changed everything. Zavahl, born and bred in a city, was 
unnerved for a time by the lonely, empty expanse of sea and beach and sky. 
He longed to find an excuse to run back to Toulac, whose sturdy, capable 
presence he was coming to appreciate more and more. Only one thing 
stopped him. To his surprise, he was aware of a newfound sense of pride, far 
different from the Callisioran Hierarch’s haughty superiority. That sort of 
arrogance had come from privilege and wealth: the luxurious trappings of 
his rank, the servants to wait upon his every need, and the powerful backing 
of the Godsword soldiers. This tentative new confidence, however, came 
from within, and now that he was utterly destitute, with nothing in the world 
but the clothes on his back, each fear he conquered, each new skill that he 
could learn would contribute to his growing sense of self-respect. How 
ironic. Only when he had been stripped of everything that mattered in his life 
did he begin to feel that he might be worth something at last. 
Zavahl squared his shoulders and set off along the beach, heading away from 
the foraging Dobarchu. He had not really become used to the intelligent 
nonhumans of this mysterious land, and they still made him uneasy—though 
after the women’s firedrake companion, it would take a lot more than these 
new creatures to actually scare him. 
He soon discovered that if he concentrated on the ground around his feet, his 
surroundings became less intimidating. After his first discovery—an old 
sack that was still perfectly serviceable once the sand had been shaken out 
off it—he began to get into the spirit of the hunt and, before very long, found 

out that Toulac had been right. 
Beachcombing was a damn sight more fun than being Hierarch. 
CHAPTER 2 
A Question of Conscience 
As the long night drew to its close, it was Aliana’s turn to watch. Dawn 
always came late to the Sacred Precincts in their shadowed canyon, but for 
some time now the light that filtered through the cellar’s high ventilation 
gratings had been growing brighter. Though she and her companion were by 
no means safe yet, Aliana felt her weariness lift a little as relief flooded 
through her. 
I did it again. I lived to see another morning! 
For the small band of survivors, all that remained of the Holy City of 
Tiarond, every dawn was another hard-won victory, but yesterday she and 
Galveron had scored their own personal triumph by recovering the 
Hierarch’s ring from their foes, and were halfway to bearing it back to 
Gilarra in triumph. During the hours of darkness they had taken shelter in 
this cellar beneath the abandoned brewhouse while the dreadful winged 
creatures had roamed at large in the Sacred Precincts. Soon it would be safe 
to venture out again and make their way back to the Temple. 
To celebrate, Aliana threw the last of their carefully hoarded fuel on the fire. 
As the flames flared up into fitful golden light she looked down at Galveron, 
who slept beside her. Even in sleep, his face was haggard with exhaustion, 
and the jagged wounds across his cheek and forehead, souvenirs of an earlier 
encounter with the monstrous Ak’Zahar, stood out livid on his skin. Aliana 
frowned. Only with the greatest difficulty had she persuaded him to let her 
take her share of watches. The new Godsword Commander took his 
responsibilities very seriously. Almost too seriously, to the point where his 
friends—among whom she numbered the Healer Kaita, the Smithmaster 
Agella and, of course, herself—were going to have to ensure that he didn’t 
kill himself in his zeal. 
One person Aliana did not number among Galveron’s friends was Gilarra, 
the recently made Hierarch. What she had seen of the woman so far had 
failed to impress her. To the thief’s mind, Gilarra was too self-involved to be 
much use to the bereft and terrified survivors of Tiarond. Why, if she didn’t 
have Galveron to prop her up, there probably wouldn’t be any survivors by 
now. 
And then she risks the poor man by sending him off with me on this mad 

expedition to find some stupid ring! 
Though Aliana understood the significance of the ring— it was the symbol 
of Myrial’s divine power, which must be passed from one Hierarch to the 
next—this hardly seemed to be the time to be bothering about such trifles. 
After all, Gilarra had been Suffragan. Of course she was the new Hierarch! 
In the current situation, who was going to argue the point? So what did she 
need the stupid ring for? 
The thief stared into the fire, absently chewing at a grubby thumbnail. 
There’s got to be more to this than meets the eye. Galveron has more sense 
than to drag us both out here for a mere symbol. The ring must have a more 
practical function. So is it only the designated Hierarch that can make the 
ring do whatever it does? Or does whoever holds the ring possess the 
Hierarch’s power? 
And if that’s true, then the Hierarch doesn’t need to be Gilarra at all.... 
Aliana held her breath, overawed for a moment by the enormity of such a 
thought. Could it be true? Surely that would make the whole religion of 
Myrial nothing but a mockery! 
So what? A fat lot of good Myrial ever did me, or my parents, or 
Alestan—or, for that matter, anyone else in Tiarond. And I don’t think much 
of the new Hierarch, either. Why, Galveron could do a better job than that! 
Suddenly, her mind was racing. Why not? Galveron was a far better leader in 
every respect. He was a soldier, and had a good grasp of fighting and tactics. 
He was organized, and had an unerring instinct for the matters that were 
important. He was a true leader who was genuinely interested in his people. 
He could inspire confidence and hope in even the most desperate refugee. 
The more Aliana thought about it, the more certain she became that the new 
leader of the Godswords was the only man who could get the remnants of 
the Tiarondians through this crisis. 
There was only one problem. 
Galveron was also honest, straightforward, and loyal to a fault. As 
Godsword Commander, he took his position of trust very seriously, and 
there was no way he would betray the Hierarch. The thief sighed. If only the 
wretched man wasn’t so decent and noble! In her opinion, his treachery 
would do Tiarond far more good at present. 
I wonder if I could ask him about the ring’s significance—in a roundabout 
way, of course. The idiot could be wasting a tremendous opportunity! 
Bringing up the subject, however, would be the worst thing she could do. It 
hadn’t taken her long to work out that, no matter how subtly she thought she 
was acting, Galveron could see right through her. He would be horrified to 
learn what schemes she was hatching, and would watch her like a hawk 
thereafter. 
But I won’t be beaten that easily. When we get back to the Temple, I’ll ask 
Kaita about the Hierarch’s ring. She’s bound to know. 

As Aliana looked down once more at her sleeping companion, Galveron 
began to stir. He rolled over, rubbing his eyes, and sat up quickly. “It’s 
daylight! Why didn’t you wake me?” 
She shrugged. “It’s only just turned light. There was no reason why you 
shouldn’t have your sleep.” 
It was as if she hadn’t spoken. Galveron stood up and started gathering their 
paltry belongings together. “The Hierarch will be worried. We’d better get 
back.” 
Damn the Hierarch! She can jump off a precipice, as far as I’m concerned. 
But she knew better than to speak the words out loud. With a sigh, she got to 
her feet. There were advantages to returning to the Temple with all speed. 
For one thing, she’d get a chance to ask Kaita about the ring, and for another 
... Breakfast! Surely the heroes who had done Gilarra such a tremendous 
favor would be allowed a few extra rations. After all the adventures of the 
previous day, and a night spent without food, Aliana was hungry enough to 
eat her shoes. 
Wary as hunted animals, the thief and the warrior crept out of the brewhouse 
door. Even though it was unlikely that the winged predators would be active 
in the daylight, the clouds were low and the day was gloomy, so the threat 
was still there. 
The Precincts were shrouded in thick, clinging mist that swirled and drifted 
with every movement of the sluggish breeze. Grey tendrils of vapor brushed 
against their hands and faces, catching in their throats and silvering Aliana’s 
tawny curls with a sheen of droplets. . “It’s not all bad,” Galveron 
whispered. “We certainly couldn’t ask for better cover.” 
“True. We’ll just freeze our backsides off instead.” The thief shivered and 
tried to pull her Godsword cloak more tightly around her shoulders. The day 
was raw and damp, and there was a chill in the air that made her suspect that 
snow might be due again before nightfall. Suddenly the tem-pie—noisy, 
overcrowded, and smelly—seemed like home, and she couldn’t wait to get 
back there. 
As they made their way through the lower area of the Sacred Precincts, the 
artisans’ village was eerily deserted. The Godsword stables, kennels, and 
mews were likewise silent, the last of their occupants having gone to fill the 
bellies of the winged invaders. Smithmaster Agella’s forge was grey and 
cold, its fire extinguished, and the ovens in the bakery were the same. Other 
workshops—potter, tanner, weaver, silversmith, and the rest—were similarly 
empty, with materials, tools, and half-finished work spoiled and scattered. 
From the laundry there no longer came the raucous, cheerful sound of the 
washerwomen’s gossip and laughter. 
Among the clusters of neat little houses, the mist drifted, revealing and 
concealing abandoned dwellings. To Aliana, it seemed to hide a multitude of 
ghosts. Dim shapes seemed to move in the shadows behind the shattered 
windows. A loud crash caused her to gasp and whirl, her heart pounding, but 

it was only a loose tile sliding from a roof. Here and there, a shutter caught 
the breeze, creaking gently back and forth on its hinges, and in every pile of 
rubble, rats rustled and scratched, surviving as always in the midst of death 
and ruin. 
Then suddenly Aliana heard something that was not a rat—a sound so 
unexpected that she thought she must be imagining things. She clutched at 
Galveron’s arm. “Did you hear that?” 
He nodded, peering round in an attempt to locate the origin of the sound. It 
came again, briefly, choked off suddenly as though it had been muffled by a 
hand. But this time there was no more doubt. Unmistakably, it was the 
whimper of a baby. 
“Holy Myrial!” Aliana muttered. “How in the name of wonder could a child 
as young as that survive on its own for so long?” 
“Maybe it isn’t alone,” Galveron said. “Anyway, we have to find it, though I 
don’t much like the idea of lingering out here.” 
“Me neither. If the day gets any more gloomy, we’ll have those damned 
creatures on the hunt again.” 
“We shouldn’t take that risk—especially when we’re carrying the Hierarch’s 
ring.” Galveron paused in thought. “I have an idea.” He dug in his pocket 
and handed her the ring, wrapped carefully in a piece of rag that they had 
found in the brewhouse. “Here. You take this and go back now. Then at least 
the ring will be safe, and Gilarra will know we’re all right.” 
Aliana crammed the ring into her pocket with some force, her mouth 
tightened to a thin line. “Absolutely not— and don’t waste time arguing. We 
should stick together, and you may need my help. I’m not going back 
without you.” 
Galveron scowled at her—but she knew that he knew he couldn’t make her 
go back. “All right,” he said coldly. “Since you’ve decided to be stupid and 
irresponsible, so be it.” He turned away from her and headed toward the 
nearest building. 
Aliana’s cheeks burned at the rebuke, but she said nothing. This was not the 
time. Much more important was the fact that he seemed to have forgotten 
he’d given her the Hierarch’s ring, and she didn’t want to do anything to 
remind him. She might not understand what, exactly, the ring did—but she 
knew that while she held it, she possessed a great deal of power over 
Galveron and Gilarra. 
There’s no going back now. Tiarond is finished, and even if I had the chance 
to return, what would be the point? So feeling homesick is a waste of 
time—and so are regrets. 
Seriema leaned on the sill of the deep window embrasure and looked out 
across the moors and the tarn below. The world seemed so wide here in the 

territory of the reivers, with no buildings to block the horizon. In the 
distance, she could see the mountain on which she had lived her entire life. 
Somewhere up there was Tiarond and her opulent home: a far cry from this 
drafty tower chamber walled in dank, chill stone that, unfortunately, was her 
sleeping quarters for the foreseeable future. After a supper which had been 
far from a feast—as Tormon’s news had persuaded Arcan, the clan chieftain, 
to conserve supplies—she had spent the night here, along with Rochalla and 
four unwed reiver girls. Though none of them had been happy about the 
arrangement, there had been no alternative. Now that danger threatened, the 
clan was being brought into the shelter of the fortress, and accommodations 
were in short supply. The young women had slept on the floor of their 
cramped quarters, on thin pallets stuffed with bracken, and considered 
themselves lucky to be only six. In other parts of the building, folk were 
sleeping as many as twelve or fourteen to a room this size. 
Well, at least she had a bed. And clothes, too. To replace the torn and mudstained 
Godsword clothing she had taken from the Tiarond guardhouse, the 
reiver women had supplied her with a dress of thick woven wool in mingled 
shades of heather and twilight. The soft colors were beautiful but more to the 
point, the gown was warm and well made, and Seriema was grateful for the 
generosity of her hosts. 
Tormon’s little band of wanderers had breakfasted that morning with the 
chieftain, his lifemate, and his sons. The meal had consisted of broth, cold 
mutton, oatcakes, and creamy ewe’s milk cheese, washed down with ale—a 
change, to say the very least, from her usual fare, though she supposed she 
would get used to it eventually. Maybe. In about a hundred years. Afterward, 
Arcan had closeted himself with his sons and his warriors to discuss, once 
again, the threat that would face them when the winged invaders from 
Tiarond ventured farther afield. 
Seriema had found herself at a loose end after breakfast. Presvel and 
Rochalla had gone off somewhere together, but not alone. To the 
conspicuous annoyance of Seriema’s former assistant, Rochalla had offered 
to mind little Annas while Tormon was busy. The trader himself, 
accompanied by his shadow Scall, had headed down to the ground floor of 
the fortress where the livestock were kept, to see to their precious horses. 
Tormon had invited her to accompany them, but Seriema had made the 
excuse (mostly untrue) of fatigue after yesterday’s long ride. Apart from 
stiffness and some aching muscles she felt fine, but that wasn’t the point. 
Tormon had convinced her of the importance of looking after her horse 
when they were on the road, but she was damned if she was going to turn 
herself into an unpaid groom in this place, where there were so many big, 
strong men around who apparently had nothing better to do with their time 
than bragging, gambling, and sharpening their swords. 
She had wandered round the fortress for a while, learning her way about and 
watching Arcan’s folk busying themselves with their various tasks. The dour 
reivers, however, did not seem to welcome her presence, for the place was in 
a ferment with the preparations for a siege, so eventually she had come up 

here to be out of the way. Feeling lonely and a little unsure, she had been 
giving herself a good talking-to. Shel didn’t miss the city—not she. It would 
do her good to bet away from the weight of her responsibilities, the endless 
documents on her desk, the crowded streets, and the tedious daily routine. 
And Lord Blade. At the memory of the Godsword Commander, her fingers 
clenched on the stone of the windowsill. The farther she was from him, the 
better. 
That’s all very well, but what’s the alternative? What place would there be 
for me here? I had an empire, and now it’s gone. But damn it, I won’t let 
that beat me. Somehow, I’m think of a way to start again. 
Suddenly, she felt unbearably constricted in the little chamber. It was good 
enough for sleeping in, but in daytime the turf fires were allowed to go out, 
and the cold, dismal place smelled stale because so many sleepers had 
occupied it. Acting on impulse, she grabbed the thick Godsword cloak that 
she now wore as a matter of course, and left the room continuing on up the 
narrow staircase instead of descending into the body of the fortress itself. In 
a moment, she had opened the narrow door that led out onto the roof, and 
was leaning perilously over the crenellated wall, the icy wind blowing her 
hair out of its fastenings to fly and tangle in the wind. 
She had better make the most of this. By the look of the sky, there would be 
rain again soon. The far horizon was stacked with an inky mass of cloud that 
was approaching swiftly on the wind. From the fortress’s vantage point high 
on the hill, Seriema looked out over the valley in which the reivers made 
their home. Everything seemed so primitive here! Tormon had explained to 
her that, despite the harsh climate, the clan had limited use for dwellings. For 
the most part, they inhabited the wild landscape itself, camping in the open 
in temporary shelters or sturdy hide tents, roaming the moors with their 
livestock, hunting game, or fighting with other clans. In the valley bottom, 
huddled in the lee of the high, steep slopes, was their one little settlement 
with its straggle of rough-and-ready houses: low stone dwellings half-sunk 
into the ground and roofed with sods. They looked like dens of some wild 
animal, not homes for people, and were mainly used by those with small 
children, the sick, and the elderly members of the clan. 
Today the hills were bare of sheep and the reivers’ wild, white cattle. They 
had been rounded up and penned in the yard of the keep. If the winged 
fiends came, many of the beasts would be slaughtered, and the meat smoked 
or salted to feed the people taking shelter in the stronghold. People went to 
and fro below her, transferring provisions, clothing, bedding, and any small 
treasures to the safety of the keep. Some were grubbing up any root crops 
that could be lifted now, while others brought in supplies of peat for the fires 
and bracken to bed down animals and humans alike. There was an air of 
grim purpose about the reivers this morning. Even small children trotted to 
and fro on errands with an air of self-importance: fetching and carrying, 
scavenging round the shores of the tarn for odd bits of firewood, hunting 
around the settlement for eggs, and rounding up the chickens and pigs to be 
transferred into the keep. Dogs, overexcited by all the activity, yapped and 

darted around people’s feet, chasing the livestock and hindering more than 
they helped. 
If only Tiarond had had some warning like this. How many lives could have 
been saved? 
Turning away from the settlement, Seriema walked across to the other side 
of the roof. Leaning on the parapet, she looked across the wild moors to the 
far horizon, where the iridescent barrier of the Curtain Walls stretched from 
earth to sky. It was many years since she had seen them—not since her 
father had brought her, as a girl. Below the keening of the wind, she thought 
she could just make out the faint crackle and roar of the barrier. What must it 
be like to live so close to such a phenomenon? She wondered what, if 
anything, lay on the other side. Was that where the winged invaders had 
come from? Beyond the mysterious boundaries which enclosed Callisiora? 
I wish I knew. Maybe if we could find out where they came from, we might 
discover a way to fight them. 
Lost in thought as she scanned the wild horizon, she was startled to hear her 
name being called. Turning, she came face-to-face with Cetain, the 
chieftain’s second son. “So this is where you’re hiding,” he said with a 
smile. “I’ve been all over the fortress trying to find you.” 
“Why?” Seriema asked in surprise. She hardly knew this man. True, she had 
spoken to him the previous day when he had escorted the wanderers to his 
father’s fortress, and they had exchanged a tentative smile or two at supper 
the previous evening, though they had not been seated near one another. 
That had been enough for her to decide that she liked him. He must have 
been close to herself in age, and though she wouldn’t have called him 
handsome, he looked very striking, with his twinkling green eyes and his 
long, dark red hair, braided this morning and tied back from his face with a 
silver clasp. 
“You’ve no nonsense about you, have you, lass?” He smiled. “Short and to 
the point, the way a warrior speaks. Just what I would have expected from 
the merchant queen of Tiarond. And what if I said I just wanted to pass the 
time, and to see how you were settling in?” 
“I would say that tripe coated in honey is still tripe. You have too much to 
do today to stand around and gossip, and you wouldn’t have been searching 
the place for me if it was only company you lacked.” Seriema answered his 
smile with one of her own. “So come on—out with it. What do you want?” 
Cetain’s smile vanished. Instead of answering her question, he came to lean 
on the wall beside her and looked out toward the horizon and the fastapproaching 
clouds. “I should have known I would find you up here,” he 
said softly. “This is has always been my favorite place for thinking things 
through. And from what Tormon has been saying, you must have a very 
great deal to think about. These last few days can scarcely have been easy.” 
Somehow, Seriema was unable to dissemble with this grave young man. 
“You’re right. So many terrible things have happened, and all so fast, that I 

hardly have them settled in my mind. I just keep telling myself I’m one of 
the lucky ones to have survived at all.” 
“You’re very brave. I’m not sure that many of my warriors would have been 
so steadfast under the same circumstances.” Cetain looked down at his 
hands, clasped before him on the top of the cold stone wall, and sighed. “In a 
way, that makes it harder for me to ask what I must.” 
Seriema frowned. “What do you want to ask me? I’m grateful that you’ve 
sheltered us here, and I’m willing to help in any way I can. As long as it isn’t 
cooking or sewing,” she added hastily. 
Cetain laughed. “The minute I set eyes on you—proudly wearing your 
soldier’s cloak, still unbowed after your arduous journey, and handling that 
great black horse as easily as if it were a gentle old pony—I knew I had a 
warrior-maid on my hands.” 
But Seriema wasn’t about to be flattered. “And?” she said pointedly. 
“And... Look, please don’t feel that anyone is forcing you to do this. I know 
it’s a lot to expect after what you’ve just been through.” 
Her patience gave out. “Do WHAT?” she shouted. 
“Come with me to persuade the other chieftains of our danger.” 
Seriema’s jaw dropped open. “You—you want me to ride with the reivers? 
But I scarcely know one end of a sword from the other. What use would I 
possibly be?” 
“It’s like this, you see.” Cetain turned to face her. “If my men and I go to the 
other chieftains with this tale of winged invaders, why should they believe 
me? They’re bound to think it’s some kind of trick on the part of my father. 
It would not be the first time in our history that the leaders of all the clans 
have been lured together under a flag of truce, and murdered. But if we take 
a witness from the city— someone who saw these terrible killings with her 
own eyes—well, we’d stand a better chance of succeeding. So my father 
thinks, and I agree, though I’m far from happy to be taking you into 
danger...” 
“But why me?” Seriema interrupted. “Why not one of the others?” 
“Well, for a start, you’d be better-looking company than Tormon...” 
“Be serious!” 
Cetain frowned. “What makes you think I’d not be serious about a thing like 
that?” 
She glared at him, and he held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. 
Stop glaring at me like an eagle about to pounce on a sheep. I should have 
known better than to rely on my poor indifferent charms to talk you around. 
One reason is that you are a woman. We go to parley this time, and the less 
warlike we look, the better. And though we do have a number of female 
warriors, with all due respect, you don’t look like one of them—yet. Another 
reason is that you are who you are. All the reivers have heard of the Lady 
Seriema, the foremost merchant in Callisiora—mostly because your 

caravans are such prized targets for us. But better still, some of our folk have 
seen you in the city, for we do visit—unobtrusively, of course—from time to 
time, to do a little trading and gather information.” 
“And because the reivers are not normally my friends,” Seriema said wryly, 
“I would have to be riding with you for a damn good reason.” 
“Exactly.” He searched her face with his eyes. “So will you come? It may be 
dangerous—I won’t lie to you about that. If any of the chieftains decide not 
to honor our flag of truce, then we’ll end up fighting for our lives. But, on 
the other hand, if the clans can be persuaded to cooperate for once, many 
innocent people might be saved.” 
An image of the winged monstrosity, with its bloodstained talons and fangs, 
bursting into her room, flashed into Seriema’s mind. She thought of the 
women and children she had just been watching as they went about their 
tasks in the village. “Of course I’ll come,” she said. 
“I knew you wouldn’t fail us!” Was it her imagination, or did Cetain look on 
her with new respect? “I’ll find a good horse for you—that great black beast 
of yours will need a rest after all its exertions yesterday, and besides, I’d not 
be willing to take a beast of such quality and breeding into the lands of our 
enemies.” He grinned. “Best not to put temptation in their way, eh?” 
Seriema did not smile back. Speaking of horses reminded her of 
Tormon—and she knew that the trader wasn’t going to like this expedition 
of hers one little bit. 
Well, tough. I don’t have to ask Tormon’s permission for anything. I carved 
out my own life in the city, and I’ll damn well do the same out here. 
It was amazing how the prospect of having something useful to do had 
boosted her spirits and her confidence. She owed Cetain her thanks, for 
letting her, an outsider, be part of the reivers’ world. 
He held out his hand. She took it willingly, and together they went down into 
the keep. 
CHAPTER 3 
The New Hierarch 
Galveron held up a hand for silence and crept toward the house, trying to 
move as silently as possible over the broken glass and debris underfoot. 
Though the windows had been shattered, the door was still intact. He pushed 
at it, then put his shoulder to it, but it would not move. “The accursed thing’s 
locked,” he said softly. “I don’t want to break it down, in case the noise 

attracts those vile creatures, but I can’t seem to budge it at all.” 
“I can see that.” Aliana pushed past him. “Here, let me.” Before he had a 
chance to protest, she picked up a stone and knocked the last shards of 
broken glass out of the window frame. Then she hoisted herself up and, with 
a twist and a wriggle, was inside. 
“Come back, you idiot!” Galveron hissed. She pretended not to hear him. 
After a moment, however, she heard him climbing through the window 
behind her and making a lot more noise than she had. Grabbing her arm, he 
spun her round to face him. “What in perdition do you think you’re playing 
at?” 
Aliana twisted out of his grasp. “If there’s a child in here, we’ve got to find 
it.” 
“I know. But don’t go off without warning like that. Out here, we ought to 
stick together.” 
Aliana knew that he was right—this time—but she was damned if she was 
going to admit it. “Try keeping up, then,” she snapped. In a chilly silence, 
they commenced their search of the house. 
Apart from the rain and dirt that had blown in through the shattered 
casements, the interior of the building seemed undisturbed. Aliana suspected 
that the winged fiends had gone through the village smashing the windows 
of the houses so that they could look and listen for any people who might be 
within. So far, however, there had been enough food in the Temple courtyard 
to distract them from a more thorough search. 
The little house was cosy and well kept. It had the feel of a happy home 
about it, the sort that Aliana had always longed for while she was living with 
her brother in the rough-and-ready squalor of the Warrens. She felt a pang of 
deep regret for the loss of the family who had dwelt here. Signs of the loving 
attention they had lavished on the place were everywhere. There was 
intricate carving on the furniture and the wooden overmantel. Rich tapestries 
hung on the walls. The handmade rugs on the floors and the bright, 
embroidered cushions on the chairs had all been crafted with great skill. “It 
looks as though they were Temple artisans,” Galveron whispered. “He was a 
carver, and she probably embroidered the great tapestries and the vestments 
of the priests.” 
Aliana snorted. “What makes you so sure it wasn’t the other way around?” 
The lower floor of the house was deserted, as were the bedrooms upstairs. 
The kitchen was filled with a sharp reek of burning, which came from a 
neglected stewpot that hung over the ashes of the fire. The contents had 
burned dry and congealed into a blackened lump in the bottom. Presumably 
this would have been their supper on the night of the Sacrifice, simmering 
over the fire to be ready for the little family when they returned. Aliana bit 
her lip, hard. Somehow, this house underlined the sheer extent of the human 
tragedy that had beset Tiarond far more powerfully than the decaying pile of 
dead meat in the courtyard ever could. 

She shivered. Suddenly her irritation with Galveron, and his with her, 
seemed stupid and petty. She caught his eye and knew that he was thinking 
exactly the same thing. Somehow, apologies passed between them without a 
word being said, and they were back in accord once more. “Let’s get out of 
here, Galveron,” Aliana whispered. “It’s time we were heading back. We’ve 
searched the house from top to bottom, and there’s no baby. We must have 
been mistaken.” 
The Godsword Commander frowned. “But I’m sure that’s what I heard.” 
“Me too.” Aliana shrugged. “But there’s nothing here. It must have been a 
cat or something, and Gilarra wouldn’t let us take an animal back to eat her 
precious rations.” 
Galveron sighed. “Can’t you be a little more charitable? Please? Remember 
that Gilarra has a difficult job to do. Just think how you would manage, in 
her place. Anyway, I think a cat would be a good idea, if we can find one. 
Quartermaster Flint has been complaining about vermin in the storage 
caves.” He paused, his brows knotted in thought. “But I’m sure that wasn’t a 
cat I heard.” 
He raised his voice a little. “Ho! Is anybody here?” 
There was a moment’s silence, then, from under their feet, came a weak little 
cry. “Myrial save us!” Galveron exclaimed. “There’s a cellar.” 
After a brief but frenzied search, they discovered that a rug in front of the 
kitchen range had been hiding the trapdoor. Aliana found an oil lamp in the 
kitchen and Galveron lit it, then they scrambled through the opening and 
down rickety stairs that were little more than a ladder with delusions of 
grandeur. At the bottom, Galveron held up the lamp to illuminate the room. 
The cellar was very small, and stank of blood and human waste. The wall to 
their left was lined with shelves to accommodate the family’s food supplies, 
though much of the space was now empty. On their right was a long table, 
its surface gouged and scarred but spotlessly clean. The carver’s tools were 
there, in a lavishly decorated wooden chest, and the space between the table 
and the steps housed a lathe. But Aliana and Galveron were not looking at 
the little underground room. Their attention was fixed in the far corner, 
where a pile of boxes, casks, and one or two broken bits of furniture were 
stacked. From behind this pile of discarded odds and ends came a pitiful cry. 
“Help me, please.” 
They darted forward, and Aliana held the lamp while Galveron pulled some 
of the boxes away. In the corner, shrinking away from the light, was a greyfaced, 
tangle-haired woman in a nest of bloodstained blankets. By her side, 
wrapped up in what looked like an old flour sack, was a tiny infant. 
Aliana was frozen with horror and pity. For a moment she felt utterly 
powerless to help this wretched creature. Not so Galveron. Snatching the 
lamp from his companion, he knelt beside the woman. 
“Are you real?” she whispered. 
“We’re real.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “What’s your name?” 

She licked her dry lips. “Cerella.” 
“I’m Galveron and this is Aliana.” He looked round at the thief. “Will you 
get some water, please?” 
“Of course.” Aliana couldn’t wait to get out of there. Something about the 
pitiful woman tore at her heart. She rummaged in the kitchen, collecting a 
pitcher of water, a cup, and a towel. Juggling her burdens, she slithered 
down the ladder and returned to the dark and fetid corner just in time to hear 
Cerella telling the Godsword Commander what had happened. 
“And as I was so near my time, Essel—that’s my lifemate—wouldn’t let me 
go to the Sacrifice, even though I was supposed to. He said that the Hierarch 
wouldn’t miss me, and if Myrial was any sort of God, He wouldn’t mind a 
woman so near her time staying out of the crowds. But I think Myrial did 
mind.” Her face twisted with grief. “I should have gone but I didn’t, and 
now these dreadful things have happened. I thought everyone was dead. 
Everyone but me.” Tears began to course down her sunken cheeks. 
Galveron gripped her hand. “Not everyone,” he said. “A good number of 
people survived, and we all found shelter in the Temple. We’ll take you 
there.” 
But Cerella turned her face to the wall. “Too late,” she whispered. “I heard 
screams, I looked out of the window and saw those vile creatures flying 
overhead. Then the baby started to come, and I hid down here. It was the 
only thing I could think of. I tried to pull the rug back as best I could from 
inside, so that the trapdoor would be hidden.” 
Aliana felt tears prickling behind her eyes. She had her baby all alone here 
in the dark, knowing that her man must almost certainly be dead, and with 
those fiends rampaging outside. 
Galveron’s face was oddly immobile, and she admired his ability to keep his 
feelings hidden. “And afterward?” he asked softly. 
Cerella shook her head. “I had such a bad time,” she whispered. “Somehow 
the baby survived, but something’s wrong inside me. Every time I move, I 
start to bleed again.” She took a sip of water from the cup that Galveron held 
out to her. “I’m finished, I think, but my poor little girl still clings to life. 
Please, if you can only take her...” 
“We’ll take both of you,” said Galveron in a voice that brooked no 
argument. “I’m going to carry you, so that you won’t strain yourself, and 
Aliana will take the baby. All you have to do is make it as far as the Temple. 
We have a very skillful Healer there. She’ll take good care of you.” 
“But the bleeding...” Cerella protested. 
Aliana knelt down and took both the woman’s hands in her own. “Listen, 
Cerella. If you stay here, you’ll die for sure. It’s a terrible risk, I know, but 
surely it’s worth a try.” 
What’s the point of this? She’s going to die anyway. 
Not for nothing had the thief spent so much of her life in the Warrens, where 

death was an everyday occurrence. She could recognize the signs. Cerella’s 
waxen appearance, the cold, clammy feel of her skin, and the labored rasp of 
her breathing: they all signified that her life was fading. Once again, Aliana 
felt her throat tighten, thinking of what this poor woman had suffered in the 
last few days. Somehow, through a tremendous act of will, she had managed 
to keep herself and her newborn child alive until help came. The effort had 
taken every ounce of strength she possessed, but now that she knew her baby 
would be safe, her overtaxed body was ready to admit defeat. 
The poor thing doesn’t have much longer. Why put her through the rough 
handling it’ll take to get her out of here? We could stay with her, surely, 
until she slips away? 
Then all at once she felt ashamed. Who was she to say that Cerella would 
never make it back? Given the tremendous effort she had made to live, 
surely she might just hold on for a little while longer. Besides, Galveron 
wasn’t about to let her give in. A single glance at his face as he knelt by the 
woman’s side told Aliana all she needed to know. He was a Godsword, 
pledged to protect the people of Tiarond, but an uncountable number of 
citizens had died. And Kaita had told her about the death of his old friend, 
Sergeant Ewald, when the winged fiends had invaded the Temple. 
He couldn’t save all those others, so he’s determined to rescue this one. And 
he doesn’t seem to realize that he’s setting himself up for more heartache. 
Oh, Galveron! Don’t do this to yourself. 
As though he had sensed her eyes on him, Galveron turned to her. “Stay with 
Cerella. I’m going upstairs to find some blankets.” He climbed out of the 
cellar, leaving the two women face-to-face. 
“He’s a good man,” Cerella said softly. 
Aliana nodded. “The best.” 
“He’ll break his heart trying to put this city right. Don’t let him.” 
“I can’t stop him. It’s just the way he is.” 
“Are you his girl?” 
The thief smiled. “No. He’s the Godsword Commander, and I’m—at least I 
was—a thief. Under the circumstances, we haven’t got much in common.” 
“He’s Godsword Commander? So Lord Blade was killed?” 
“I suppose so.” 
“It’s time we had a good man in charge. And Zavahl? Did they sacrifice him 
after all?” Suddenly, there was a new urgency in the woman’s voice. 
“To tell you the truth, Cerella, I wasn’t there either.” Aliana squeezed her 
hand. “As far as I can discover, neither were quite a few other people. So 
you see, it’s pointless to go on blaming yourself for this catastrophe just 
because you stayed at home. But Zavahl isn’t among the folk in the Temple, 
and Gilarra is the new Hierarch, so I expect we can assume that he’s dead.” 
She frowned. “Why do you ask?” 

Cerella’s eyes were wide and dark. “I was in labor when a Hierarch died. 
Unless another child was born last night, my little one should be his 
successor.” 
The thief felt her jaw drop. “Myrial’s name! I never thought of that.” 
“I’ve had a lot of time to think, down here alone. So you see, it’s just as well 
I’m dying. Had I survived, how could I ever have given her up?” She sighed. 
“After all that’s happened in the last few days, there’s probably not much of 
a future in being Hierarch of Callisiora. But at least she’ll be looked after, 
and that’s all that any of us can ask.” 
Aliana squeezed Cerella’s hands. “And you’ll be looked after too. You’ve 
come this far. Don’t give up now, when you’re almost safe.” 
Cerella’s eyelids drooped. “Her name is Ruhanna,” she whispered. 
At that moment Galveron came sliding down the steps, his arms full of 
blankets. Aliana had never been so glad to see anybody in her life. She ran to 
meet him. “You’d better hurry,” she whispered. “She has no strength left, 
and she’s ready to give up.” 
Galveron knelt down beside the half-conscious woman. Reaching across her, 
he picked up the baby and handed it to Aliana, who took it very gingerly. 
The little face, topped with a thatch of dark hair, was pale and sunken. She 
was still breathing, but did not awake, even when the thief wrapped her, very 
clumsily, in another blanket. Aliana didn’t know much about babies, but 
surely such stillness couldn’t be a good sign. 
Galveron, in the meantime, had wrapped the child’s mother in blankets and 
gathered her into his arms. “Are you ready?” he asked. “Then let’s go.” 
The worst part was getting the woman up the steep cellar steps and through 
the narrow trapdoor. Aliana went first with the child, and Galveron followed 
with Cerella, pushing her up through the hole while the thief pulled and 
steadied her from above. By the time they had got her out, she was 
unconscious, and by the time they left the house, blood was already 
beginning to soak through the blankets. 
They hurried through the village, Galveron carrying Cerella and Aliana 
clutching Ruhanna. She was glad to reach the towering golden gates that 
were the entrance to the wide plaza in front of the Temple and put the 
artisans’ settlement behind her. Even the grisly mounds of the decomposing 
dead were preferable to the eerie shells that had once been happy homes. 
And here she and Galveron were out in the open, where nothing could creep 
up on them. 
At least, I hope not. The thought of some enemy lying hidden, just as she had 
done, amid the rotting, stinking corpses, sent a shudder through her. 
Galveron nudged her, giving her a welcome respite from such thoughts. 
“Come on,” he whispered. “Hurry. Bleeding like this, I don’t think Cerella 
will last much longer. The sooner we’re all safely back in the Temple, the 
better.” 

One by one they slipped through the gates and began to pick their way 
around the edges of the plaza. Mist and cloud might conceal their progress, 
but they were still too wily to attempt to cross open ground without any 
cover. Besides, the center of the square was choked by the dead. Even at the 
edges, where bodies were thinner on the ground, they were forced to clamber 
over ghastly human remains, burdened by the mother and child they had 
rescued. Aliana had wrapped her scarf across her nose and mouth, but it did 
nothing to block out the thick stench of decay. Her throat contracted with 
nausea at the sight of viscera torn loose from gaping bodies, faces that had 
been half eaten away by rats and crows, torn limbs, and bloodied eye sockets 
staring emptily at the sky. Time after time, her feet slipped in putrid slime, 
and she only just managed to save herself from pitching headfirst into the 
pile of decomposing flesh. 
How did we ever manage to do this the first time? 
Aliana remembered when she and the other Grey Ghosts had first climbed 
into the Sacred Precincts, looking for shelter in the Temple. Pursued by the 
winged predators, running in terror for their very lives, they’d had little 
chance to consider the scenes of carnage around them. With a shudder, 
Aliana thought of the children Tag and Erla, the youngest surviving 
members of the Grey Ghosts. 
I hope they don’t remember much about this. 
Getting across the square had been easier the next time too, when Aliana had 
made her lonely journey in the dead of night from the Citadel to the Temple. 
The snow and darkness had hidden many of the horrors that she was seeing 
now, and the bitter cold had diminished the awful stench. Then there had 
been yesterday, when she and Galveron had passed this way on the outward 
leg of their search for the missing ring. How many more times would she 
have to endure this dreadful journey? Each time the horror, rather than 
diminishing, seemed to grow worse. She clutched the baby closer to her and 
tried to move a little faster. 
She reached the Temple door ahead of Galveron, with his heavier, more 
awkward burden. Clasping the child to her with one arm, she gave the coded 
knock on the Temple door. It was opened by Smithmaster Agella, and Flint, 
the one-armed Quartermaster. “Thank goodness you’re safe.” Agella put an 
arm round the shoulder of the weary girl and pulled her into the safe haven. 
“The Hierarch has been out of her mind with worry.” Then she caught sight 
of the baby. “Holy Myrial! Where in the name of wonder did you find that?” 
“We have its mother, too.” Aliana said. “Galveron is bringing her. Quickly, 
send someone to warn Kaita. We think the woman’s dying.” 
Agella beckoned to Packrat, who was lurking nearby, his face split in a wide 
grin to see the return of his friend. “You, lad! Go and tell the Healer we’re 
bringing her a very sick woman. Run!” 
At that moment, Galveron came staggering into the Temple, helped by a 
steadying hand from Flint. Without pausing, he carried straight on to Kaita’s 
makeshift infirmary in the old guardroom, Aliana following with the baby. 

The Healer was helping a Godsword soldier, whose arm was swathed in 
bandages from shoulder to wrist, out of bed. “I’m sorry to throw you out, 
Lomin,” she was saying, “but you’re on the mend now, and we have an 
emergency on our hands.” 
The soldier grinned at her. “Don’t you worry, Healer Kaita. I got no 
complaints. You’ve looked after me like I was the Hierarch himself.” 
“What, burned him at the stake?” someone muttered as she passed Aliana 
with a can of hot water. The thief hid a grin. 
Kaita, in the meantime, had taken charge of Cerella. “Put her on the bed,” 
she ordered Galveron, “and let’s have a look at her.” 
As they unwrapped the woman from her blankets, Aliana was horrified to 
see that they were soaked with blood. 
Dear Myrial! I’m amazed she’s still alive. And what about this poor child? 
Desperately she looked around for one of Kaita’s helpers. Frana, a plump, 
motherly woman who had been a midwife in the city, was straightening beds 
at the other end of the room. Dutiful as always, she continued with her 
allotted task, though Aliana could see by the way she kept darting glances at 
the new patient that she was longing to assist. She ran over to the midwife, 
proffering the baby. “Frana, will you help me? I have that poor woman’s 
child here. It’s in a bad way too, I think.” 
“Gracious!” With expert hands, Frana undid the thief’s clumsy wrappings. 
The pallid, scrawny babe lay limply in her arms. “Why, she’s nothing but 
skin and bones,” she said indignantly, glaring at Aliana as though it was her 
fault. She gently pinched the skin on the child’s arm, and frowned. “The first 
thing we need to do is get some liquids into her. Poor little scrap ...” She was 
addressing the baby now. “You haven’t had much of a start in life. Never 
mind, we’ll soon put that right. Auntie Frana will take care of you ...” 
Clearly, Aliana was no longer needed. “Her name is Ruhanna,” she told the 
midwife, and fled—but not far. She continued to hang around the sickroom, 
feeling useless but unable to leave until she knew whether the woman would 
live or die. As she waited, she found that her eyes were drawn to one of 
Kaita’s helpers, who was boiling surgical instruments in a large pot on the 
fire. It was the same woman who had made the jest about the soldier being 
burned at the stake. She turned, and beckoned surreptitiously to Aliana, and 
with a sudden shock of recognition, the thief realized that it was Gelina, 
looking completely different—and much older—with her abundant hair tied 
out of the way in a kerchief and her colorful, swirling gypsy skirts covered 
by a clean white apron. Aliana hurried over to her. “Gelina! What are you 
doing here? I thought you would be keeping an eye on Packrat for me, and 
taking care of Tag and Erla.” 
The woman glanced furtively over her shoulder. “Quick,” she said. “In here 
before they see us.” She tugged Aliana through the back of the sickroom and 
into the passage that led to the store caves farther up the mountain. “It’s the 
Hierarch,” she said softly. “She split us all up and put us to work.” 

“What?” 
“Shhh. Somebody will hear you. Once you and Galveron were out of the 
way, she came over with some Godswords and said that the best way to keep 
us out of mischief was to make us do an honest day’s work, and if we were 
kept apart, we would be less likely to make trouble.” 
“Of all the bloody nerve!” Aliana exploded, keeping her voice down with 
difficulty. “How dare she!” 
“I know.” Gelina nodded mournfully. “The bitch sent me here to Kaita, sent 
Packrat down to clean the privies, and put Tag and Erla with the rest of the 
orphaned kids that Felyss is looking after.” 
“But what about Alestan? Surely he objected?” 
Gelina glanced over her shoulder again to make sure that they were 
unobserved, but everyone’s attention was fixed on the ailing woman. “Oh, 
he objected all right,” she said bitterly. “That was when they arrested him.” 
“I don’t believe this! Why that treacherous, two-faced bitch...” 
The thief’s tirade ended abruptly as Gelina clamped a hand across her 
mouth. “Hush, Aliana! Don’t you see, she’s trying to provoke you? She’s 
already got Alestan out of the way. He was accused of stealing bread, but I 
saw one of the Godswords slip it into his pocket myself. Now that she has 
him locked up, she has a hold over you, and Galveron is unlikely to defend 
him because of all the acrimony between the two of them. As things stand 
right now, she can’t very well arrest you because she owes you, and 
Galveron wouldn’t stand for it, so she’s trying to goad you into some sort of 
confrontation. All she’s looking for is an excuse to get you out of the way, 
and she’ll pick the rest of us off one by one, probably with more trumped-up 
charges of theft.” 
“Where is he?” Aliana demanded. “Where did she put my brother?” 
“He’s locked up in one of the little rooms beneath the Temple,” Gelina told 
her. “You can’t get near him, Aliana—I already tried. That corridor is thick 
with guards.” 
“I can see what she’s up to,” Aliana said with a frown. “Now that we know 
her secret, she thinks we’re a danger to her. She doesn’t have to worry about 
us blackmailing her if she has the ring back, but if we told people she had 
been careless enough to lose it in the first place, it would still undermine 
their confidence in her.” 
Gelina nodded. “People are already wondering why you and Galveron went 
outside, and where you went. Any rumors that the ring had been lost would 
cast a certain amount of doubt on whether or not she had the real one now.” 
Aliana’s mouth tightened. “Well, she doesn’t have it—not yet. And if she 
thinks she can do this to my friends, she’s made a big mistake.” 
“What do you plan to do?” 
“Don’t worry. I have an idea.” Aliana hugged her friend. “Take care of 
yourself, Gelina, and look after the others— whatever Gilarra says. You may 

not see me for a while.” She hurried away before Gelina could ask any more 
questions. 
As she left the room, the Hierarch’s ring seemed to be burning a hole in her 
pocket. She had plans to make—and she would have to make them quickly, 
before Gilarra had time to ask about her prize. Aliana glanced back at 
Galveron, who was still lingering near the sick woman, despite Kaita’s 
attempts to chase him away, as though he felt that he could somehow use his 
own strength to hold her to this world. 
Damn Gilarra. That man ought to be our leader—and if she doesn’t have 
the ring, perhaps he could be. 
CHAPTER 4 
Beachcombers 
Toulac set off down the beach in the opposite direction from Zavahl, and as 
the distance between them widened, she felt herself beginning to relax. 
Though it wasn’t his fault that he knew so little of the world beyond the 
walls of Tiarond’s Temple, he couldn’t help but be a burden. Still, he was 
company out on this wild shore, and he was doing his best. Her mind went 
back to the terrified, hysterical wreck of a man that she and Veldan had 
rescued from the sacrificial pyre, and how far he had come since then. 
That’s what happens when you cage a man within walls of stone, and wait 
on him hand and foot for the whole of his life. After such a cosseted 
existence, how could we expect him to cope with the tough and dangerous 
world out here? All things considered, the poor bugger isn’t doing badly. I 
suppose we have that bonny lass from the inn to thank for the improvement. 
It’s amazing what a difference love—or lust—can make. She chuckled as 
she walked along, but soon her thoughts began to stray to a less happy 
subject. By Myrial, but she missed Mazal! It had broken her heart to leave 
the big, grey warhorse behind, but what choice had there been? She and 
Veldan had been fleeing for their lives from Lord Blade and his Godswords, 
and there had been no time to go back and rescue a horse. But she had 
owned him since the day the lanky colt had left his mother, and he had felt 
the touch of no one’s hand save hers. He’d been more than a useful animal. 
While they had still been warriors, he had saved her life more times than 
enough. He was a true companion. He was all the family she had. 
I wonder where he is now? Is he still alive? 
Toulac doubted it. The mountain had been swarming with Godsword 
soldiers. If they couldn’t tame the horse— and he had been trained so that no 

one could ride him except Toulac—they might very well slaughter him 
instead. There was plenty of meat on a horse, and given the current shortage 
of food in Callisiora, it would be more than welcome. 
I left him tethered in the barn. All they’d have to do is put a crossbow bolt 
between his eyes. And even if, by some miracle, they don’t find him, he’ll 
suffer a slow and horrible death from starvation. 
Tears burned behind her eyes, and overflowed. She wiped them away 
roughly with the back of her hand. 
Stop that, you daft old baggage. After all these years, now is not the time to 
start turning sentimental! 
A warrior couldn’t afford to go to pieces every time a comrade fell. You 
learned that early, or you didn’t survive for long. 
All the same, if someone was to bring him back to me right now, I swear I’d 
give them anything they asked. 
Toulac snorted. That sort of sentimental, woolly-headed thinking was a 
complete waste of time. Firmly, she pulled herself together. Things could be 
a lot worse, and well she knew it. Not only had they ended up in this 
scavenger’s paradise, but she also had her sword, which she had buckled on 
in Zavahl’s room just before the kidnappers struck. 
And a good thing I did, too, or I would never have managed to kill that 
creature who captured me. 
Though the area appeared to be deserted, the sword was a great comfort, 
nonetheless. Out of habit, she checked the blade, tutting at the slight notch 
where the creature’s chitinous head had been severed. If only she’d had time 
to grab her coat, she would have had her oilstone with her, not to mention 
being a damn sight warmer. Well, the best way to cure that was to get busy 
and keep moving. With a shrug, she turned her attention to the job in hand. 
Even while she was thinking, Toulac had been scanning the beach. 
Spotting a dull gleam in the shingle, she darted forward and, squatting beside 
her find, began to dig, scooping the damp, gritty sand away with her bare 
hands. To her delight the object turned out to be a sturdy metal box, about as 
long as her forearm. It was patched with rust, but otherwise intact. It was 
heavy, but she suspected that the weight probably came from the water she 
could hear sloshing around inside it. But was seawater all it contained? 
“Well now,” muttered Toulac. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” She carried the 
box farther up the beach, then went in search of a rock of the right size and 
weight. Having found what she was looking for, she knelt in the dry sand 
beside the box, which was fastened by a hasp and pin, rusted into a solid red 
lump. After some time spent grunting, swearing, and hammering with her 
rock, she succeeded in smashing off the clasp. Throwing her rock aside, she 
prised open the lid. 
The veteran swore as a couple of pints of seawater poured into her lap. She 
tipped out the remainder of the water and a sludge of wet sand. In the bottom 

of the box was a sheaf of saturated pages, which fell apart when she tried to 
lift it out. When she examined the fragments, she discovered that the ink had 
run out of all recognition, and all that remained was a smudged blue mess. 
“Bugger!” she muttered. “I wonder what it was. Love letters, maybe? A 
treasure map? Now I’ll never find out.” 
Beneath the papers lay a small, leather drawstring bag, and she felt her 
excitement rise again. The leather was soaked and stiff and the string had 
swollen so that the knots were very tight. Toulac picked at them for a 
moment or two with her blunt, short nails, before her impatience got the 
better of her. Removing her right boot, she felt around inside the leg until 
she found the small, flat pocket, sewn into the leather. Out of it she pulled 
what had to be her most precious possession at this time: a small, but very 
sharp knife in its own little sheath. She had carried it around in its hiding 
place for so long that she had almost forgotten it was there. After putting her 
boot back on, she attacked the bag again, slicing through the strings and 
pouring the contents into her hand. 
“Plague on it!” The bag, for which she had held such high hopes, contained 
nothing but some poor sailor’s wordly treasures: a few tarnished coins of no 
particular value and a handful of poor-quality pearls wrapped in an old 
handkerchief. Toulac shrugged, returned the paltry items to the bag, and 
dropped it in the sand. Oh well. At least the metal box would come in 
extremely useful for cooking, and a hot meal, right now, would be more 
welcome than a whole chestful of treasure. She wondered how long her find 
had been in the sea. If there had been a fairly recent shipwreck nearby, then 
the beach could be littered with all sorts of useful items. Tucking the box 
under her arm, she set off again along the beach, to see what she could find. 
After a while, she had accumulated several useful items and, thankfully, 
managed to take her mind off Mazal. 
Zavahl, tired from walking, and stooping, and carrying his booty back to the 
meeting place, was ready to sit down and rest when he returned. Toulac, 
however, seemed tireless. She arrived shortly after he did, laden down with 
an assortment of items, and made him spread out his own finds for 
inspection alongside her own. “There you are,” she said. “I told you this 
place would be a treasure trove.” 
Still dubious, he looked down at the motley pile of flotsam. Between them, 
he and Toulac had amassed a length of sturdy chain that was probably from 
the anchor of a small boat, a tin box, various lengths and thicknesses of rope, 
a sizable piece of fishing net—about which, for some reason, the veteran 
seemed inordinately pleased—a long spar, broken at one end and with a 
ragged strip of canvas still attached, assorted driftwood, Zavahl’s sack, and 
his proudest find, the bottom part of a broken earthenware jug which, though 
it was cracked, seemed fairly watertight. He poked the haphazard pile with 
his foot. “Myrial only knows what you could possibly make from this lot.” 

The veteran chuckled. “Luckily, Myrial isn’t the only one.” After allowing 
herself a brief respite to gloat over their discoveries, off she went again, 
poking around among the rocks that littered the upper part of the beach. 
After a while, she selected her location: a cluster of boulders close enough to 
the foot of the cliff for shelter, but far enough away to be safe from any 
falling rocks. Clambering between the massive stones, she found a sheltered 
space in their midst that would accommodate a fire and two people. With the 
help of the taller Zavahl, she jammed the spar high up between two of the 
boulders to make a ridge pole, and draped the length of netting over the top. 
“Now,” she said, “we need some greenery to thread through the holes in the 
net.” 
The only vegetation in the area was at the top of the cliff. After he’d had so 
much trouble getting down, Zavahl was not keen to tackle the crumbling 
rock face again but, in deference to his companion’s age, he felt that he 
ought to volunteer. Toulac laughed. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll go. I’m 
used to scrambling up cliffs, but I’ll wager that in your whole life, you’ve 
climbed nothing more than stairs.” 
Zavahl felt himself going hot all over. “I’m not completely useless, you 
know.” 
The veteran patted his arm. “It’s not your fault, sonny. You can’t help the 
kind of life you’ve led. But climbing cliffs takes practice. I’d be more than 
glad to teach you, but this kind of crumbling rock isn’t a good place to start. 
I don’t want to have to scrape you up from those rocks at the bottom!” 
Despite his wounded pride, Zavahl had to admit that he was relieved—and 
even more so when he saw that even Toulac, with all her experience, was 
finding the cliff far from easy. Hardly daring to breathe, he watched her 
slow, painstaking progress up the escarpment, as she tested every hold and 
crevice in the friable rock before trusting her weight to it. Even so, she twice 
lost her footing as the surface crumbled away, leaving her hanging 
precariously as her feet groped for another secure position, dislodging a 
barrage of stones in the process. 
Myrial, save her! Zavahl had to dive out of the way as a chunk of rock 
clouted his shoulder, narrowly missing his head. Only when the veteran had 
found a new foothold and started moving again did he dare to breathe. 
“Are you all right?” he yelled. 
“Shut up. I’m concentrating.” Toulac spoke through gritted teeth, and 
climbed on. The former Hierarch shook his head. She’s old enough to be my 
grandmother1. How can she do this? 
But Toulac could, and did. Before much longer, she had reached the top of 
the cliff, and with one last scramble and another shower of stones, she 
vanished over the edge and out of sight. A voice, very breathless, came 
floating down. “I’m fine. Just give me a moment or two to collect myself.” 
A moment or two? Zavahl had only been watching, and he was trembling 
and exhausted from the tension. He waited, shivering, in the raw wind, 

steeling himself for a long delay while Toulac recovered. But long before he 
expected to hear from his companion, the voice came again. “Mind your 
head!” 
A moment later a large bundle of russet bracken was dropped over the brink 
of the escarpment. When Zavahl picked it up, he saw that it had been 
secured by an unraveled strand of the rope he had found earlier. Several 
more bun-dies followed: a mixture of bracken, reeds from the marshy 
ground, and long, flexible twigs from a leafy shrub. 
After a time, Toulac’s head appeared again over the edge of the cliff. “Look 
out, I’m coming down.” 
And once again Zavahl had to watch, with his heart in his mouth, while she 
made a descent that looked, from his point of view, to be even more perilous 
than her initial climb. Finally, she reached the bottom, dropped the last few 
feet, and dusted off the knees of the breeches that Ailie had lent her, back at 
the inn. “Good, hard-wearing cloth, this,” she said approvingly. She turned 
to Zavahl and grinned. “What are you standing there for? Come on, pick up 
a bundle or two. We’ve got a shelter to build.” 
Building a shelter sounded like a lot of work. Zavahl had had no sleep the 
previous night, no breakfast today (or any other meals, for that matter), and 
had been forced into a lengthy trek along the beach and back, hauling a load 
of heavy junk. He was weary and stiff and cold, his head was throbbing, and 
his stomach ached with hunger. Completely unaccustomed to any form of 
physical labor, he had just about reached the end of his endurance—or so he 
thought. “Are you sure we really need a shelter? I thought you said that 
Veldan and the others were coming for us.” 
“They are—eventually,” Toulac replied. “But if you think how long we were 
in the air last night with those awful critters, and how quickly they seemed to 
be moving, you can work out for yourself that we must be a good long 
distance from the settlement. Goodness knows how long it’ll take them to 
find us—so in the meantime, we need a shelter.” She looked at him and 
scowled. “Besides, making me climb all the way up that bloody cliff for 
nothing would be a very unwise move on your part. Now let’s get moving, 
sonny. We don’t have forever.” 
Toulac was more correct than she knew. From the top of the cliff, hostile 
eyes looked down on the two lost beachcombers, and voices spoke in low 
and furtive tones. 
“Phew! That was close. I felt sure the old baggage would see us when she 
was poking around up here.” 
“So what if she had? A knife in the belly would soon solve that little 
problem. In fact, I still don’t know why you didn’t let me kill her while she 
was up here. They would have been much easier to deal with one by one.” 
“Have you gone soft or something, Pelorm? If the four of us can’t manage an 

old granny and a clueless whiner, we should give up this business for good.” 
“Anyway, you fool, Tuld was right to wait. It paid off, didn’t it? Now we 
know they have friends coming to find them, which is good news for us. 
Word’s getting round, and ships don’t come close to this bit of coastline 
anymore. Pickings have been getting mighty slim. But the terrain’s too 
rough around here to get far by horse or on foot. The only way these folk 
will be able to search for their lost mates is by boat—and that’s where we 
come in. We’ll make our signal in the usual place, just like we always do 
and—” 
“What about the pair on the beach? It’ll be a bit suspicious if there are two 
signals.” 
“Oh, don’t be stupid, Shafol. You heard the old one say that it’ll take their 
friends a good while to find them. We’ll have something to eat now, and a 
bit of a rest, and wait until it’s dark. Then we’ll slip down and stick a knife 
in them— and when their friends come, we’ll be waiting.” 
Congratulating themselves on the cleverness of their plan, the wreckers crept 
away into the bushes. 
Despite all the problems that were accumulating back in Gendival, and the 
fuzziness in her head from a night’s missed sleep, Veldan was beginning to 
enjoy the day as she rode the spare horse along the river path. She and her 
companions were heading for the nearest jetty owned by the Navigators, 
where they would pick up the boat that would take them down to the coast. It 
should be a pleasant journey on a day as lovely as this. The fragrant autumn 
air had an invigorating bite, and the sunlight sparkled and danced through a 
dappling of bronze oak leaves that still clung to the boughs overhead. The 
path was soft, with a deep bed of leaf litter that muffled the horses’ 
hoofbeats and left the birds and the rippling song of the river as the only 
sounds. 
This was a chance to rest a little: an island of calm in the surging currents of 
change that had beset Gendival. But though she was enjoying the ride, 
Toulac and Zavahl were very much on the Loremaster’s mind. She wanted to 
send a mental call out to the veteran, though she wasn’t sure of Toulac’s 
ability to answer her. Had the last time been a chance occurrence, brought on 
by desperation? Or were her friend’s abilities beginning to strengthen and 
grow as she was exposed to an increasing amount of telepathic 
communication? 
Kaz interrupted her thoughts. “Boss, you’re getting tempted again.” 
Veldan felt a prickle of annoyance. “All right, I’m tempted. So what?” 
“You know what. If, for some reason, Toulac isn’t able to answer you, you 
won’t know whether it’s because she can’t manage to broadcast another 
message so far, or whether she’s in trouble. And then you’ll worry. All the 
way down the river, you’ll be fretting. And you’ll take it out on me.” 

“If that’s all you’re bothered about, I’ll take it out on Elion instead.” 
“A plague on Elion,” the firedrake snorted. “I’m your partner. If you’re 
worried about anything, you talk to me. But this time there’s no need. Just be 
patient, Boss. Toulac can look after herself. She’ll be fine.” 
“I suppose.” Veldan sighed. However, since she was riding on horseback 
and not on Kazairl, at least she had some means to distract herself. She 
turned to the innkeeper, who rode beside her. “Hey, Ailie. Want to race?” 
Urging her horse into a gallop, she took off at speed along the path, leaving 
her worries behind for just a little while. 
The Navigator jetty was on a pleasant, tree-lined stretch of river, where the 
stream flowed steady and deep. Small clearings had been cut in the woods 
nearby, where clusters of low wooden sheds held cargo, and occasionally 
people, when the boatmen or their passengers wished to spend a night on 
land. The largest of the buildings had been given over to a trading post, 
where folk from the Gendival settlement came to bargain for luxuries from 
downriver and, in the case of the villagers, to sell goods and implements of 
their own skilled crafting. The Loremasters also had curios to trade: unusual 
bits and pieces that they had picked up on their travels in the other realms. 
The place was run by Skeryn, who, in all his thirty-two years, had never 
taken to life afloat, though he was a Navigator born and bred. He was a 
clever man with a great thirst for knowledge, but he had neither aptitude nor 
love for the hard manual work of a boatman. So instead he stayed at the 
trading post with his books and scrolls, and cared for the two youngsters of 
his widowed sister Meglyn. She, by contrast, was a proper water-gypsy who 
could handle any sort of boat with consummate skill. She now owned three 
boats: two of the shallow-hulled sailing wherries-sixty feet long, built of oak 
from the Gendival forests, and especially designed for carrying cargoes in 
river waters— and a seagoing barge that carried cargoes back and forth 
along the coast. This latter had belonged to her lifemate’s father, Ruthar, 
who had now retired from the sea and lived with Skeryn and the children at 
the trading post, where he managed the store itself, exchanged gossip, and 
did a roaring trade with the strong, dark ale he brewed in his own little shed 
around the back. 
When the Loremasters rode up, the wherry was unloading cargo at the 
wharf. Meglyn, tall and lanky, with her dark hair cropped short for 
convenience and safety on the boat, stood on deck supervising the hoists, 
while Chalas, her brawny crewman, shifted crates and bales. When she saw 
them, she gave them a cheery wave. “Nice and early, I see,” she called. 
“Don’t get settled. We’ll soon be done here, then we’ll want you all aboard 
as quickly as possible.” 
Elion grinned. “At least that spares us from having to drink Ruthar’s deadly 
brew.” 
“If you’re not man enough for my beer, Loremaster, there’s plenty of water 
in the river.” Ruthar had come out of the trading post to welcome them. 
Though rheumatism had stiffened the old man’s gait, he still managed to 

carry himself with a jaunty air. He had a round, cheerful face, a head of fine, 
silver-white hair, and twinkling eyes. His skin was surprisingly unwrinkled, 
considering its years of exposure to the salt winds of the sea, and he looked 
much too young to have been in the world for more than eighty years. 
Veldan was very fond of him: Ruthar was sociable, kind, and full of fun, and 
she had never heard him complain or speak ill of folk behind their backs. He 
was lively company for his grandchildren, and enjoyed food, drink, good 
company, and keeping busy. He virtually managed the trading post for the 
studious Skeryn, who was more than happy to do his share of the physical 
work and keep the accounts, while Ruthar bustled around, taking 
inventories, arranging goods, and, best of all, yarning with the boatmen and 
the folk who came down from Gendival to trade. 
He greeted Ailie with delight, for she was a frequent visitor to the trading 
post when purchasing her supplies for the inn. “Well, lass, but it’s good to 
see your pretty face again.” 
Unconsciously, Veldan’s hand went to the jagged scar that ran down the side 
of her face, but no one noticed save her partner Kaz. 
As Ruthar welcomed them, the human Loremasters dismounted, somewhat 
stiffly in Veldan’s case. Kaz was a lot more comfortable to ride. In the 
background of her thoughts, she could feel his smirk. It spoke volumes. “Oh, 
shut up,” Veldan growled. 
“Me? I never said a word.” The firedrake was all injured innocence. 
“You didn’t have to.” 
“Maybe you’ll believe me now, when I tell you that those creatures are for 
eating, not riding. And on the subject of eating...” 
“There’s no time now,” Veldan told him firmly, “but I’ll see if I can get 
something from Skeryn, to eat on the boat.” With that, she followed Elion 
and Ailie into the store. 
The trading post was a fascinating place. The interior was well lit by the 
many oil lamps that hung from the low beams above, so that the 
merchandise could be seen clearly. And a small stove in one corner provided 
a welcome warmth on this cool autumn day. There were goods stacked 
everywhere: in barrels, in bales, piled up in the corners, and crowded onto 
shelves. Flour and fleeces, lamp oil and twine, pottery and knives, honey and 
herbs for medicines and teas—all of these things and more found their way, 
sooner or later, up the river in the big, shallow-drafted wherries of the 
Navigators. The air smelled of leather and fruit, spices and soap, tarred rope 
and smoked fish, all blended with a whiff of Woodsmoke from the stove. 
Veldan, Elion, and Ailie all glanced at one another and smiled. As children 
growing up in Gendival, it had been their greatest treat to be allowed to 
come down here with the adults and rummage (while the adults’ eyes were 
elsewhere) through all these treasures from distant places. Even better for 
adventure had been the jetty and the wherries themselves, and if some eagleeyed 
adult should spot the youngsters and chase them ashore, there had 

always been the swing: simply a piece sawn off a plank of wood, with a hole 
pierced through the middle and a thick rope passed through and knotted on 
the other side. The other end of the rope was tied to the thick bough of a tree 
on the bank, and you swung right out across the river, spinning round and 
round... 
“ .. And the day wasn’t complete until at least one of us had fallen in, and 
had to be fished out and dried, and sent home in borrowed clothes.” Only 
when Elion finished her thought aloud, did Veldan realize how strong and 
clear the memory had been. Sometimes the past was a much more 
comfortable place to be than the present. 
Skeryn was sitting by the stove. He was lanky and dark-haired like his sister, 
but his hair was longer and tended to curl, where hers was straight. His feet 
were up, his chair was tilted back, and, as usual, his nose was buried in a 
book. As the Loremasters entered, he looked up and blinked, gathering his 
thoughts from far away. “Veldan! Elion! It’s ages since you’ve been here! 
And it’s always good to see you, Ailie.” 
He got up and came to greet them, arms outstretched, and enfolded Veldan 
in an enormous hug. It was only then, when she felt the stiffness going out of 
her spine, that she realized she had been waiting for him to flinch away from 
her scar. But, bless him, apart from catching it with a single, piercing glance, 
he had taken no notice whatsoever of her disfigured face. It came as a great 
relief. Caught up in the tide of events in Gendival, Veldan had had little time 
to think about scars, and besides, she had been around and about the 
settlement while the injury to her face was healing, and they were familiar 
with the way she looked now. But Skeryn was an old friend, and it was the 
first time she had seen him since she’d been hurt. 
Suddenly, the Loremaster remembered something that Toulac had told her a 
long time ago, back when they first met: 
“That scar is not a pretty sight, but it’s not near as bad as you think, and it’ll 
be better still when it silvers out. No one but a complete imbecile would turn 
away from you in revulsion—and I cant see you scaring people into fits.” 
“I don’t want them to pity me...” 
“What? Pity you? My dear child, take a look at yourself. You’ve a brain in 
your head, you’re a warrior, and you have the air of a woman who knows 
how to take care of herself... And whatever you may think, your face is 
lovely. Granted, it may not be as flawless as it once was but, believe me, the 
plain old rest of us would gladly trade a scar like that to be as beautiful as 
you. Really and truly. So you see, Veldan, folk will sympathize with 
your injury—and that’s fair enough—but no one is going to pity you longer 
than two minutes together. 
Maybe the veteran had been right after all. 
“I bet you’re glad now that she threw that stupid mask on the fire,” Kaz 
commented, smugly, from his position outside. “And I’m sure you 
remember what I always used to tell you...” 

“Yes, I know,” Veldan interrupted. “You and Toulac are too damn clever for 
your own good.” 
“But not too clever for yours, sweetie.” As usual, the firedrake had the last 
word. 
Veldan barely had time to negotiate a haunch of venison for Kaz, before 
Meglyn was in the doorway, hurrying them away. “Come on, you folk. The 
cargo has been unloaded, and we’re ready for you now. Never mind settling 
your stupid horses. Ruthar will see to them until you get back.” The 
Navigator had little time for any mode of transport which couldn’t go on the 
water. “Come on. Stir yourselves quick, or we’ll be missing the tide.” 
“You’d better do as she says,” said Ruthar. “The last fellow who made her 
miss the tide left a few possessions behind on the boat. His liver, his 
kidneys, his—” 
“All right, all right.” Elion stood up hastily. There was a scrape of chairs as 
the two women followed suit. 
“Come back soon for a proper visit,” Skeryn said quietly to Veldan. “We 
don’t see enough of you these days. Maybe the new Archimandrite won’t 
keep you gallivanting around the world so much.” 
The Loremaster blinked in surprise, then remembered that Blade had sent 
messages down the river to arrange transport on Meglyn’s boat. “Do you 
know anything about Amaurn?” she asked softly. 
Skeryn shrugged. “Not me. I’m too young. Ruthar remembers him, though.” 
“Are you on his side?” There weren’t many people she would dare to ask so 
openly. 
“We Navigators aren’t on anybody’s side.” He grinned. “Only the riverside.” 
“Veldan! Get yourself out here now!” Meglyn roared— and when she used 
that tone of voice, it was wise to hurry. Veldan fled. 
The wherry was waiting for her, with the mast up and sail ready for hoisting. 
Clearly the captain was in a hurry to be off. When everyone, including the 
firedrake, was safely aboard, Chalas cast off and hoisted the sail up the tall 
mast while Meglyn, at the tiller, steered the craft out into the current. Ailie 
immediately found a sheltered corner on deck and dragooned Elion into 
helping her get out the food. Veldan, leaning on the rail, waved goodbye to 
Skeryn as the trading post dwindled behind, but her mind was already 
leaping ahead to the journey’s end, when she would find Zavahl and Toulac 
and bring them safely home.
CHAPTER 5 
Eye on the World 

Firefly, Scall’s chestnut mare, was coming into season. This morning, the 
signs were clear—as was the interest of Rutska, not to mention several of the 
thick-coated, long-maned little stallions belonging to the reivers. 
Oh, no, Firefly. You would have to do this now! 
Anxiously, Scall went around checking the tethers of the stallions, but like 
the Sefrian, they were all restrained with lengths of light chain, to stop them 
biting through in just such a situation as this. It wasn’t an absolute guarantee 
that one of them would not somehow get loose and molest his precious mare, 
but under the circumstances, with so many beasts stabled so close together, it 
was the best that could be done. 
Firefly had been groomed so hard that she gleamed like a copper coin. In 
fact, he had brushed her for so long that she’d had more than enough of him 
for one day. When finally she turned her head and nipped him, none too 
gently, he decided that, reluctant though he was to leave her for the company 
of his strange, rough hosts, perhaps he ought to take the hint and give her 
some peace. Nevertheless, he kept finding ways to put off the moment. 
Maybe he should check her hooves once more ... 
Just when he had made his mind up that he would really have to go, there 
came the sound of angry voices from the place where Tormon’s sturdy 
Sefrians were tethered. 
“Are you insane? You’re not going off with those reivers!” It was Tormon’s 
voice, harsh with anger. 
“Who in blazes do you think you’re ordering around?” The other voice 
belonged to Lady Seriema. “This is important,” she said. “I’m not going off 
on some pleasure jaunt, you know. Cetain asked me to go with him and meet 
the other clan chieftains because he thinks that the testimony of someone 
who actually witnessed the attack on Tiarond will help convince them to join 
us.” 
Scall’s eyes opened wide. She was thinking of going off with the reivers? 
Better you than me, Lady. You must have lost your mind. 
Clearly Tormon was not impressed, either. “If you ever get as far as talking 
to them,” he snapped. “Don’t be fooled by your welcome in this clan, 
Seriema. These are not civilized people. Their life is hard, and they survive 
through banditry and murder. If clan chieftain Arcan didn’t owe me a favor 
or two, your fate would have been rape, and either servitude or death, 
depending on whether they could spare enough food for you.” 
Scall heard Seriema gasp. Tormon must have been desperate indeed to bring 
up such a painful subject. In Scall’s opinion, she had kept going with 
exceptional courage since she’d been attacked by a brutal madman; but it 
had all happened so recently that she still had yellowing bruises on her face 
and a constant shadow behind her eyes, mute testimony to the memories of 

pain and fear that must still haunt her. Surely her resolve would waver now? 
From his place of concealment, he heard her take a deep steadying breath. 
“I’m not afraid,” she said firmly. “We’ll have a company of picked warriors 
with us, and we’ll be traveling under a flag of truce. Cetain won’t let me 
come to any harm.” 
Tormon clapped a hand across his eyes. “Give me strength!” he muttered. 
“It’s touch-and-go whether he can manage to keep himself from coming to 
harm. What does the young idiot think he’s playing at? I’ll go and have a 
word with him right now.” 
“You will mind your own business.” The words carried the bite of a 
whiplash, spoken in the tones of one who’d been born to command. Scall 
was extremely glad she’d never spoken to him like that. “This has nothing 
whatsoever to do with you,” Seriema went on. “I have conferred at length 
with Cetain, we have reached a decision, and I am informing you out of 
courtesy, not asking your permission.” 
“Well you needn’t think you’re going on my horse.” Tormon’s words 
sounded so much like capitulation that Scall blinked in surprise. He had 
developed such a healthy respect for the trader in the last few days that he 
had never considered the possibility that anyone might defy him. 
“Cetain will be lending me a horse,” said Seriema, with great dignity. “We 
already discussed that, too.” 
“In that case, there’s nothing left for me to do but wish you luck,” Tormon 
replied stiffly. “Frankly, my Lady, you’re going to need it. But let me tell 
you one thing. When you were attacked in Tiarond, you were fortunate that I 
happened to be there to help you out. If you get into trouble this time, you’re 
on your own. I have my daughter to consider, and I’ve no intention of 
making her an orphan just because some silly woman deliberately walked 
into danger.” 
There was a hiss of indrawn breath. “Silly, is it? Well what you consider 
folly, some folk would call courage. I’m sure Cetain and I can manage very 
well without your assistance—and risk or no risk, at least we’re trying to do 
something positive, instead of skulking behind stone walls like cowards.” 
Scall heard Seriema’s footsteps receding across the floor, then up the stone 
steps that led into the main part of the fortress. He held his breath. He didn’t 
want Tormon to discover him now. There was a long moment of silence, 
then the trader began to curse, his voice low and baleful, not giving vent to 
his anger around the horses but letting it out in a soft, steady stream of 
invective, without once repeating himself. Scall’s. eyes grew wider and 
wider. He had never imagined that Tormon would know such words! He 
didn’t know half of them himself. 
Finally, the trader ran out of curses and stalked out of the stable without a 
backward look. With a sigh of relief, Scall emerged from his hiding place. 
What could he do now? Clearly, it would be best to keep out of the way for 
the next few hours. Suddenly the answer came to him. He would go and 

fetch the mysterious artifacts he had found beneath the city of Tiarond and 
take them to show the Summoners, as Tormon had suggested. Right now, 
the eldritch figures in their sinister skull masks seemed a far less alarming 
prospect than Tormon in his current mood. 
No one took any notice of Scall as he went upstairs through the drafty stone 
corridors to fetch the strange items from his pack. The reivers were all too 
busy settling into the stronghold and preparing for a siege to take any notice 
of one stray lad. Nevertheless, Scall bustled along with the calculated air of 
purpose that he had learned as an apprentice. If you looked as though you 
were on an errand, people left you alone. If you skulked, or wandered, or 
woolgathered, they found you a host of tasks, usually unpleasant, inevitably 
inconvenient, and all to be accomplished before supper. 
Scall shared his quarters with Presvel and a number of Arcan’s young, 
unwed warriors, while Tormon and Annas had been allotted their own tiny 
closet of a room elsewhere. When he reached the sleeping chamber, he 
opened the door just a crack and peeped cautiously round the edge. He didn’t 
want to risk meeting Presvel, who seemed to be behaving more and more 
strangely, and who had made it quite clear that Scall had better stay out of 
his way. 
Luckily, the room was empty, and with a sigh of relief, he slipped inside. His 
peculiar finds were stuffed into the bottom of his pack. Myrial only knew 
why he had dragged them so far. As Scall knew, they had no practical use 
whatsoever. But they reminded him of his adventure beneath the city which, 
now that it was safely over, he looked back on with pride. The objects were 
rare and fascinating, he had found them by himself, and he had so few 
possessions to call his own that he wasn’t prepared to let any of them go. 
To keep his finds safe, he had wrapped them in his ragged old shirt, which 
he had given up wearing when he’d replaced it with a warmer soldier’s 
garment from the guardhouse on the outskirts of Tiarond. Squatting on the 
floor, he took the untidy bundle out of his pack, unwrapped it, and looked at 
the items again: what appeared to be a thin, round, silver mirror, and a small 
silver sphere about the size of a walnut. But, as he had accidentally 
discovered, there was a great deal more to them than there seemed to be at 
first sight. 
Tormon was right. These things are beyond me. Let the Summoners decide 
what to do with them. 
Unfortunately, there proved to be two small problems. It took him some time 
to screw up his courage to go looking for the Summoners. They gave him 
the creeps with those black robes, and the chilling death masks that hid their 
faces. Then, when he finally did go, they were nowhere to be found. He 
hunted high and low, all over the stronghold— except for the clan chieftain’s 
chambers, and he wasn’t about to go in there without Tormon’s protection. 
However, the warrior on guard at Arcan’s door was a young man who 
seemed disposed to be friendly. “You’ll be one of the wanderers from the 
city,” he said, looking Scall up and down with piercing blue eyes. 

Scall nodded. “That’s right,” he said warily. “I’m Scall.” 
The young guard, his long, braided hair red-gold, like so many of these 
reivers, held out a broad, callused hand. “I’m Riol.“ He leaned close to Scall. 
”Tell me, is it true what they’re saying about monstrous brutes with wings? 
Did they really massacre all the Tiarondians?“ 
“Well, if they didn’t kill them all, they certainly had a damn good try.” Scall 
strove to keep his voice steady and offhand. 
The guileless blue eyes grew wider. “And did you see them?” 
Scall remembered the sinister winged shape dropping, with outspread wings, 
from the roof of Lady Seriema’s mansion. He remembered the hideous fiend 
exploding through the window in a shower of glass, its red eyes burning with 
a murderous light in its gaunt, grey face, its lipless mouth gaping to display 
the bloodstained fangs, with shreds of nameless flesh caught between them. 
He remembered the foul stench of it, as it closed upon its prey with 
unnatural and terrifying speed. A shudder ran through him, and clammy 
sweat iced on his brow. “Oh yes,” he whispered. “I’ve seen them—and I 
pray that you never will.” 
But Riol seemed unconcerned, and Scall realized that he had barely been 
listening. His thoughts were elsewhere. “Ach,” he said softly, “can you not 
imagine it? All that booty—just lying there for the taking. A whole city full 
of loot...” 
Scall felt anger explode within him. “Are you insane? You have absolutely 
no idea what you’re dealing with. Those creatures massacred the entire 
city!” 
Riol shrugged. “Ach, city folk. They’re all soft. Put those creatures up 
against proper warriors, now, and we’d soon see them off. Then Tiarond 
would be ours, with all its wealth and its mines. Arcan’s clan could rule all 
Callisiora...” 
Scall stared at him in horror. Was that what these reivers were saying 
amongst themselves? Was that what they were all thinking? Well, if the 
idiots were hatching some crazy plan to march on Tiarond, it was none of his 
concern. 
But one thing’s for sure. There’s no way I’ll be going with them. 
Still, Riol seemed a cordial young man, and Scall had enjoyed talking to 
someone nearer his own age—even if he did keep his brains in his backside. 
It would be nice to have a friend among these warriors, so he decided not to 
argue the point any further—yet. Maybe if Riol got to know him better, he 
would be more amenable to listening to sense. In the meantime, he 
remembered, he was on an errand of his own. “Riol?” 
“Eh?” Clearly the guard had been lost in a daydream— probably already 
looting Tiarond, Scall thought disgustedly. The notion of this fresh-faced, 
friendly young man marching cheerfully off to certain death filled him with 
profound sadness. 

But if that’s really what the clan chieftain is planning, surely Tormon will be 
able to talk him out of it? Supposing Arcan confides in Tormon, that is. 
“Riol?” he tried again. “Could you tell me where I can find the 
Summoners?” 
“What?” That got the reiver’s attention. “What in the name of perdition do 
you want with them?” 
“I just need to talk to them about something. Are they in there with Arcan?” 
“Arcan isn’t here. He’s downstairs seeing off Cetain and his warriors. 
They’re leaving now to warn the other clans.” He spat on the ground. “I 
wouldn’t warn the bastards. Let them shift for themselves, I say!” 
Dear Myrial! If this is the attitude of the average reiver, we’ll never get 
though this crisis in one piece! 
“Er ... The Summoners?” he reminded his companion. 
Riol shook his head. “I don’t know what you want with those accursed 
spooks,” he said. “They’re not natural, with their death’s-head faces and all 
their weird powers. I’m not looking forward to sharing the citadel with them, 
that’s for sure. If it were up to me, I’d take my sword and I’d ...” 
“You mean they don’t live here normally?” 
“Nah,” Riol replied scornfully. “We don’t want them living among decent 
folk. They have a tower of their own, down by the lake.” 
“Would they be there now, do you think?” 
“I expect so. They’ll be packing their stuff to come up here, just like 
everybody else. But you don’t want to go there, Scall. It’s a bad place, by all 
accounts. It’s said that they eat...” 
“Yes, yes,” Scall said hastily. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Riol. 
Maybe I’ll see you later.” With that, he fled. 
When he left the fortress, he found that the clouds that had darkened the 
horizon in the early morning had spread right across the sky, shrouding the 
landscape in gloom. The rain was being driven across the moors by a cold, 
raw wind, and the reivers were rushing to complete their tasks, pulling up 
the hoods of their cloaks against the weather, and cursing as they splashed 
across the muddy ground. Scall hesitated in the entrance to the stronghold, 
standing to one side to keep out of the way of Arcan’s folk as they went 
dashing in and out. It would have been easy to use the foul weather as an 
excuse to put off his visit to the Summoners, but he knew that if he didn’t go 
now, he might never pluck up the courage again. 
Though he didn’t set much store by Riol’s superstitious mutterings, Scall 
found his heart beating faster as he approached the solitary tower on the edge 
of the somber tarn. Who would want to live in such a godforsaken spot 
unless they had evil deeds to hide? The place was very isolated. Anyone 
calling for help here would never stand a chance of being heard. To speak to 
the Summoners in the fortress, where there were folk around to help if things 
got too alarming, was one thing; but to approach them here, alone, on their 

own sinister territory, was almost too much for Scall’s faltering courage. All 
at once, he began to wonder if showing his strange new possessions to them 
was a good idea after all. As he neared the tower he found his footsteps 
getting slower and slower until he stopped altogether, within the shadow of 
its walls. He could go no farther. 
He lingered before the door, rain dripping from the hood of his cloak, 
clutching the untidy bundle that protected and concealed his finds and trying 
to gather sufficient courage to lift his fist and knock. He might have stayed 
there all day had it not been for a sudden commotion from within. There was 
a long, low moaning sound, followed by a female voice, shrieking curses. 
“Get out, you damned infernal monster! Out, out, you damnable brute!” 
Scall’s blood turned to ice in his veins. Had the Summoners called up some 
hideous demon? What was it doing to the woman inside the tower? He knew 
he should go to her aid, but he was frozen to the spot in horror. Suddenly the 
door slammed open, and a huge, inhuman countenance, horned and hairy, 
came looming out of the shadows. Scall let out a shriek. Cloven hooves 
clattered across the doorstep, then the monster barged past him, snorting hot 
breath in his face, and knocking him to the ground, where he floundered in 
the slippery mud. 
“Blasted cow!” yelled the female voice from the tower. “Good riddance! The 
next time I find you in my storerooms, it’ll be beefsteaks for supper!” 
A cow. Oh, dear Myrial, what an idiot I am. Terrified out of my wits by an 
ordinary cow. 
Scall, cringing in embarrassment, was about to scramble to his feet, when 
the owner of the voice appeared in the doorway, brandishing a broom. 
Slowly, she lowered the weapon and stared at him in astonishment. She was 
a pretty young woman whose bodice seemed to be cut a great deal lower 
than was customary in Tiarond. Scall felt his face turn crimson. Suddenly, to 
his utter mortification, he couldn’t seem to put his eyes anywhere else. 
Apparently unaware of his discomfiture—maybe she was used to having this 
effect on men—she reached down and helped him up. Hands on her hips, she 
regarded him quizzically as he juggled with his unraveling bundle, trying to 
hold on to it and dust the mud off his pants at the same time. 
“And who the blazes may you be?” she demanded. 
“I’m—I’m Scall.” With an effort, he kept his eyes glued to her face. Were it 
not for the distractions lower down, it would have been well worth looking 
at. He tried to pitch his voice down to a more manly tone. “We—me and my 
companions, that is—are guests of clan chieftain Arcan. We came from 
Tiarond yesterday. I want to talk to the Summoners.” 
Her eyebrows rose. “You want to talk to them? Now that’s a first! Come on 
up, then. Follow me.” She turned and walked into the tower, hips swaying, 
and as she mounted the steps in front of him, Scall discovered that the view 
from the rear was nearly as good as the visions of delight at the front. 
Though it was of smaller size, and a different shape, the tower was 

constructed on a similar plan to Arcan’s fortress. On the ground floor were 
animal quarters and on the next the storerooms, with a staircase leading up in 
a tight spiral to the living quarters on the floors above. As the woman led 
him up the tower steps, she kept up a continuous flow of talk. “That dratted 
cow! I’m sorry she knocked you down. The problem is, the Summoners dote 
on her. Between them they’ve got her so spoiled with titbits and treats that 
she won’t go out on the moor with the others, but hangs around the tower all 
day, making a nuisance of herself. When she was a calf, Dark thought it 
would be amusing to teach her to climb the stairs, and it’s a nightmare to get 
her down again. She’s played havoc in my storerooms this morning, today of 
all days, when I don’t have time to turn round. She’s a cow, I keep telling 
them, not a pet, but they...” She paused in midsentence to yell up the stairs. 
“Summoner Grim! Summoner Dark! You have a visitor.” 
Scall wondered why she had called out like that, instead of announcing him 
when they arrived. It seemed very rude. Then all at once he realized that she 
had been warning the Summoners, so that they would have time to put on 
their sinister masks—and in that moment the eldritch figures, who had 
scared him so badly the previous day, turned into human beings. 
Why, of course they can’t wear those masks all the time. It would be 
dreadfully uncomfortable. It’s funny—I never thought of them having a 
home life, and doting on a pet cow, of all things. 
At the top of the stairs was a sturdy door. The woman gave a perfunctory 
knock, and went straight in. Scall followed her into the room—and stopped 
short, blinking in astonishment. The chamber was warm, cheerful, and cosy; 
a startling contrast to the stark exterior of the tower. He stared at the thick, 
colorful wall hangings, the sheepskins that padded the two deep chairs by 
the roaring fire, the well-polished glow of the wooden shelves and storage 
chest, and the homely clutter of books and teacups on the table. Well, who 
would have thought it? 
A black-cloaked figure was kneeling by the lowest shelves in a corner, 
sorting books and packing them into a wooden box. He straightened, turned, 
and looked at his visitor, who could see the glitter of his eyes behind a 
smooth, anonymous mask of palest bone. 
Dark looked from Izobia to the newcomer, and wondered why he had come. 
Visitors to the tower were few and far between. 
Surely this is the youth who arrived yesterday with trader Tormon. What in 
the world is he doing here? 
To his astonishment, the lad didn’t look particularly scared. Accustomed as 
Dark was to constant fear and distrust from the folk around him—a sense of 
awe deliberately fostered by the Summoners for their own protection—he 
found such courage refreshing, if a little disconcerting. He smiled behind his 
mask. “You’re Scall, aren’t you?” 

“He said he wanted to speak to you about something.” Clearly, Izobia had 
realized that no one was paying her any attention. 
Dark sighed. “Thank you, Izobia. Don’t let me detain you. I’m sure you have 
a great deal to do today.” 
“As a matter of fact I do. Cleaning up the mess your accursed cow has made 
in my storeroom—again. Just when we’re so busy, and all. You think more 
of that animal than you do of me. I don’t know why you don’t just give her 
my room and turn me out on the moor with the cattle.” With that, she turned 
on her heel and left. 
“Izobia sulks better than anyone I’ve met,” Dark said. “I won’t hear the last 
of this for weeks. Come and sit by the fire, Scall, and tell me what I can do 
for you.” As they went to the fire, the Summoner reflected that he was doing 
little to encourage a sense of dread in his visitor. He was glad that his mentor 
was upstairs packing. Grim was always reprimanding him for being too 
approachable but, while he understood the need to foster a sense of awe in 
ordinary folk, it just wasn’t in his nature to scare them in that way. 
When they were settled, he listened with growing amazement as the lad 
began to tell of the marvels that lay beneath the city of Tiarond. 
How I would love to see that extraordinary cavern for myself! It’s incredible 
that such a place has been there for centuries, secret and undiscovered, its 
existence unknown even to the Summoners. What wonders must be within! 
Dark leaned forward as Scall unwrapped his muddy bundle to reveal two 
strange items: a small silver sphere about the size of a walnut, and a flat, 
circular object about a foot across, which appeared to be a silver mirror with 
a narrow band of gold around the edge. Glancing at the lad for permission, 
he picked it up carefully, and as he took it in his hand, its surface darkened 
to black. Strange lines of bright green light appeared, forming patterns that 
appeared at the bottom and moved slowly up the face of the object, to vanish 
at the top. Dark looked closely at the lines of moving symbols, which were 
grouped in clusters of varying length. 
This is writing—it must be! Just wait till Grim sees this! 
“Er... Sir?” Only when Scall interrupted, did the Summoner realize how long 
he had been gazing at the indecipherable writing. He looked up, blinking, to 
see that the lad was holding out the other item, the one that looked like a 
silver nutshell, still nested in its wrappings, as though he didn’t want it to 
touch his skin. “I think you should look at this, too,” he said. “It’s even more 
amazing than the other.” 
Dark picked up the artifact, cupping it in his palm, as Scall advised. The hiss 
of his indrawn breath was loud in the quiet room as an image began to 
revolve in the air above his outstretched hand: a sphere, as solid-looking as a 
child’s ball, colored in patchwork shapes of green, blue, brown, and gold, 
and covered in a curious network of shining, blue-white lines. He reached 
out cautiously with his other hand to touch the orb—and his fingers passed 
straight through. Solid though it seemed, in reality it was as insubstantial as 

the air he breathed. 
The Summoner’s hand was shaking so hard with excitement that the little 
silver object, the source of this miraculous manifestation, threatened to spill 
from his palm. He snatched at it in alarm, and when he opened his fingers 
again, the image had changed. A new vision had appeared, hovering in the 
air where the sphere had hung before. This time he seemed to be looking 
down on a vista of wild moorland, in the midst of which he could see, quite 
clearly, the mere in which he had so very nearly ended his life, and the tower 
in which he now sat. On the hill above was the blocky shape of Arcan’s 
fortress, and in the valley bottom he could see the hummocky shapes of the 
reivers’ turf-roofed dwellings, with people, tiny as ants, passing to and fro. 
Shock ran through Dark as though, once again, he had plunged into the icy 
mere. As if to hide the image, he closed his fist around the artifact. Once 
more, the image vanished, but the insatiable curiosity of a Summoner won 
out. He opened his hand again, and a vision sprang into the air of the rivergirt 
city of Tiarond on its mountain eyrie, with the great waterfall streaming 
over the plateau’s edge. In this way he viewed a series of landscapes: a vista 
of silvery lakes and rivers; white, snow-clad mountains, vast beyond all his 
imaginings; a cluster of islands in a lapis-blue ocean; a dense green forest 
that stretched away to the horizon; a settlement of strangely wrought 
buildings on the edge of a lake. 
Dark, his heart beating fast with excitement, wondered where these places 
could be. The visions of Tiarond and the moorland home of the reivers had 
been accurate and—judging from the people running back and forth from 
Arcan’s citadel, and the flooded, muddy plateau of Tiarond—they were 
scenes of events and conditions in the present time. There was no reason, 
therefore, to believe that the other places that Scall’s strange device had 
shown him were any less real. But he had done some traveling with Grim, 
who, in his time, had walked every inch of the realm, documenting his 
discoveries with journals and clever little sketches. Consequently, Dark 
knew perfectly well that most of the places depicted by the strange artifact 
were not in Callisiora at all. Which only left one possibility ... 
‘ There must be other realms, beyond the Curtain Walls! I always suspected 
as much! What’s more, I have a feeling Grim already knows that, from the 
way he always takes such pains to avoid the subject of the Walls. He’s full of 
secrets, that’s for sure, and it’s high time he started to share them with me. 
Why, if only we could find some sort of artifact that would permit us to pass 
through the barrier, the possibilities would be staggering... 
Once more, he turned his attention to the little silver sphere in his hand. Who 
had crafted such an incredible device? How had it come to lie beneath the 
city of Tiarond, and what else might Scall’s cavern contain? If this artifact 
really showed the present, then, if they could learn how to control it, it could 
be used to watch over Cetain’s journey, in case there should be treachery 
from the other tribes. It could also warn the reivers if the winged predators, 
or any other dangers, approached. 

Dark looked up at his visitor. “Scall, do you think there was any more stuff 
like this in the cavern that you found?” 
“There might have been,” the lad said carefully. “I didn’t see anything else 
lying around that was small enough to take away, but the place was so big 
that I only explored a bit of it. Sir ...” He bit his lip. “You aren’t thinking of 
going there, are you?” 
Dark felt sorry for him. Clearly, Scall was afraid that he might be asked to 
go back to the cavern as a guide. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “We may go 
back to explore, but I’m sure we can find the place, if you can describe to us 
exactly how you got in. I don’t blame you for not wanting to return. You’ve 
done your share for the present, and you deserve to rest in safety—for as 
long as any of us can. We already owe you a debt of gratitude for bringing 
your precious finds to us.” He leapt to his feet, his voice ringing with 
excitement. “Grim must hear of this at once. If we can work out a way to use 
these items properly, you’ve put a weapon of tremendous power into our 
hands.” 
Leaving his visitor by the fire, Dark sped up the tower steps to his mentor’s 
workroom on the topmost floor. Scall would not be allowed into Grim’s 
workroom—even his own assistant was not permitted to enter that 
sanctum—but the old Summoner should come down and see these wonders 
at once. 
CHAPTER 6 
The Girl Who Wasn’t There 
Gilarra only realized how much time had passed when Healer Kaita finally 
straightened up from Cerella’s bedside. “Well, we’ve stopped the bleeding at 
least. It’s up to her, now,” she said, and wiped her brow with a bloodstained 
hand, leaving a russet smudge behind. 
Galveron had been hovering anxiously on the edge of the little knot of 
activity around the sick woman’s bed, and assisting where he could by 
fetching and carrying for the Healer. Now he stepped forward with a smile. 
“Well done, Kaita. No one else could have pulled her through. She owes you 
her life.” 
“She will if she survives,” Gilarra said sharply. “And what of the child? 
After all, the babe is the important one. It is she who will become the next 
Hierarch.” 
They turned to look at her, accusation in both faces. Galveron’s smile had 
vanished, and Kaita’s eyes were hard. Gilarra felt a stab of annoyance. “It’s 

no use looking at me like that! Why can’t you people realize that as 
Hierarch, I have to take thought for these matters?” 
Kaita took a deep breath. “Let’s go and see how the little one is getting 
along,” she said. 
As they crossed the room, Galveron took Gilarra’s arm, drawing her aside. 
“Your rule of this place would be far more effective, Lady, if you would 
learn to give praise when it’s due.” The words were little short of an open 
rebuke. “We all owe a very great debt to Healer Kaita. She has labored 
tirelessly on our behalf ever since we took refuge here. Even though her 
greatest friend and companion was the first victim of the winged fiends, and 
she is still grieving deeply, she has put her own considerations aside to help 
the people of Tiarond. But for her, our death toll would have been far 
greater. And what of her helpers? An occasional word of gratitude from you 
would be a great encouragement to them.” 
First it was Galveron sticking up for that grubby little thief, and now he’s 
supporting the Healer! Am I the only one around here that he doesn’t 
defend? 
Gilarra felt the flush of anger burning her face. “Those folk must do their 
duty, as I do mine,” she snapped. “I have no time to run after them, fawning 
and flattering.” 
“Lady, listen ...” Galveron began, but was interrupted by the approach of 
Kaita. “The child is gaining ground,” she said. “Frana the midwife found a 
wet nurse: the woman who gave birth shortly after we took refuge here.” 
Gilarra raised her eyebrows. “Ironic, is it not? The future Hierarch and the 
future Suffragan both suckling at the same breast. It’s to be hoped that the 
mother does not come to realize that one day this new babe will take 
precedence over her own. Loath though I am to deceive her, I think it would 
be as well not to mention that her foster child was born before her own.” 
Kaita shook her head. “You know, Lady, there are other things in life 
besides being Hierarch. You might do well to think of that now and again.” 
She turned away and went back to the bedside of the sick woman; but her 
words, annoying though they were, had reminded Gilarra of Galveron’s 
errand. She clutched at his arm. “Galveron! The ring! Did you find it?” 
He nodded. “Let’s go somewhere more private,” he said softly. 
Gilarra was bone-weary. She felt guilty, because she had so little time to 
spare for Bevron and Aukil, and she knew that they were missing her. She 
was apprehensive, too, because she knew that Galveron would be far from 
impressed with the way she had dealt with the thieves. She hadn’t slept all 
night, or eaten all day, for worrying about the absent Commander and the 
missing ring, and her Hierarch’s robes, which she had continued to wear as a 
badge of her authority, were now wrinkled, stained, and spattered with 
Cerella’s blood. She was uncomfortably aware that they didn’t smell too 
good, either. 
By Myrial, what I wouldn’t give for a bath and a change of clothes! 

Nevertheless, her heart was singing. 
The ring! The ring is safe! Now at last I can truly be Hierarch! 
What did robes matter, when soon she would possess the highest symbol of 
authority in all Callisiora? 
Galveron picked up a lamp and led the way out through the back of Kaita’s 
sickroom, going up into the passageway that led into the mountain, 
connecting with the storage caverns above. When they reached the place 
where they had spoken the previous day, he set the lamp down on the shelf 
of rock. “Aliana was right,” he said. “The ring was exactly where she’d 
hoped it would be. She was very brave ...” 
But Gilarra didn’t want to hear about Aliana. “Quick!” she said. “Where is 
it? Give it to me!” 
A shadow crossed Galveron’s face. “As you wish.” He spoke so coldly that 
Gilarra, preoccupied as she was, realized how ungracious she sounded. 
“Oh, Galveron, I’m sorry. I am grateful to you, truly. It’s just that I’ve been 
so anxious about the ring. It’s important to all of us, not just to me.” 
The Commander’s expression softened a little. “I understand—or at least, 
I’m trying to. But please, Gilarra, don’t let your own concerns blind you to 
the feelings and the needs of others.” He began to dig around in his pockets. 
“Maybe when you have the ring, you’ll be able to ...” His voice trailed away, 
and his expression changed. Before Gilarra’s eyes, he went, in an instant, 
from doubt to anxiety to a panic that was contagious. She watched, cold with 
fear, as feverishly he began to rummage through each pocket in turn, pulling 
out the contents and throwing them onto the ledge of rock. A few coins, a 
tinderbox, a small whetstone, a large iron key: there was nothing more. The 
look he turned on her was one of utter horror. “I had it. I swear I did! It was 
right here in my pocket, wrapped in ...” Suddenly his face cleared, and he 
clapped a hand to his forehead. “Of course! How stupid of me. I gave the 
ring to Aliana, in the Precincts. I wanted her to bring it back here to you, 
while I hunted for the child we’d heard, but she wouldn’t...” 
“Why am I not surprised?” Gilarra muttered sourly, but he didn’t hear her. 
“What with one thing and another, I clean forgot to get it back,” he was 
saying. “I’m sorry, Gilarra. I must have given you a dreadful shock, just 
then.” 
“You don’t know the half of it,” she murmured. “Come on,” she said, even 
more anxious than before to have the ring safely in her hands. “Quickly! 
Let’s go and find that wretched girl, before—” 
“Before what?” Galveron was looking at her oddly. 
Oh damn! He’ll have to learn the truth sooner or later. Who’s the ruler here, 
anyway? 
The Hierarch took a deep breath. “Before she finds out that I imprisoned her 
brother.” 
Galveron looked dumbfounded, then angry—whether at Alestan, or at 

herself, Gilarra was uncertain. “You imprisoned him? In the name of Myrial, 
why?” 
“He was caught with stolen food on him.” Squirming under that frank, blue 
gaze, she prayed that he would not detect the lie behind her words. “He 
denied it, of course,” she went on quickly, “but the evidence was right 
there.” 
“And what of the others?” The Commander’s voice was ominously quiet. 
“I separated them and set them to work.” Gilarra was aware that she was 
gabbling now, and made herself take a deep breath. “It seemed to be the best 
way to try to keep them out of trouble.” 
“Poor Aliana.” Galveron was already moving. “She deserves to hear this 
from your lips, not have it passed on to her by some Temple gossip. Maybe 
it really was a mistake,” he added hopefully. “I’ll look into it immediately, 
Lady— just as soon as we’ve restored your ring to you.” 
When they returned to the sickroom, there was no sign of the thief, so 
Galveron asked the Healer if she had seen her. “She was here at first,” Kaita 
said, “but I don’t recall seeing her for a long while. I expect she went to find 
some breakfast, and I’m sure I needn’t point out that you could do with some 
yourself.” 
“As soon as we find Aliana, I’ll eat, I promise,” he said. 
Gilarra, sick with worry now, glared at Galveron. Damn him, how could he 
stand there exchanging pleasantries with the Healer as if it were just a 
normal day? She led the way across the crowded Temple floor, almost 
stepping on the people in their little encampments in her hurry to find the 
thief. A quick glance in the direction of the doors told her that the girl was 
not with her friends in their exposed little enclave. Vexed and anxious, she 
turned back to Galveron, who was following more slowly. “Where in 
perdition can she be?” 
“She’ll already be down in the caverns, I expect, trying to speak to her 
brother,” he said, with the slightest note of irritation in his voice. “Why are 
you worrying yourself unnecessarily? You know she can’t be far away. 
She’s not exactly going to leave the Temple, is she?” 
He led her through the doorway at the back of the Basilica, past the rubblechoked 
stairway that even now was constantly guarded, and Gilarra ground 
her teeth with impatience as he paused to have a quick word with the two 
young Godsword soldiers on duty. 
Come on, Galveron, for goodness sake! Just let me get my ring, and then I 
don’t care if you want to stand around and gossip with everyone in the 
Temple. 
Unable to wait for him any longer, she set off down the other stairs, which 
gave access to the network of caverns beneath the building. Down here there 
was an air of purposeful bustle. Folk were cooking and laundering, mending 
what little gear the community possessed, and adapting the materials in the 
Temple to other uses. Despite her anxiety, she noticed that the atmosphere 

was perceptively lighter and more cheerful than that of the Temple itself, and 
Gilarra reflected that these people were far better off for being occupied with 
useful tasks that would benefit the whole community, instead of sitting 
round brooding on everything they had lost. 
“You know,” she said to Galveron, as he caught her up, “since we seem to 
be stuck here for the time being, we should try to think of useful tasks to 
occupy our people.” 
He nodded. “You’re right. Maybe I could get some of my men to set up a 
weapons school, then anyone who wishes can be trained to fight.” 
You can train them as much as you want, but they still won’t be able to rid 
us of the winged fiends. 
This was Gilarra’s constant worry. No matter how hard she tried, she 
couldn’t see any way forward. Eventually the food would run out, then her 
people would have the choice of leaving the Temple and being hunted down 
one by one in the streets of Tiarond, or staying to starve, like rats in a trap. 
For now, however, she had other pressing concerns, as she and Galveron 
began their systematic search of the caverns and vaults beneath the Temple. 
Aliana was not in the bathing caves, where both people and laundry were 
washed in the stream that ran through in a series of little falls and pools. Nor 
was she in the vast cavern that contained the lake that was the reservoir of 
drinking water for the city, and now for the refugees. From there they took 
the side tunnel that went to the Temple vaults, which boasted fireplaces for 
the comfort of the artisans and archivists who normally labored there. These 
rooms had been taken over by Telimon and his team of cooks, and their 
precious contents—the old books and scrolls; the priceless documents dating 
back hundreds of years; the tools of the artisans; the gilding, the jewels, the 
paint, the precious carved woods and cunningly wrought silver and gold, the 
velvets, satins, and silks—had been carefully moved elsewhere. Teams of 
tailors and seamstresses were hard at work in chambers of their own, turning 
the precious old tapestries into blankets, and the rich materials of curtains, 
altar cloths, and embroidered priestly vestments into clothing for the 
refugees. 
In Telimon’s domain, the workbenches of the artisans had been scrubbed, 
and were now being used for the preparation of food on a tremendous scale, 
but there was no sign of Aliana anywhere. When asked, the head cook said 
he’d seen her some time ago. “Yes, she had some porridge, and she managed 
to wheedle some bacon out of me, too.” He frowned. “I was busy at the time, 
and I didn’t notice what else had been taken, or I would have reported it to 
you sooner.” 
“Taken?” Galveron said sharply. “What do you mean?” 
Warned by the edge in the Commander’s voice, Telimon hesitated. Since the 
death of his twin he had aged perceptibly, Gilarra thought. The plumpness 
was melting away from his frame, and his clipped blond curls had lost their 
luster. His skin was grey, his shoulders sagged, and the merry twinkle had 
gone from his eyes. “I was just checking my supplies when you came in,” he 

said. “I know for certain the wretched girl took cheese, a couple of the 
griddle cakes we’ve been baking to make do as bread, some pasties, and a 
small bag of nuts. I’m not sure yet whether anything else is missing. 
Galveron,” he added testily, “we simply cannot permit such pilferage. It 
endangers the lives of us all.” 
“I’ll send you down a couple of guards,” the Commander said absently. It 
was clear to Gilarra that the news had hit him hard. His face had turned 
absolutely white, with the jagged, half-healed scars standing out livid against 
his skin. The Hierarch knew that he had grown fond of Aliana, yet he 
himself had made the rule that anyone caught stealing in the Temple would 
be ejected without appeal. 
Gilarra, however, was too busy with her own concerns to worry about 
Galveron’s distress. If Aliana had taken food, then she intended not to be 
found—at least not for some considerable length of time. As she considered 
the alarming implications of the thief’s disappearance, with the precious 
ring, she felt rage sweep over her. 
Curse her! This is some kind of attack on me, I know it. She’s taking her 
revenge because I arrested her brother. No matter what Galveron said, I 
should never have trusted that filthy, light-fingered, backstabbing little bitch 
from the Warrens! When I get my hands on her, Galveron won’t need to 
throw her out. I’ll throttle her myself. But why did she do it? What is her 
plan? 
And more to the point, where in Myrial’s name can she be? 
By this time, Galveron seemed to have pulled himself together. “Come on,” 
he said grimly. “Let’s go and talk to Alestan. He might have some idea of 
where she could be hiding out.” 
Alestan was sitting in one of the vaults that had been hastily converted into a 
cell. He was trying to push his fingers under the tightly wrapped splints and 
scratch his itching skin, when some instinct for danger, developed over years 
of dodging and hiding, made him look up. He could hear voices on the other 
side of the door, and though his anger flared as he identified Gilarra, his 
heart leapt at the sound of Galveron’s voice. News of Aliana at last! He had 
been frantic with anxiety. The door opened, and the two of them entered. 
Alestan took one look at their faces—the thundrous expression of Gilarra 
and the Commander’s frowning concern—and knew there was even more 
trouble in store, as if he wasn’t in enough already. 
He leapt to his feet. “Aliana? Is she all right?” 
“Don’t worry,” Galveron told him. “She got back safely.” 
Alestan knew at once that he was hedging. “Then where is she?” he 
demanded. “What have you done with her, you bastard. Tell me or I’ll—” 
“You’re in no position to be making threats and demands,” Gilarra said. 
“You and your little gang of Warrens scum are in more than enough trouble. 

If you want to continue to shelter in this Temple with the civilized people, I 
suggest you cooperate with us and tell us where your sister might be hiding.” 
“Aliana? Hiding?” For a moment he thought he hadn’t heard her right. “Why 
in the name of perdition would she be hiding?” 
“Because she’s a thieving little bitch,” snapped the Hierarch. 
Alestan’s heart sank. Poor refuge though this was proving to be, how had 
Aliana managed to make the most powerful person in it so angry? He looked 
uneasily from Gilarra to Galveron, and fought to keep his alarm from 
showing on his face. “Why? What’s she supposed to have done?” 
The Hierarch’s eyes narrowed, and she went to the door and looked out 
quickly, to make sure that no one else was listening. “You know the item she 
and Galveron went to fetch?” she said quietly. “Well, she seems to have 
stolen it and disappeared. And you know our laws concerning theft.” 
“She’s stolen the ring?” Alestan said. 
“Shut up, you idiot!” Gilarra hissed. “Do you want everybody in the place to 
hear?” 
Alestan ignored her and turned to the Godsword Commander. “I don’t 
believe this! Look here, Galveron, there must be some mistake. You must 
have missed her, down in the cavern. She was probably bathing, or 
something.” 
Galveron shook his head. “No,” he said heavily. “We looked everywhere. 
There was no sign of her. And there’s something else you should know, 
Alestan. Telimon says that she stole food from the kitchens; so wherever 
she’s hiding, she plans to stay there for a while. I’m sorry.” 
Alestan turned cold all over. “Did Telimon actually see her stealing this 
stuff?” 
“No, but...” 
“Well, there you are then. You have no proof whatsoever. Why, it could 
have been anyone who took the food. There are people in and out of those 
kitchens every minute of the day. I know that from bitter experience. It was 
easy enough for someone to incriminate me falsely, and get me out of the 
way.” 
“No one else but your accursed sister stole my ring,” Gilarra spat. “And I 
don’t believe for a single moment that you aren’t in on her plan, whatever it 
may be. Well, you’ve just signed your own death warrants. You, her, and the 
rest of your pack of vermin are finished here.” 
Alestan was stunned and appalled by this sudden turn of events, but he kept 
his head. His sister and all the Grey Ghosts were depending on him now. He 
wasn’t going down without a fight. “I don’t think so.” He faced up to 
Gilarra. “Even before you arrested me, I suspected that we’d have trouble 
from you sooner or later. That’s why I left instructions with the others. If 
you threaten our lives, we tell everyone your little secret. There’s no way 
you could kill us all fast enough to stop one of us shouting out to the entire 

Temple that you’ve lost the Hierarch’s ring.” He glared at her. “Care to give 
it a try, Lady? If you’re sick of being in charge here, we can soon arrange it 
so you aren’t.” 
As Gilarra’s face turned red with anger, Galveron stepped in. “I suggest we 
all take a deep breath and start again on better terms,” he said. “First of all, 
we could all be panicking needlessly. This could still all be a mistake. After 
the last few days, Aliana must have been exhausted. What if she’s just fallen 
asleep in a corner, somewhere out of sight?” 
Alestan gave him a grateful look. “You’re right, I hadn’t even considered 
that possibility. And we know that no one has gone in or out of the doors, so 
she must still be in the Temple somewhere. If you let me out of here”—he 
gave Gilarra a dirty look—“I’ll help you look for her, and so will the others. 
When it comes to finding things, the Grey Ghosts are second to none. Then 
the Hierarch will get her ring back, and we’ll hear no more about this little 
misunderstanding.” He looked coldly at Gilarra. “Will we?” 
Galveron looked at him narrowly. “You said that you were falsely accused. 
Do you swear you never took that bread?” 
Alestan returned his look with one just as direct. “I swear it on my sister’s 
life,” he said quietly. 
“Then that’s good enough for me. We can look into the circumstances of 
your arrest when we have more time, but for now, let’s get the search under 
way for Aliana, and—” 
“Commander Galveron! I never gave you permission to release this 
criminal!” 
Both men looked round at Gilarra’s interruption, and Alestan was glad to see 
the look of anger that flashed across the Godsword Commander’s face. He 
didn’t like Galveron any better than he had ever done, but at least he looked 
like being a useful ally in this unholy mess, and for Aliana’s sake, her twin 
was willing to set aside his enmity—at least for now. 
When Galveron spoke, there was no trace of his anger in his voice. “Lady,” 
he said quietly, “as Godsword Commander, criminal matters such as these 
are my concern, and you must let me deal with them as I see fit. You do 
want your ring back?” 
“Of course I do,” Gilarra said icily. “But I object to being held to ransom by 
a bunch of common criminals. Don’t you see that this is all a trick? They 
must have planned it beforehand.” She turned to Alestan. “Was that your 
plan? She hides, and you use her absence to blackmail me—then suddenly 
you find her, and earn gratitude and rewards? Is that the way it was meant to 
work?” 
Alestan bit down on his anger. “I love my sister,” he said. “She risked her 
life for you yesterday, and I couldn’t stop her, but there’s no way I would let 
her put herself—and the rest of us—at risk like this. It would be a stupid 
idea, and too chancy by half. If she really has stolen your accursed ring, I 
expect she heard that I had been arrested, and she simply wants to put 

pressure on you to release me. Now, I’m worried about Aliana, so I’m going 
to get busy searching for her. I suggest you do the same, instead of wasting 
everyone’s time with these wild accusations.” 
Galveron intervened before Gilarra could speak. “I think that’s a very good 
idea, Alestan. If you and your companions will search the Temple and the 
caverns again, I’ll go up the other way, into the storage caves. We haven’t 
looked there yet. Lady Gilarra, I suggest you rejoin your family for the 
present and get some rest. Try to act as if everything is normal—or as 
normal as it can be under the present circumstances. If people see the 
Hierarch turning the Temple upside down, they’re bound to suspect that 
something is wrong. Alestan, will you gather your friends together and start 
to search? If you find her, or when you’ve looked everywhere you can think 
of, meet me in the corridor behind Healer Kaita’s sickroom. It’s best we 
keep this business as private as possible.” He lifted his hand in salute to the 
thief. “Good luck to you.” Taking a mutinous-looking Gilarra by the arm, he 
led her away. 
Alestan gathered the other Ghosts together—with the notable exception of 
Packrat, who could not be found— where Galveron had told him they should 
meet. When he explained to them what had happened, they simply stood for 
a moment, trying to come to terms with their companion’s disappearance. “I 
just don’t believe she would go off like this,” Gelina said at last. “Unless 
you’re right, Alestan, and she wanted to get the Hierarch to release you. But 
if that’s the case, what does she plan to do next? Why would she just 
disappear without a word and leave us in this mess? There’s no sense in it.” 
“What if she was attacked, though?” Alestan’s mind was racing now. “We 
Warrensfolk aren’t exactly popular around here. I’ve heard the whispering 
behind our backs. Why should a bunch of thieving scum be allowed to eat up 
good rations, they’re saying. Galveron promised no one would know where 
we came from, but word has leaked out somehow.” 
Tag shook his head. “Aliana can look after herself in a fight.” 
“But what if there was a bunch of them?” said little Erla. “What if they 
jumped on her out of the shadows?” 
“Well, we won’t find out by standing here,” said Alestan. “And another 
thing—where has that wretch Packrat gone? When he’s missing there’s 
always trouble brewing. Look for them both, but it’s most important that we 
find Aliana— and that accursed ring.” 
It was sometime later, when Galveron came wearily back to the meeting 
place. He had just escaped from a very unpleasant interview with the 
Hierarch, who still had strong objections to his release of Alestan and had 
not been happy when he’d been forced to confess that he’d found no sign of 
Aliana. He only hoped and prayed that Alestan and the rest of the girl’s 
adopted family had done better. Feeling tired and discouraged, he slumped 
down on the benchlike shelf of rock to wait for them. 

I only hope that Alestan has done better. 
Galveron felt sick with disappointment over the way Aliana had acted. He 
had trusted her. Had his judgment really been so flawed? He still couldn’t 
believe that she would betray him—and her other companions—so 
thoughtlessly. So far as he knew, it wasn’t like her at all. He thought of her 
courage in bringing the blasting powder across from the Citadel, and her 
further bravery the previous day, when she had helped him climb up onto the 
canyon rim. He could never have managed it without her. She was direct and 
forthright—surely he would have known if she had been deceiving him? So 
what had gone wrong? Was it only the arrest of her brother that had 
prompted this insanity, or had something else happened in the short space of 
time between their return to the Temple, and the discovery that she had 
vanished into thin air? 
Most perplexing of all, however, was the realization that he missed her. 
Aliana, please come back. It’s not too late. Whatever you’ve done, we’ll 
make it right somehow. 
At that moment, and not before time, Alestan returned, red-eyed and looking 
ten years older than he had seemed before. “I can’t find her,” he said 
hoarsely. “I’m beginning to wonder whether my earlier suspicions weren’t 
right, about her being attacked somewhere down in the caverns by dutiful 
Warrens-hating citizens. There are plenty of crevices down there where they 
could hide a body.” 
Galveron’s blood ran cold at the thought. “Why didn’t you tell me things 
were that bad?” he demanded. 
“I didn’t think they were,” Alestan admitted. “There has been some bad 
feeling against us, but not more than we could handle—or so I thought. But 
apart from this business of my arrest, I simply couldn’t think of any other 
explanation for my sister’s disappearance. She—” 
“She can’t be anywhere in the Temple,” said a voice behind him. “We’ve 
looked everywhere.” Gelina had returned, with the youngsters in tow. She 
hesitated, and looked from Alestan to Galveron. “Packrat is still missing, 
too. Could they be together?” 
“Packrat?” snapped Galveron. “Since when has he been missing?” 
Alestan sighed. “I don’t know,” he admitted heavily. He realized that Gelina 
had been right—things had come to such a pass that they had no option but 
to be completely honest with the Godsword. 
“Why didn’t you mention this sooner? You’d better tell me what’s going on 
here, Alestan, or—” 
“Sir, sir, sir!” The voice came from Tag, who had been gently tugging at his 
sleeve for some time, and was now swinging on his arm like a monkey. 
Galveron prised loose the clutching hands, and Alestan admired his control 
as he swallowed his anger to speak patiently to the child. “What is it, Tag? 
Do you have something to tell us?” 

“Yes,” Tag piped up. “There’s one place we haven’t looked.” 
“Where?” Both Alestan and Galveron spoke at once, and the child took a 
hasty step back. 
“That place I wanted to explore before, but the guards wouldn’t let me go 
in.” 
Galveron grabbed him by the shoulder. “Show me where you mean.” 
Tag led them out to the sickroom doorway, and pointed across the Temple 
floor at the silver filigree screen that hid the way into Myrial’s most 
hallowed sanctum. “Down there,” he said. 
CHAPTER 7 
Ray of Hope 
In the clean, neat room in the Shadowleague infirmary, it was difficult to 
believe that a battle was taking place for the survival of the former 
Archimandrite. Syvilda had never left her lifemate’s bedside, except on 
those odd occasions when the healers had chased her out so that they could 
work. It seemed to her that her presence in the room was vital; that he 
needed her strength and her will to hold him fast to the world. Nevertheless, 
she could hardly bear to look at Cergorn. The Centaur lay so white and still, 
with no outward sign of his desperate battle to cling to life. He looked so 
frail and diminished that it was impossible to imagine that only yesterday he 
had been the leader of the Shadowleague: vigorous, powerful, and strong. 
His broken foreleg—just as bad an injury for a Centaur as it would be for an 
ordinary horse—was braced and held immobile in a casing of some shiny 
material that Syvilda did not recognize. The appalling injuries inflicted by 
the dying Skreeva, which had caused the healers so much labor and anxiety, 
had been cleaned, stitched, swathed in bandages, and now were hidden 
beneath a clean white sheet. Strange devices, a testament to the skills and 
knowledge of a long-gone civilization, sprouted from his body like the 
tendrils of some parasitic plant. 
Three great crystals, each larger than a human head, were suspended above 
the bed. They hummed and glowed, each one a different color. One gave a 
swirling green light that bathed Cergorn’s body in a deep glow that lapped 
slowly around him, rippling and shimmering, making him look as though he 
had been immersed in viscous liquid. Another gave off a scintillating golden 
effulgence that rained down onto the bed like glittering sparks. When 
Syvilda put her hand under it, she could feel her skin tingle, and a vibrant 
energy coursed through her veins. The third crystal, the largest, bathed the 

Centaur in an intense beam of blue-violet light. According to Quave, one of 
the healers, the green glow would help prevent infection, the fall of sparkling 
gold would help give Cergorn the energy to fight the dreadful shocks his 
body had suffered, and the deep blue radiance would help speed healing. 
“How do they work?” Syvilda had asked. 
Quave shrugged. “Who knows? We’ve never been able to find out. We only 
know they do work, and we thank Providence that we’re lucky enough to 
have them.” 
Syvilda did thank Providence—not only for the alien devices, but for the 
healers who had saved the life of her mate. Quave, the human: a grey-haired, 
tireless crusader against ignorance, disease, and death. The petite, blackfurred 
Myssil of the Dovruja, lithe and tirelessly active, with a ferocious 
intelligence burning behind her dark eyes. The eldritch Shimir of the Takuru, 
a race of shapeshifters from the Forest of Rakha, in the south. 
Shimir was present now, keeping watch over the unconscious Cergorn. So as 
not to distract his preoccupied lifemate, she had taken the form of another 
Centaur, a mature female whose black hair, streaked with white, matched the 
attractive piebald markings on her equine body. Syvilda appreciated her tact 
and consideration—but it was as a physician that the Takur’s odd skills 
really came to the fore. She could make her limbs incredibly sensitive to 
changes in temperature, moisture, and elasticity of the skin. She could adapt 
them for intricate and delicate surgery, no matter how complex. She could 
alter her vision to view, in minute detail, the composition of cells and blood, 
or change it to see right into a body, viewing the shadowy shapes of organs 
and bones for evidence of damage or disease. 
It was easy to forget about the Takuru, Syvilda mused. Though a handful did 
dwell in Gendival, they tended to keep to themselves and, because they were 
able to alter their forms to resemble just about anything, they were rarely 
seen—unless they wanted to be. This should make them perfect agents for 
the Shadowleague, but the other Loremasters tended to dislike the shadowy 
creatures, with their odd, amorphous shapes that seemed to melt from one 
form into another. Though their reputation was largely undeserved, there 
was little trust for a being who could be in a room, unknown and unseen, 
looking like part of the furnishings but spying on all that took place. 
Cergorn, who had foreseen their uses and appreciated their skills, had always 
insisted that they remain in Gendival, but the Takuru were pariahs, 
nevertheless. They dwelt on the outskirts of the community, far up in the 
bleak, stony valley of the Upper Lake. Their company was not welcomed by 
the other Loremasters, nor was their assistance sought—unless there was no 
alternative. 
“Because of all the information available to us, it’s easy to trick ourselves 
into feeling that we’re better, wiser, more clever than the rest of the world. 
But in reality, the Shadowleague is just as riddled with prejudice and its own 
injustices.” The mental voice came from Shimir, who had come to check on 
Cergorn and had plainly caught the drift of Syvilda’s thoughts. 

The Centaur looked at her unconscious lifemate and shook her head sadly. 
“The difference is that when we make mistakes, they have far greater 
repercussions.” 
It was true that, because of his isolationist policies and his difficulties in 
handling the current crisis, Cergorn had left himself open to the coup by 
Amaurn and his supporters. Much as she loved him, Syvilda was honest 
enough to admit that to herself. But she wasn’t going to admit it to Shimir, 
though she knew that the Takur—and indeed all her kind in Gendival—were 
utterly loyal to Cergorn. 
“Nevertheless,” she told the physician, “I am not about to sit idly by and see 
the Shadowleague taken over by a renegade outsider whose ideas were at 
least subversive and at most downright dangerous. Repercussions or no, he 
must be removed, and quickly—even if...” 
“Even if Cergorn’s injuries mean that he can no longer be Archimandrite?” 
Shimir voiced the thought that Syvilda had been unable to face. “The Takuru 
owe him our allegiance— were it not for you and Cergorn, we would not be 
permitted here in Gendival at all—but the Shadowleague must have a leader, 
especially in these dark times.” 
“If Cergorn is unable to lead, we must choose someone else,” said Syvilda 
firmly. 
And why not me? 
“Someone from among our own,” she continued aloud, “who deplores the 
ideas of this unscrupulous upstart Amaurn. Even when he lived among us 
before, he never really belonged. While he remains in control, there will be 
no hope of returning the Shadowleague to its true goals and precepts.” 
“And the longer he remains in control, the more powerful he becomes,” said 
the shapeshifter thoughtfully. She gave Syvilda a sly, veiled look. “Already 
he is too strong to be deposed by legitimate means ...” 
For a long moment, the thought hung in the air between them. 
Amaurn must die. 
It would have been a shocking thought to yesterday’s Syvilda, yet the one 
who sat there today, watching her love of so many years fight for his life, 
found that she could view the notion as calmly and dispassionately as she 
would consider squashing a fly. 
Or a spider, more like. 
Carefully, the two conspirators considered the idea between them, 
examining it from every angle. 
“Clearly, assassination is the only option,” Syvilda said. “An overt challenge 
isn’t possible at this time. Furthermore, the assassin must be able to get close 
to the new Archimandrite without arousing suspicion.” 
Shimir nodded agreement. “He or she must be swift, skilled, and deadly. If 
Amaurn is put on his guard by a bungled attempt, there will never be another 
chance.” 

“It must be soon, before the renegade has a chance to put his insane plans 
into action. Once the knowledge of the Ancients is let loose in the world, 
things will be changed forever, and there will be no going back.” Syvilda 
frowned, her fingers idly stroking the fine wool of Cergorn’s blanket while 
her thoughts were focused elsewhere. “And there’s one thing more. Our 
assassin must be utterly trustworthy. When Amaurn took over, I was 
appalled by the number of his supporters who’d been lying low in Gendival 
all those years, unsuspected and undiscovered. Whoever is chosen to rid us 
of Amaurn must, without a shadow of doubt, give all their loyalty to 
Cergorn, and to me.” 
Again, came the oblique and furtive glance from Shimir. “In that case, you 
only have one choice.” 
“I agree,” Syvilda said softly. “Which of your people are here in Gendival at 
the moment?” 
Shimir hesitated. “Syvilda, if we do this thing, you must give your word that 
you will protect us, afterward. The position of the Takuru is precarious 
enough within the Shadowleague. If it should come to light that one of my 
people carried out an assassination here in Gendival—and killed an 
Archimandrite, no matter how dubiously he came by his position—there will 
be great pressure to have us cast out. Or worse.” 
“I promise,” Syvilda said quickly. “Furthermore, Shimir, I give you my 
word that, once Cergorn, or his true successor, returns to power, the Takuru 
will no longer be treated as outcasts, but will be given the best of everything 
that Gendival can provide.“ 
“Very well.” Head tilted on one side, the shapeshifter considered for a 
moment. “I think that Vifang would best fit your needs.” 
“Could you send a message, quickly, without anyone knowing?” 
“Of course.” Shimir looked at the pale, unconscious figure of Cergorn. “As 
you know, for many years now, Vifang has been the Archimandrite’s most 
secret spy and assassin, and will be able to come to you without being seen. 
What you ask does not present a problem.” 
Syvilda’s eyes narrowed. “I never knew anything about a secret assassin, and 
Cergorn always told me everything.” 
The Takur chuckled. “Everything, Lady? I think not. In my experience, we 
all harbor a secret or two within ourselves. If you look carefully, I’m sure 
you can find your own.” 
Syvilda recovered well. “My secrets are none of your concern, 
Shimir—apart from the chiefest one, which at present involves you and your 
people. Know this, however. As this assassin was loyal to my lifemate, I 
would now have him loyal to me.” 
The shapeshifter smiled. “You need not worry. I am certain that you can 
consider Vifang’s loyalty to be yours. Now—what, exactly did you want our 
assassin to do?” 

“Haunt Amaurn.” Even though she was using mind-speech, Syvilda spoke in 
a low hiss. “He must be followed, his every footstep shadowed. Then when 
he finally drops his guard and is alone, without his traitorous friends to 
protect him, he must die—and the more painfully, the better.” 
“Lady, it shall be done.” 
Though Blade had spent the whole of his exile with one goal in mind—to 
return to Gendival—it was unsettling to be back after all these years. So little 
had changed under Cergorn’s rule that he might have been transported into 
his own past, and there were memories, both good and bad, around every 
corner. The same ambivalence was evident in the welcome he had received 
from the Loremaster community. A good number viewed him with suspicion 
at best, and hatred at worst; on the other hand, there were many who 
welcomed him back with delight. He was pleased and touched by the 
number of folk who had supported him in secret, though he was cynical 
enough to realize that some people would always espouse the winning cause. 
No doubt, had Cergorn been the victor, these same so-called supporters 
would have been baying for Blade’s blood by now. 
For the time being, Blade had set up his headquarters in the spacious 
Meeting House, near the Tower of Tidings, for he felt that, with Cergorn 
barely clinging to life, this was not the time to be claiming the 
Archimandrite’s traditional residence for himself. Besides, those quarters 
had been adapted for use by Centaurs, and would not be comfortable for a 
human without a number of changes. On reflection, since he planned to 
make so many other alterations in the Shadowleague, it might also be 
appropriate to relocate the Archimandrite’s home—when he had time to find 
a suitable dwelling, or have one built. 
In the meantime, there was always the Meeting House, and while no one 
could call the vast chamber cosy, at least it was big enough to accommodate 
most shapes and sizes of Loremaster—not to mention the menacing bulk of 
Maskulu, who was a perfect deterrent to any would-be enemies, declared or 
covert, of the new Archimandrite. After his lengthy and far from cordial 
meeting with the Afanc, which had concluded in a reluctant truce, Amaurn 
had had his fill of opposition for one day. 
In one corner of the room a chair had been placed, with worktables set 
around it. Throughout the course of the morning, these had disappeared 
beneath piles of maps, dispatches, and reports from eyewitnesses, not to 
mention many papers covered with his writing—though he would be lucky 
indeed if he could ever decipher what he had scrawled there. His writing 
hand was out of action, and he had been forced to get by as best he could 
with the other, for his arm was bandaged from fingertip to elbow and bound 
up in a sling, as result of an injury he had received when Cergorn had kicked 
his sword out of his grasp. A similar bandage was wrapped tightly around 
his ribs, and the painful catch with every breath served as a constant 

reminder that the Centaur’s hooves were formidable weapons indeed. When 
those injuries were added to the aftereffects of the battering he had received 
when he’d fallen down the cliff, there was very little left of him that didn’t 
hurt, in one way or another. Today, however, the Archimandrite had no time 
to worry about pain, as he strove to put together a complete and coherent 
picture of the widespread disasters that had befallen all the realms since the 
Curtain Walls had begun to falter. 
Wherever possible, Amaurn had been interviewing Loremasters and refugees 
from the areas that had been hit. Their experiences made for harrowing 
listening. Many realms had suffered natural catastrophes. Drought, flooding, 
landslides, and violent storms were causing hardship and havoc, and he 
realized that Callisiora, with its eternal rain, had not come off worst, by any 
means. Only Gendival, which could have the power of its Curtain Walls 
illicitly boosted by the technology of the Ancients, had escaped—so far. But 
one look at the state of the energy barrier on the Callisioran border had 
convinced him that even the Shadowleague was living on borrowed time. 
Other lands, such as the peninsula of Nemeris and its archipelago beyond, 
had been ravaged by war, as beings from other ocean realms tried to annex 
the warm coastal waters with their bays and reefs, which provided both 
dwellings and bountiful food. Amaurn had spoken at length with Kyrre, 
Loremaster for the Dobarchu, who had first brought word of the atrocities 
taking place in her land. He could see that her experiences had been hard on 
her. Before this mission, it had been many years since she had functioned as 
an active Shadowleague agent. Though trained as a Loremaster in her youth, 
she had discovered an aptitude for healing— a common occurrence among 
both the Dobarchu and Dovruja—and had become a healer in Gendival for 
several happy years before concern for her own people had sent her home to 
Nemeris to offer what help she could. She still had not completely recovered 
from her dreadful experiences, and from the wounds she had suffered in 
escaping from the war-torn realm, but thanks to the Gendival’s advanced 
healing methods and the ministrations of her Shadowleague colleagues, her 
health was improving by leaps and bounds. 
She had told him how an undersea volcano had erupted, causing great loss of 
life, and the invasion, in the subsequent chaos, by Merfolk and sharks. When 
she had left, her folk had been reduced to a mere handful, besieged in a sea 
loch and fighting for their lives. Nothing had been heard from them since she 
had arrived in Gendival, and she feared the worst. 
When Kyrre had left him to return to the healers, Amaurn found himself 
unable to concentrate. Surrounding him was all the evidence of the dreadful 
thing he had done when he had interfered with the Curtain Walls. 
How could I have known I would unleash such horrors? I never intended 
that! 
But the voice of his conscience, which had lain dormant for so long, seemed 
to have reawakened in the wholesome air of Gendival. 
You knew that the risks existed. You just didn’t want to consider the 

possibility. It would have interfered with your plans. 
Only the iron discipline, learned the hard way in his years as Lord Blade, 
kept Amaurn seated at his worktable, outwardly calm and focused as he 
correlated more and more information that would, if the other Loremasters 
ever discovered his tampering, condemn him utterly. In a settlement where 
the population consisted entirely of telepaths, how long could he keep his 
guilty secret? And what would they do to him if they ever found out the 
truth? The former Archimandrite still lived, and he had allies. The supporters 
of the newcomer would vanish like the snows in spring if they found out 
that, as Godsword Commander in Callisiora, he had exchanged the 
Hierarch’s ring for a false stone. The collapse of the Curtain Walls had dated 
from that time, and there was no doubt whatsoever about the connection 
between the two events. 
This is a nightmare! Somehow, I must put right my mistakes before they can 
be discovered—yet how can I, when that stupid idiot Gilarra lost the 
genuine Hierarch’s ring, and that filthy, thieving Ak’Zahar snatched it up, 
right from under my nose. I can’t see any way of getting it back now, and 
without it I have no idea how to repair the damage to the Curtain Walls. 
Nevertheless, this whole disaster is my responsibility. I need to devise a 
plan, and quickly, to get us through these difficult times. And whatever 
scheme I come up with, it had better be a damn good one. Maybe it’s just as 
well I sent Veldan to fetch Zavahl—because what we need right now is a 
miracle. I don’t hold out much hope that his precious Myrial will do the 
trick, but the Dragon, hopefully, will be of far more use. 
In the meantime, there were some practical things that could be done, and 
Amaurn began to jot down some notes. Though nothing could be done about 
the climatic problems, surely the issues of the invaders across the Curtain 
Walls could be addressed. First of all, he must ask Vaure to assemble the 
few resident Loremasters who could fly. The barriers around Gendival must 
be patrolled, to make sure that the Ak’Zahar could not get through. He 
would need a roster of all agents currently in service, both here in Gendival 
and in the field. Teams of Listeners must work around the clock to try to 
locate, by telepathy, those Shadowleague members who had not been heard 
from in some time. Maybe some of the retired Loremasters could come back 
to work in Gendival and free their fitter colleagues to go out into the field, 
and the most advanced Loremasters-in-training could be pressed into active 
service immediately, perhaps with a more experienced partner. 
A council of artisans and academics must be formed to come up with 
examples of the forbidden knowledge of the Ancients that could be used to 
help sick and starving people—though if recent events had taught Amaurn 
one thing, it was caution in tampering with the balance of the world. Any 
information or devices must remain in the hands of Loremasters for the 
present, and should only be used so long as the current crisis lasted. 
Afterward—if there was an afterward—there would be time to study in 
detail their potential impacts on the realms, and decisions could be taken at 
leisure on what information could be safely released, and where. 

Maybe the Navigators could assist in getting food and medical supplies to 
stricken regions—though both of these essentials would be difficult to come 
by in sufficient quantities ... 
“Amaurn? Amaurn? Are you there? Can you hear me?” The faint mental 
voice that interrupted the Archimandrite’s deliberations had not come 
through the Listeners, which meant that one of his secret supporters 
somewhere had either not yet received the news of his return or had 
something to tell him that should not become common knowledge. At once, 
Amaurn felt the prick of the old Magefolk curiosity. 
They robbed us of our magic, but they couldn’t take away the basic 
characteristics of our people. 
“I’m listening,” he answered. “Who is this?” 
“It’s me, Grim. Amaurn, I have some staggering news for you...” 
“And I have some staggering news for you, old friend. You are speaking to 
the new Archimandrite of the Shadowleague.” 
A surge of delight came from the old Summoner. “Well done! You didn’t 
waste any time, I see. Did you have any difficulties?” 
“Actually, it was much easier than I had expected.” Even as the casual reply 
formed in his mind, Amaurn had flashes of memory: Cergorn charging at 
him wielding a massive broadsword; an explosion of pain as the Centaur’s 
hoof connected with his hand; Skreeva’s head being crushed in Maskulu’s 
jaws; the clearing awash with the blood; Syvilda’s open loathing and utter 
contempt; Veldan’s eyes, hostile and wary, in her mother’s face. 
Grim, far away, snorted. “May Providence grant that my life never gets that 
easy. But now you must listen, Amaurn. What I have to tell you will be of 
even greater importance, now that you are Archimandrite.” 
Quickly, Amaurn told Maskulu not to let anyone else into the Meeting 
House for a few moments. He knew it was an effort for Grim to send so far, 
without the aid of any Listeners, and he wanted to make sure that they were 
not interrupted. The Summoner’s excitement was contagious. He settled 
back in his chair and heard, with growing astonishment, the tale of the 
gangling boy who had come from Tiarond and the wonders he had found 
beneath the city. 
By the time Grim had finished, Amaurn was on his feet, pacing back and 
forth across the room, unable to sit still in his excitement. This could be the 
answer! Maybe it was possible to get through the tunnels and reach some 
kind of interface that controlled the Curtain Walls, removing the need for the 
Hierarch’s ring completely. He didn’t have a clue how to go about doing 
so—but he could recognize a hope when he saw one and had the sense to 
seize it with both hands. 
“Grim, this is wonderful news. Can you come at once? Those artifacts must 
be in the hands of our experts as soon as possible. They may prove crucial in 
our search for what ails our world. And can you bring the boy, too? I want to 

question him myself.” 
He felt the Summoner hesitate. “Amaurn, is that really necessary? The poor 
lad has been through a very great deal in the last few days, and he only 
reached this sanctuary yesterday. Surely he deserves to spend a little time in 
peace and safety? Besides, he’s terrified that we’ll ask him to go back to the 
city.” 
The Archimandrite shrugged. “Too bad. Lately we’ve all had to do things 
we’d rather not have done. Why should he be the exception? But I shouldn’t 
think he’d need to return to Tiarond. We’ll send a search party back there, of 
course, but a callow lad would be more of a hindrance than a help. No, I 
simply want to probe his mind, to learn the details of this cavern and its 
whereabouts, so that I can come up with some kind of plan.” 
“And what will happen to poor Scall after that?” There was a note of 
concern in Grim’s mental tones. 
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll think of something.” There was a wary pause. 
“Are you speaking as Amaurn now? Or as Lord Blade?” 
Amaurn was angered by the implication. “I’m speaking as the Archimandrite 
of the Shadowleague,” he said coldly. “I am deeply grateful to you for your 
help, Grim, but I need this one thing more. Bring the boy to me—and hurry. 
I’ll see that he’s taken care of, you have my word on it.” 
“Very well,” the Summoner said sternly. “If your recent experiences haven’t 
taught you the difference between right and wrong, then we’re all in 
trouble—but you are in the worst danger, yourself.” With that, he was gone. 
“Damn!” Papers flew as Amaurn’s fist crashed down on the table. It had 
suddenly come home to him that Lord Blade would be harder to shake off 
than he had thought. 
CHAPTER 8 
The Breaking Storm 
As Seriema looked across the high, wild lands of the reivers, she felt as 
though she had come to the top of the world. Riding with Cetain at the head 
of two dozen picked warriors was the best thing that had ever happened to 
her. 
Today, as she had ridden out of the gateway of Arcan’s fortress, she had felt 
as though she’d changed overnight from a terrified fugitive to a triumphant 
queen. The busy folk in the settlement had paused in their tasks to watch the 
chieftain’s son ride by, the children dropping their burdens in the mud to 

wave at the bright-eyed warriors. As the column of riders left the fortress 
and rode along the top of the ridge, the two Summoners in their somber 
robes, their black cloaks flying in the wind, and their white skull masks 
gleaming in the somber light of the approaching storm, emerged from their 
tower and called out a blessing. 
Now, riding fast, they were far out across the moors, and Arcan’s fortress 
had vanished somewhere behind them, blending into the background of 
heath and fell. Seriema’s shaggy, wiry little horse, so very different from 
Tormon’s massive Sefrian, felt quick and responsive beneath her, and she 
wished that she was simply going out to race with Cetain instead of 
accompanying him on this desperate, dangerous errand to rally the other 
clans. She looked across at the tall warrior, a magnificent sight with his long, 
dark red hair escaping from its single braid and streaming out behind him. 
He looked across at her and smiled. “You ride well, for a city lass.” 
“It was always something I enjoyed, and my father encouraged me,” Seriema 
replied. She smiled wryly. “It was the age-old story, I’m afraid. What he 
really wanted was a boy.” Normally, when she spoke of her father, she found 
her inner self at war between her great love for him and her resentment that, 
no matter what she had achieved, no matter how hard she had tried, it had 
never been enough. Today, however, much to her surprise, much of the 
secret bitterness that festered within her seemed to have been blown away in 
the clean moorland air. 
Cetain was looking across at her with sympathy on his face. “And so you 
had to do everything ten times better than a boy, to compensate—both in his 
eyes and in yours.” 
Seriema gasped. “How did you know that? Apart from Presvel, you’re the 
only person I’ve ever met who understood.” 
“You’d be surprised how well I understand,” Cetain said softly. “I had a 
sister, the next youngest of our family to me, and the only girl among eight 
brothers. Her name was Amellin. Being the only girl, she too felt she had to 
prove herself in our father’s eyes—to ride better, to hunt better, and to fight 
better than all the menfolk of our family put together.” He shook his head. 
“To take more risks. Time and again I warned her to be more careful, but she 
would just shake her hair back across her shoulders and laugh at me. Until 
the day we made a raid on the Wolf clan’s cattle that went very wrong.” He 
swallowed hard. “They were waiting for us. To give us time to escape, my 
sister charged their chieftain himself, and fought him hand to hand. When I 
saw her fall, part of my heart went with her, to be trampled beneath the 
horses of our foemen.” Cetain’s face was an expressionless mask, his eyes 
far away. “Amellin saved our lives that day—competing.” 
“I’m sorry,” Seriema said softly. “She must be a great loss to you.” 
“To me, aye—but not to our father. Not so long as he has his sons.” There 
was a bitter edge to his voice. “Amellin died two years ago, and from that 
day to this, I’ve never heard him mention her name.” 
His tone of voice invited no reply, and wisely, Seriema did not pursue the 

subject. She could sense that Cetain had come near to weeping, and that 
would be unthinkable in front of his warriors—and her. They rode on in 
silence for a time. Her tough little horse, wise to the ways of this terrain, had 
worked off its first high spirits and settled into a steady, energy-conserving 
lope that gave her plenty of opportunity to turn her attention to her 
surroundings. 
The wind was gusting, strengthening to a gale, and she could feel the 
approach of the threatening storm. The bank of indigo cloud, which she had 
seen at a distance from the tower of the stronghold, was coming up fast, and 
the first cold spits of sleet were stinging her face. She didn’t have to be as 
weather-wise as a reiver to tell that this was going to be a bad one. 
Surreptitiously she looked around, searching for a place to shelter, but there 
was nothing in any direction but the bleak, bare fells. 
Oh, Great Myrial! It looks as though we’re just going to ride right through 
it. 
Seriema shivered. So much for the joys of the wild life. She should have had 
the sense to see that there would be another side to it. For an instant she 
thought, with longing, of her cosy study in her solid mansion, with the fire 
roaring up the chimney, and Marutha—poor Marutha—bringing her a cup of 
hot, fragrant tea. 
Never again. No matter what happens in the long run, whether we win out 
against those monsters or we don’t, nothing will ever be the same. 
Quickly, Seriema strangled such thoughts. The old days might be gone 
forever, but that wouldn’t stop her from making the best of these new days. 
And if she had to ride through that black tempest ahead, so what? Cetain 
seemed to think that she was tough enough to ride with the reivers, and not 
for anything would she let him down. 
As though he had sensed her thoughts, Cetain sat up in his saddle and 
straightened his shoulders, as though flinging his sadness to the winds. “My 
apologies, Lady. This is not a day to be dwelling on old sorrows. We should 
be thinking of what lies before us, not what’s in the past.” 
Seriema took up his words gladly, pitching her voice to be heard over the 
relentless, keening wind. “What does lie ahead? Are the other clans much as 
our own?” 
“Our own?” He looked at her with a lifted eyebrow, and Seriema felt herself 
coloring. 
“Well, you know what I mean,” she said. “Right now, Arcan’s stronghold is 
the only home I have.” 
“You’re a forgiving lass indeed, to adopt the reivers as your own, when 
we’ve been responsible for so many of your losses over the years. Aye, and 
brave too—or foolish—for we’re disputatious folk, always ready for a fight 
and not the easiest to get along with, or so I’m told.” But Cetain had been 
pleased by her words. She could see it in his eyes and in his smile. 
“Tell me about the clans,” she said. 

“Forewarned is forearmed?” 
She laughed. “Something like that. I want to know what I’m letting myself 
in for if I’m going to tangle with such difficult folk. You mentioned the 
Wolf clan before; do all the clans have animal names, or is Wolf the name of 
that particular chieftain?” 
“No, we all have animal names, and a totem animal or bird who carries the 
spirit of the clan, though you’d have to ask the Summoners if you want to 
know why.” 
“Well, that forestalls my next question,” Seriema said. She thought for a 
moment. “Maybe it’s because the reivers lead such violent, blood-steeped 
lives. The actual chieftains themselves must change fairly often, so the totem 
animal names give the clans a sense of continuity and identity.” 
Cetain’s eyes widened. “All these years, and I never thought of that! 
Sometimes it takes an outsider to see the things that are under our very 
noses—not that I really look on you as an outsider, which is odd in itself, for 
we’re not accepting of strangers as a rule. If you weren’t born to the clan, 
you don’t count.” 
Seriema grinned at him. “What is the name of your—of our clan, then?” 
“Arcan’s folk are the Eagle clan. There are seven clans in all: Eagle, Bear, 
Horse, Bull, Raven, Wildcat, and Wolf.” 
“And we have to convince them all?” 
“Aye—if they’ll let us,” Cetain replied dourly. “With the Bull and the Wolf 
clans, we’ll be lucky to get anywhere near them without picking arrows and 
spears out of our teeth. Under the present chieftains, they are no friends to 
the Eagle clan.” He frowned. “You have to understand that the balance of 
power among the reivers is always shifting. Sometimes, if one clan is seen to 
be getting too powerful, then two or more of the others might band together 
in a loose alliance. There’s little love and less trust between them, however, 
and once the common enemy is dealt with, they might just as easily turn on 
one another.” 
Seriema thought long and hard before she actually dared speak the next 
thought that came into her mind. “I know that the way the clans run their 
lives is absolutely none of my business,” she said cautiously. “In fact it’s a 
lot better for the merchants that they act the way they do, but... Well, don’t 
you think it’s awfully wasteful?” 
Cetain’s face lit up. “Ach, you don’t know what a relief it is to hear that 
from someone else, for a change! I can’t count the times I tried to tell my 
father, or my brothers, that our lives were hard enough already, in this wild, 
bare place, without making them harder by fighting one another. But they 
wouldn’t see it. I was called coward, and worse, and my father broke my 
head a time or two for the speaking of such heresy.” Abruptly, his 
expression darkened. “Then finally I stopped thinking that way. After seeing 
Amellin die, I could never make peace with the Wolf clan. I’m afraid it’s the 
same for all of us. There are too many old grudges, too much buried hatred. 

We kill them, they kill us in revenge—and so it goes on, never stopping, 
throughout all the clans, until the end of time.” 
Seriema took a deep breath, feeling her usual fighting response to a 
challenge rise up within her. “It’ll have to stop, though—and right now. 
Otherwise, everyone will die when the winged fiends come.” 
Something in her voice made Cetain turn to look at her. “Are they really so 
dreadful as all that?” 
“Yes,” Seriema said. “More dreadful than you could possibly imagine. And 
it’ll be our job to convince the other clans of that.” 
“And if we fail?” 
“Then that will be the end of the reivers. So we’d better not fail, Cetain, for 
all our sakes.” 
There was no chance to say anything more. While they had been talking, the 
sky had darkened overhead and the storm had begun in earnest. Curtains of 
sleety rain came driving across the exposed fells, obscuring the view ahead 
and hitting the riders full in the face. Cetain, riding beside her, turned into a 
veiled, blurred shadow, and she could no longer hear the other warriors 
following for the noise of the wind. The horses slowed from their brisk 
canter to a stoical plod, their heads down and their strong little legs working 
hard to thrust their bodies forward against the wind. 
“We must try to keep going if we can,” Cetain shouted. “If your fiends are 
truly coming, then the sooner we get back to the safety of our stronghold, the 
better.” 
Seriema nodded, though it wasn’t what she’d been wanting to hear. Though 
the thick, oiled wool of the Godsword cloaks repelled a certain amount of 
water, they were no match for such a downpour, and soon her sodden cloak 
was dragging heavily at her shoulders. The wind kept blowing her hood 
back, so she either had to keep a hand free to clutch it around her face, or 
just give up on it altogether. As soon as she felt the water soaking through 
the fabric, she took the second option. 
Within moments, the temperature had plummeted still further. Seriema’s 
head, jaw, and ears were aching with the cold, and though her hands still 
clutched her slippery reins, she had ceased to feel them. 
To perdition with the wild, free life! Right now I would give it all up for a 
nice big fire, a hot bath, and the biggest glass of brandy in the world. 
Cetain shouldered his horse in close to hers. “Are you all right, lass?” 
When Seriema tried to answer, her mouth filled with rain. She spat it out, 
wiped the water from her streaming eyes, and tried again. “Never better,” 
she shouted. 
Above the howling wind, she heard him laugh. “You’re an accomplished 
liar, too.” 
“What do you expect? I’m a merchant, remember?” 

“You don’t look much like a merchant anymore. You look as though you 
belonged right here on the moors, in the wind and the storm.” 
And I feel like a drowned rat—but I’m certainly not going to spoil his 
illusion by telling him I’m freezing, or asking about shelter. 
Seriema clawed a tangle of soaking hair out of her eyes and freely damned 
the wind and the storm. But it was no use trying to pretend to herself that she 
wasn’t delighted, and the new warm glow inside her proved a perfect 
antidote to the freezing wind. 
Grim was in his workroom, wrestling with his conscience. Following his 
conversation with Amaurn, the fates of not one but two young men lay in his 
hands. He felt dreadfully guilty about having to uproot poor Scall again and 
tear him from his friends, just when the lad could reasonably expect himself 
to be safe—at least, as safe as anyone could be in these days. But guilt or no, 
he knew that in the end he could not defy Amaurn. Not when there was so 
much at stake. He was determined, however, to make sure that the 
Shadowleague took good care of Scall. 
Surely, we can wipe out his memories of Gendival and return him to his 
friends when we’re done. After he found those devices for us, we owe him 
that much. I’m going to do everything in my power to persuade Amaurn to 
deal kindly with the boy. 
The other young man was an even greater problem. Grim had intended to 
plead Dark’s case to the Archimandrite and bring him into the 
Shadowleague as a new Loremaster, as he deserved. Because of Scall, 
however, their conversation had ended badly and, once he’d angered the new 
leader of the Shadowleague, there had been no chance to put forward his 
request. 
So what do I do now? Take Dark with me anyway, and risk him being 
rejected by Amaurn? Or leave him behind, to cope as best he can with the 
attacks of the winged demons, and to bear the brunt of Arcan’s wrath when 
the chieftain finds out that his Summoner has deserted him? 
A persistent chattering and squeaking from the cage in the corner pulled 
Grim’s attention away from his musings. His imps, bored with being shut in 
when they wanted to be loose in the room wreaking their usual havoc, were 
determined to attract his attention. Gar, of course, was still in Gendival with 
Maskulu, and Grim, anticipating his own journey home, had asked the 
Senior Loremaster to keep the little creature there for the present. The others, 
however, were making more than enough noise to compensate for the 
absence of one of their group. Bad-tempered Iss was squabbling with 
mischievous Bir, and the two females were behaving no better. The 
effervescent Vai was throwing her bedding and playthings out of the cage 
onto the floor, and affectionate Ell was rattling the bars, shrieking for 
attention at the top of her voice. 

Well, at least the imps would present no problems. Now that he was leaving, 
he didn’t have to think of a way to transport the little creatures up to the 
stronghold and keep them safe and secret once he got there. He would 
simply send them all to Maskulu (he tried not to picture the Loremaster’s 
horrified response when the imps all descended on him) and collect them 
when ... 
At that moment, the door came crashing open. He turned quickly, with a 
flash of anger, and saw his assistant in the doorway. “How dare you come 
bursting in here? Get out at once!” 
Dark was standing with his mouth open, staring into the big cage that filled 
the far corner from floor to ceiling. “What in the name of wonder are those?” 
he demanded, as the small black imps chittered and fluttered, clearly excited 
by the unexpected visitor. 
“None of your business,” Grim replied testily, “though no doubt you’ll be 
pestering the life out of me forevermore until you find out. Why do you 
think I forbade you and Izobia to come in here?” He frowned at his assistant. 
“Would you kindly explain why you chose to defy me?” 
“Because you’re up to something,” Dark said frankly. “You wouldn’t even 
discuss those objects of Scall’s with me—and you always want to talk about 
anything new, even if it’s just to increase my experience. You didn’t take 
much time to examine them, either. You simply grabbed them and shot up 
here as though the fiends were after you, leaving me floundering, trying to 
think up some kind of explanation to give the poor lad. You’ve been closeted 
in your workroom ever since, and I want to know what’s going on. I meant 
to knock and wait, as usual, but then I thought ‘Why should I?’ I’m a fullfledged 
Summoner now that I’ve conducted my first Passing...” For a 
moment he faltered, and Grim knew he was thinking of the sick child whose 
suffering he had ended. Then he rallied once more. “And I don’t see why I 
should be kept waiting on your doorstep like a mendicant or a child.” 
He was working himself up into a fine old temper, and Grim, more than a 
little taken aback by the outburst, smiled to himself. 
Finally, Dark has grown into a true Summoner, and it’s time I started to 
treat him as one. How could I even have thought of leaving him behind? He 
has the makings of a superb Loremaster. Besides, whether he’s annoyed with 
me or not, Amaurn is no fool. With the Shadowleague so short of agents at 
present, he should jump at every opportunity to recruit new blood. 
“You’re absolutely right,” he told his assistant, “and I apologize. Ever since 
you came to me, I have been forced to keep secrets from you, but it’s time to 
put that right.” He almost began to tell Dark about the Shadowleague, then 
realized that at present, there would be no time to explain it properly. 
Quickly, he thought again. “Dark, my boy, what would you think about 
leaving the lands of the reivers? There’s no time to explain now, but I can 
tell you everything you need to know when we’re on our way. Would you 
like to go traveling with me?” 
“Traveling? Where?” 

Grim never took his eyes from his assistant’s face. “Beyond the Curtain 
Walls.” 
Dark’s jaw dropped. “Beyond...” His voice was shaky. He took a deep 
breath, visibly getting himself under control. “I knew it. I knew there had to 
be something beyond that barrier! And those dreadful creatures that 
slaughtered the Tiarondians, they had to come from somewhere ...” 
Grim’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. 
Since the barriers began to fail, more and more ordinary folk in all the 
realms have been thinking about them, and realizing that there must be 
something beyond. Amaurn was right, Cergorn. No matter how hard you 
tried, you couldn’t have kept the nature of our world a secret for much 
longer. 
“When do we leave?” Dark was too excited to be patient with Grim’s 
musings, but his words brought the Summoner back to life’s practicalities 
with a vengeance. It was all very well to talk about leaving, as though it was 
no more difficult than a stroll down to the lake and back, but given the 
current crisis, Arcan wasn’t about to let his Summoners go wandering off, 
for any reason whatsoever. Powers or no powers, they were still members of 
the clan, and he was their chieftain. His word was law, and he had the 
soldiers to enforce his authority. Their escape—for escape it must be— 
would have to be conducted with great stealth, at a time when the reivers 
were very much on their guard. In addition, they would be dragging a scared, 
reluctant boy with them, and if they should be caught fleeing, Scall would 
share their fate. 
Not that Arcan would harm us. He needs us too much, though he would be 
very angry, and with good reason. We’d be imprisoned, and no worse, I 
expect—and at that he would be convinced that he was doing it for our own 
safety. No, the chief risk is being mistaken in the darkness for a raiding party 
from another clan. There are always patrols of mounted warriors guarding 
the settlement and the cattle, and it’s more than likely that they would cut us 
down before there was time for explanations. 
Clearly, Dark had also been considering Arcan’s reaction. His look of brighteyed 
excitement had given way to a frown. “Grim, I want to go traveling 
with you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, but... Do you 
really think it’s right for us to leave Arcan and the clan just now, when they 
might be facing such danger? Surely they’ll need our knowledge more than 
ever before.” 
Dark, I’m so proud of you. Had I searched the world over, I couldn’t have 
chosen a better apprentice. 
“You’re right of course,” Grim said aloud. “It’s treacherous and 
irresponsible and downright wrong of us to be deserting the clan at this time. 
But I’m afraid it can’t be helped, lad. I have another life from the one you 
know, and other, greater, loyalties. If I can get Scall’s artifacts to my 
masters, there’s a good chance that they might help us solve not only the 

threat of the winged fiends, but also the problem of this constant rain that 
cripples our land. And Callisiora isn’t alone, Dark. There are many other 
realms beyond our own that are suffering great hardship and catastrophe. My 
true people must take the whole world into account, not the fate of one small 
tribe in one small land. It doesn’t sit easily with me, either, but I know that 
we can help Arcan’s folk far more effectively, in the long run, if we go.” 
Dark looked at his mentor for a long moment, before he spoke. “I don’t 
know how far you plan to go, but we’ll have to travel light, Grim. The only 
way we’ll get out of here is to sneak away in the night—and even then we’ll 
be lucky if we’re not seen by one of Arcan’s guard patrols.” 
“You’re right,” Grim replied. “This would have to happen today, when the 
danger of invasion is making everyone so watchful.” 
Dark grinned. “I know. It’ll be like trying to get downstairs past Izobia’s 
room, without her popping her head out to find out what’s going on....” His 
eyes widened. “Guardians preserve us! What are we going to do about Izobia 
and little Lannol? Since Arcan cast her out, she has no one but us to take 
care of her.” 
“You’re right,” Grim said. “We have a responsibility to the poor girl, and we 
must make sure that Arcan will give her care and shelter in our absence. He 
has a right to be angry with the two of us, but I won’t have him cast out that 
girl and her child a second time.” He sat back down at his workbench, 
gazing out through the window with narrowed eyes while he thought. “Also, 
there’s something I haven’t told you yet, Dark. Another complication, I’m 
afraid. When we go, we have to take Scall with us.” 
“What? Grim, that really isn’t fair on the poor lad.” 
“I know.” The Summoner sighed heavily. “I don’t like it any better than you, 
but I don’t have any choice. Those are my orders. My master wants to 
question him about the cavern he found.” 
Dark sighed. “I just don’t see how we can do this. We’ve got to make sure 
Izobia is safe, kidnap Scall from the stronghold, and avoid Arcan’s warrior 
patrols—hoping against hope, of course, that the winged fiends don’t decide 
to arrive when we’re out on the open moor. How in blazes are we going to 
manage all that?” 
The Summoner shook his head. “I don’t know, but we have very little time 
to come up with a plan. Arcan wants everyone inside the fortress by 
sundown, and he’s planning to lock and bar the doors until morning.” He 
shepherded his assistant out of the workroom and locked the door, before he 
set off down the twisting staircase. With one last, regretful look behind him, 
Dark followed, but when they reached the bottom of the stairs, he detained 
his mentor with a hand on his arm. “Grim? What were those creatures? I’ve 
never seen anything like them.” 
Grim smiled at him. “As with everything else, I’ll explain on the way.” 
But one thing’s for sure, my boy. You’ll see creatures a good deal stranger 
than that, if I can get you through the Curtain Walls to safety. 

CHAPTER 9 
Sunset 
The wherry got down to the estuary just in time to catch the last of the ebb, 
which was just as well. According to Meglyn, the wind usually dropped 
around sunset, but the last of the receding tide would carry them down to the 
settlement that perched on the coast at the south side of the river’s mouth. 
Elion, standing on deck with Veldan and the firedrake, drank in the beauty 
of the scene. The estuary faced southeast, so that the light of the setting sun 
was almost directly behind the ship. The hills were silhouetted against a 
blazing sky, and the sea looked like molten gold. Ahead, on the ocean’s far 
horizon, the cloudless sky shaded down to sapphire and amethyst as evening 
crept toward the land. 
Beyond the mouth of the estuary, islands seemed to float on the evening sea, 
the dark stone of their pinnacles and crags still catching the light of the 
setting sun. It was a sight to lift the heart, but for Elion it was tinged with 
sorrow. Melnyth had loved the coast, with its little ports and secluded fishing 
villages. She had been quite an accomplished sailor herself, good at reading 
wind and wave, and at home with the sea in all its changing moods. She had 
loved the rough dockside taverns and the raucous company of the fishermen 
and fishwives, the stevedores and strumpets, the wayfarers and traders and 
the itinerant fish gutters who worked their way from port to port, as the fish 
shoals passed in their due seasons. She was never happier than when she was 
yarning with the old sailors exchanging travelers’ tales until the break of 
dawn, and once again, in his mind’s eye, Elion saw her rapt face as she 
listened, her generous mouth curved in a smile, her copper hair gleaming in 
the firelight. 
Go away, damn you! Stop haunting me! 
The thought took the Loremaster by surprise. Before, he had always 
embraced the painful memories, no matter how much they hurt him. 
“Are you sure that Melnyth is haunting you, and not the other way around?” 
said a soft voice. It was Veldan, using mind-speech. “Maybe you’re ready to 
let her rest in peace at last.” 
Elion shook his head. “I can’t let her go, Veldan. So long as I keep her alive 
in my heart, it’s as though she’s still in the world, somewhere round the next 
corner, just out of sight.” Tears blurred the sunset sea into a haze of gold. “If 
I let her rest in peace, as you say, I’ll finally have to admit to myself that I’ll 
never see her again—and I don’t think I could bear that.” Yet, even as he 

spoke, it came to him with more than a little guilt that, during the last few 
days of crisis, he’d had little time to think of his former partner and, if he 
was being completely honest with himself, the respite from his constant grief 
had not been unwelcome. 
The estuary ended in a pair of headlands that jutted out into the sea. Near the 
end of the southern promontory there was a deep cove, ringed by a cluster of 
low houses built from pale grey stone. The ship listed to one side as Meglyn 
put the tiller hard over, and the boom creaked as it swung sluggishly across. 
“We got here not a moment too soon,” she muttered. “There’s practically no 
wind to speak of.” 
On the last breath of the dying breeze, they coasted into the harbor, passing 
the lofty cresset of the navigation beacon at the end of the wharf. Two 
fishermen, an old man and a young boy, were seated on the edge of the dock, 
dangling their lines in the water. They waved as the wherry glided past, their 
jaws hanging open at the sight of the firedrake, who was crouched in the 
bows. Coming skilfully alongside the stone wharf, Meglyn moored the 
wherry beside a long, dark sailing barge, and greeted its skipper with a hail. 
“Hey, Arnond! I’ve brought you your passengers.” 
A broad-shouldered, bull-necked young man with cropped dark hair 
emerged from one of the barge’s open hatches, grinning broadly. “Hey, 
Meglyn! You made good time.” 
“Just caught the last of the tide.” Meglyn leapt ashore to help Chalas make 
the wherry fast, and the crop-haired young giant clambered off the barge and 
caught her up in a hug. “Ouf! Put me down,” she gasped. “You’d better not 
let Rowen catch you embracing other women. How is she?” 
Arnond’s grin grew even wider, as his arms described a great circle in the air 
in front of him. “Blooming. She’ll be up in a minute, but she’s so big now, it 
takes her a while to climb through the hatch.” 
“It can’t be very long now.” 
“It isn’t. Today’s little jaunt down the coast is the last trip we’re going to 
make, then we’re staying here in Neymis until the baby comes. After that, 
we’ll get back to normal as soon as possible. It’s going to be interesting to 
sail with a little one aboard.” 
Meglyn laughed. “It might just be more interesting than you think.” 
Arnond shrugged. “It’ll be all right. Why, I grew up on a boat myself, and so 
did Rowen. The main thing is that we’re all together.” 
At that moment, a tall young woman clambered clumsily up through the 
hatch of the barge, and Arnond leapt back aboard to help her ashore. Rowen 
had a lovely, delicate face, and long hair that was dark in shadow but glowed 
deep red where it picked up the light. Meglyn embraced her. “Arnond was 
right, love. You do look blooming.” 
Rowen laughed. “Well, it’s nice to be decorative at least, because apart from 
the cooking, I’m not much good on board right now. My days of hauling on 
ropes and shifting cargo are finished for a little while.” 

“Well, that doesn’t matter when we’ve got Sidras to help out with the heavy 
stuff,” Arnond said. “When we can prise him out of the tavern, that is.” 
Meglyn raised her eyes to the heavens. “That old reprobate never changes, 
does he? While we’re waiting for him, let me introduce you to your 
passengers.” 
Elion, Veldan, and Ailie, not wishing to intrude, had been waiting by the 
wherry’s rail. Now Meglyn beckoned them ashore and introduced them. 
With some difficulty, Kaz followed them, making the boat list ominously 
beneath his weight. “And that,” Meglyn finished, indicating the firedrake, “is 
Kazairl.” 
“He’s enough to scare Rowen right into labor, isn’t he?” said Elion. 
Rowen laughed. “I don’t scare that easy. I think he’s beautiful.” She reached 
up and patted Kaz on the nose. For a moment, he looked astonished, then he 
gave a pleased rumble, almost a purring sound, deep in his throat. “Clearly a 
woman of great intelligence and discernment,” he said, with a poisonous 
look at Elion. “Which is more than I can say for some people.” 
The Loremasters and Ailie said their farewells to Meglyn, who had agreed to 
remain with the wherry in Neymis until their return, and moved their 
belongings to the other, larger ship which, with its ballast and deeper keel, 
was designed to withstand the rougher waters of the ocean in a way that the 
wherry, with its shallow hull for navigating the river waters, could not. 
Chalas was about to go to the tavern to fetch Arnond’s crewman, Sidras, 
when Meglyn stopped him. “Wait! There’s no need to pull Sidras away from 
his rum for a little run like this with no cargo. Why don’t I take his place, 
and be your crewman, instead of kicking my heels in port? I love the river, 
but being out at sea would make a lovely change.” 
Arnond looked doubtful, but Rowen was more frank. “As long as no one’s in 
any doubt that Arnond is the captain,” she said. “In a boat, you can only 
have one person giving the orders.” 
Elion looked at her in astonishment, wondering how she dared talk like that 
to the owner of the barge. Meglyn, however, just laughed. “I asked for that! 
And you’re quite right, Rowen. Just yell at me if I start getting out of line.” 
Arnond put an arm around his pregnant lifemate’s shoulders, pride shining in 
every line of his face. “Yell at you? If you start getting out of line on our 
ship, Rowen will probably keelhaul you.” 
“Well, if I can’t give any orders how about a polite suggestion?” Meglyn 
glanced up at the darkening sky. “I thought I felt a breath of wind just then. 
Why don’t we get ready to leave?” 
Within half an hour, the barge moved slowly out of the harbor, making for 
the open sea. Veldan, standing in the bows, looked considerably relieved. 
She turned to Elion with a smile. “It’s good to be on our way again. I’ve 
never had an easy moment all day, wondering if the Dragons would make 
another attempt to kidnap Toulac and Zavahl. The sooner we can pick them 
up, the better I’ll be pleased.” 

It was getting on for evening by the time the shelter on the beach was 
finished. 
“Well,” said Toulac, dusting her hands on her long-suffering breeches. “That 
should get us through the night.” 
Zavahl looked at the lopsided creation with pride. It had taken a long time to 
weave the twigs, reeds, and bracken through the holes in the net, but this was 
the first thing he had ever built with his own two hands, and he had a 
collection of scratches, scrapes, and blisters to prove it. His filthy, reddened 
palms felt hot and sore, but he didn’t mind a bit. His sense of achievement 
gave the shelter a beauty that, to a less prejudiced eye, it certainly did not 
possess, and he couldn’t wait till evening came so that he could try it out. 
But Toulac the slave driver clearly had no intention of letting him stand 
around in self-congratulation. Before he knew what was happening she had 
thrust both the broken jug and the tin box she had found, now minus its lid, 
into his hands. “Fetch us some water, will you? I found a trickle running 
down the cliff about a couple of hundred yards or so along the beach. In the 
meantime, I’ll get a fire started.” Rummaging in the breast pocket of her 
shirt, she produced a flint. “Always keep one of these on you—or several, if 
you can manage it. Just in case. Never go anywhere without a flint. It’s a 
habit that’ll stand you in good stead for the rest of your life.” 
Zavahl trudged off along the beach. Though he kept a close watch on the 
cliff face so that he could spot Toulac’s water, in reality he was deep in 
thought. I’m actually learning to survive out here. Who would ever have 
imagined that? 
He soon found what he was looking for, lodged the box beneath the dripping 
trickle, and waited, with scant patience, for it to fill. When it did, he was 
dismayed that it held so little. Why at this rate, he was going to be trudging 
back and forth all night! Sighing, he set the jug in its place, and stamped 
around impatiently, shivering in the cold wind, until it too was full. 
When he returned to the shelter, the sun was going down, bathing the beach 
in gold-and-copper light. There was a small but cheerful fire blazing in their 
little den between the rocks. Crabs were baking in their shells on the flat lid 
prised from the metal box, hissing and crackling in the heat of the fire. The 
savory aroma made his mouth water. Toulac was down by the ocean, sitting 
on a rock by the water’s edge while several of the Dobarchu bobbed in the 
water around her feet. Zavahl wondered what they were telling her—then 
marveled that he should be so accepting of the fact that the furry little 
creatures were communicating at all. He put down the water carefully—for 
now that he had to carry every drop, it had suddenly become very 
precious—and went to join her. A silvery pile of fish lay on the rock beside 
her, and she was gutting them, swiftly and expertly, with a little knife. 
“Where did you get that from?” Zavahl asked in astonishment. 

Toulac stopped cleaning the fish, and looked up at him. “I had it hidden in 
my boot.” 
“Well, why didn’t you use it when we were building the shelter, then? I 
nearly took the skin off my hands, breaking twigs.” 
“Because we need to keep it sharp for tasks like gutting this fish,” Toulac 
replied. “It’s only a little knife. It’s our only utensil and our only tool. We 
can’t risk blunting it, or snapping the blade by hacking away at a bunch of 
branches that we can break just as easily with our hands. It’s the same with 
the sword. You never know when we might need it.” 
Zavahl sat down on the rock and sighed. “I suppose.” Practical details 
seemed so obvious when Toulac explained them. “I feel so stupid out here.” 
The veteran looked at him in surprise. “I never thought I’d hear that from the 
Hierarch of Callisiora.” 
“I’m not the Hierarch of Callisiora anymore.” Zavahl didn’t look at her, but 
kept on staring straight in front of him. “I don’t know what I am.” 
“Well, think of all the fun you’re going to have finding out,” said Toulac. 
“Especially the parts that involve Ailie.” She winked at him, and Zavahl felt 
the heat rising into his face. “Listen,” she went on, “there’s nothing wrong 
with you, so long as you don’t fall into self-pity. Of course you don’t know 
anything about this outdoors stuff; but you’ve had an appallingly sheltered 
life, and you haven’t exactly had long to learn. You’re as able as the next 
man, Zavahl. It’s all a matter of experience, and there’s only one way to get 
that. But you’ll be fine, you’ll see. And the next time something like this 
happens, you’ll have a knife in your own boot.” She grinned at him. “I’ll 
show you where to get one made.” 
They left the water’s edge and went back up the beach to the shelter, their 
footsteps crunching in the damp shingle. Toulac had laid flat stones at the 
edge of the fire, and now she wrapped the fish in broad leaves that she’d 
brought from the top of the cliff and laid them on the hot stones to bake. 
While they waited for them to cook, she passed on the information she’d 
gained from the Dobarchu, while she’d been down on the rocks gutting the 
fish they had brought her. 
“Their country was invaded,” she said, “by some other creatures—I couldn’t 
quite get the straight of it. I think they came from outside their Curtain 
Walls, like those winged monsters Elion told us about that attacked Tiarond. 
Poor things, there’s only a handful of them left; in fact they think that this 
small group might be the only survivors. There’s a Loremaster with them, 
Mrainil, who decided that rules or no rules, he would have to bring his folk 
to Gendival. Otherwise, the Dobarchu would be wiped out completely. He 
seemed quite relieved that Cergorn wasn’t in charge anymore. He’s hoping 
that whoever takes over has more lenient views—as are we all, or you and I 
will be finding ourselves without a home, too.” 
“Did Veldan sound concerned about that when you spoke to her?” Zavahl 
asked. 

Toulac smiled broadly. “That’s a very good question. No, she didn’t say who 
was in charge now, but she didn’t sound worried at all.” 
“Good.” Zavahl wriggled his buttocks into a more comfortable position on 
the rounded rock on which he sat and stretched his hands out toward the 
crackling fire. “You know, you were right when you said a fire and a shelter 
would make all the difference. This is almost pleasant. Will those fish be 
ready soon?” 
Toulac poked at the steaming fish with the point of her knife. “They’re ready 
now—and so am I.” 
Zavahl agreed. He had never been so hungry in his life. 
Taking turns using the knife and a clamshell scoop, they ate the fish directly 
from the hot stones and cracked the shells of the crabs to get at the chewy 
white meat. After they had finished, Toulac built up the fire, and they 
huddled close over the smoky flames as the wind grew colder. The night 
deepened, and the stars came out in the sky above. 
* * * 
Though the Dragon Aethon no longer had a corporeal form of his own, he 
still found himself attracted by the warmth and glow of the fire. Though it 
was only a pale echo of his own land’s blazing sunlight, it stirred memories 
of home: of the glittering crystal city of Altheva; of long-missed friends and 
companions; of stretching out his magnificent golden wings to drink his fill 
of radiant, life-giving sun ... 
Never again. His great, lithe, golden form was a pile of decaying meat, the 
shimmering wings were battered and broken by the landslide that had 
destroyed his body and, had it not been for the timely arrival of Zavahl, 
would have snuffed out his existence like a candle. Now, the only surviving 
parts of Aethon the Seer were his mind and spirit, and the precious memories 
of his people, which clung to a precarious and awkward existence as a guest 
within the mind of a vulnerable human. It wasn’t much of an existence, but it 
was all he had, and all he could ever expect. 
Sorrow gripped the Dragon, and a loneliness so profound that he wanted to 
howl his pain to the skies. 
This is all that’s left to me. All that there can ever be. I can never go home 
again. 
His capture by the Dierkan drones had forced Aethon to face up to some 
painful truths. He had been aware that Skreeva of the Alvai was an agent of 
the Dragonfolk in Gendival. Unfortunately, the decision had not been his to 
make, but he had always deplored his people’s use of a spy in a relationship 
which was meant to be founded on trust and cooperation. As soon as he had 
seen the wicked, predatory forms of the Dierkan, he’d known that his people 
had somehow discovered his whereabouts and had found a way to bring him 
home. For an instant his heart had leapt. Then, all at once, it had come home 

to him with stunning force just what such a summons meant. Once the 
Dragons found a way to retrieve the memories of his race, and pass them on 
to his successor, then what remained of Aethon would be expendable—and 
so would his host, Zavahl. 
But I don’t want to die! 
* * * 
Zavahl, nodding in front of the fire, leapt up as the Dragon’s anguished 
words resounded through his mind. Throughout that day, his thoughts had 
been for his own immediate survival, and he had almost forgotten the bizarre 
passenger who shared his body. 
Toulac was also on her feet, her sword out of its scabbard. “What? What 
happened?” 
Taking a deep breath, Zavahl sat down again. “I’m sorry. False alarm.” Until 
he found out what had caused Aethon to cry out like that, he preferred to 
keep his own counsel. 
The veteran remained on her feet, peering fiercely into the gloom that ringed 
the fire. “False alarm*. What in perdition do you think you’re playing at?” 
“I’m sorry,” Zavahl repeated. “I must have dozed off for a moment. I 
thought I heard a voice.” 
Toulac sat down again with a long-suffering sigh. “There wasn’t any voice,” 
she said testily, “but just in case, I’ll get out of this firelight for a while and 
keep an eye open for any intruders. Besides, it’s probably too early to be 
looking out for the ship, but you never know.” 
She slipped away into the shadows, leaving Zavahl alone and feeling guilty. 
But I’m not alone, am I? 
There had been no word from the Dragon since they had been kidnapped. It 
was almost as though Zavahl’s uninvited guest was deliberately lying low. 
But why? Closing his eyes, he turned his thoughts inward. “Aethon? Are you 
there? What’s wrong?” 
“It seems I owe you an apology. Inadvertently, I have brought great trouble 
to your life.” When the Dragon spoke he sounded uncertain and subdued: 
not at all like the confident and knowledgeable creature who had first 
accosted a terrified former Hierarch. Zavahl frowned. Why, it almost seemed 
as though their positions had been reversed! 
“When I hurled myself into your mind, I was desperate,” Aethon continued. 
“I was dying; almost at the end. There was no time to consider the 
consequences. But I carry knowledge locked within me that is vital to the 
future of the Dragonfolk, and the events of last night prove that they will 
stop at nothing to recover it.” 
A chill went through Zavahl. Toulac had told him that, according to Veldan, 
the Dragonfolk were behind their abduction, but she didn’t know any more 

than that. And since his capture, the demands of survival had preoccupied 
him so deeply that he’d had no time to consider motives and consequences. 
“So they want you,” he said slowly, “and in order to get you, they would 
have to capture me. And then what?” 
“Unfortunately, my racial memories are not conscious, so I cannot pass them 
on verbally—indeed, you would die of old age before I would have time to 
put more than a fraction of them into words. So they would have to be 
retrieved by some other means, and passed directly into the mind of the new 
Seer. It is very likely that their recovery would either eradicate me altogether 
or, at the very least, ravage my mind beyond all recognition,” Aethon said 
heavily. “And the human brain was not designed to stand up to the methods 
they would be forced to use. It is more than likely that you, or at least all 
vestiges of your personality, would perish too.” 
“But that’s monstrous!” Zavahl gasped. 
“Not to them,” said Aethon. “You see, to them I’m dead already. The way 
they see it, I only took up residence in your body to preserve the memories. 
They weren’t really considering that my very essence would also make the 
crossing, but it did. Everything that makes up Aethon the Seer is here within 
you, Zavahl—and I don’t want to die yet.” 
“Well, nor do I,” said Zavahl. “Not that your wretched relatives seem to be 
remotely concerned about that.” What a mess! While Aethon remained in his 
mind he would continue to be a hunted man, yet the price of getting rid of 
his uninvited passenger was his own sanity, and probably his life. 
CHAPTER 10 
Illusions 
She didn’t want him. How could she not want him, after all he’d done for 
her? But the evidence was right there, before Presvel’s eyes. From his 
shadowy corner of the stronghold’s great hall, he watched Rochalla, the 
firelight haloing her hair in bright gold, as she sat to the side of one great 
fireplace listening to a storyteller. Little Annas snuggled sleepily on her lap, 
her thumb in her mouth, absorbed in the tale of heroes and hidden treasure, 
and beside them— much too close—sat Scall. Had it not been for the 
obvious youth of the lad and lass, the trio might easily have been a family. 
They looked so comfortable together. As if they belonged. Presvel gritted his 
teeth. 
It’s not fair. She should be mine. I’ve loved her ever since the first time I saw 
her. Had I not brought her, she wouldn’t even be here, she’d be demon bait 

in Tiarond. 
It had not been a good day for Presvel. He’d felt out of place among these 
rough, hulking warriors; despised and dismissed. The busy reiver folk, 
preparing their stronghold for a siege, had made it abundantly clear that he 
was in their way. Tormon, having quarreled with Seriema, was ill-tempered 
and taciturn, and Seriema herself had left the safety of the fortress without a 
word to him, taking ridiculous risks with her own life. 
I used to be important to her. She used to depend on me for so many little 
things, but now she has no time for me—but no wonder she turned to 
someone else. I’ve had no time for her. I’ve been wasting it on that 
ungrateful little slut by the fire. 
Presvel buried his face in his hands. In his heart of hearts, he knew he was 
being irrational and unfair. When he had first brought Rochalla into 
Seriema’s household, he had told himself that he could no longer expect her 
to be his whore and had steeled himself for rejection and failure. He had 
warned himself to expect heartbreak, and had thought he had the courage to 
watch her take wing without him—but the reality had proved far worse than 
he had bargained for. 
All that day, he had wanted to be alone with her, but it had seemed that she 
was deliberately avoiding him, and she had kept Annas with her all the time, 
as if to deliberately prevent him from speaking to her privately. Then 
tonight, after they had eaten, she had joined Scall by the fire. At first, Presvel 
had thought that it was simply another ploy to keep him at arm’s length; but 
now, as he watched her whispering and laughing with that callow youth, a 
dark, ugly stain of jealousy spread throughout his heart. 
How dare he? 
How dare they? 
As he looked on, the boy put a tentative arm around the girl’s shoulders. 
Presvel saw her stiffen and glance round at the unfamiliar touch. Surely she 
would send the temeritous upstart packing? But after a few moments, he 
realized that she was actually permitting the little bastard to maul her. 
Presvel couldn’t bear to look any longer. Rising hastily, he hurried out of the 
room, tripping over outstretched legs and stepping on toes as he went. Once 
outside, he leaned against the cold stone wall, breathing hard and fast. 
That does it. I won’t let this happen. I’m going to deal with that little wretch, 
if it’s the last thing I do. 
He was still carrying the long sharp knife—he bore it all the time now. And 
there was one place he could be guaranteed to get the boy alone. Whatever 
else happened, the little rat was certain to visit the stables this evening, to 
check on that precious horse of his. Assuring himself that he only meant to 
scare Scall off, Presvel headed downstairs to the stables, fingering the hilt of 
his knife. 

Dark bounced up and down on the well-stuffed mattress and ran an 
appreciative hand over the bearskins that covered the bed. “This is the life,” 
he said. “I wish we didn’t have to leave so soon.” He hesitated. “You know, 
I still feel guilty about deserting Arcan when he’s treating us so well.” 
Grim turned away from the window, where he had spent the last ten minutes 
scowling out into the darkness. “Oh, grow up, Dark. Do you think that Arcan 
put us in the chambers next to his own out of the kindness of his heart?” he 
barked. “He treats us with such deference because he’s nothing more than a 
superstitious primitive, and he’s afraid to do anything else.” 
And you’re feeling as guilty as I am, Grim. That’s why you’re so peevish. 
Dark kept his thoughts to himself. When his master was in this mood, 
silence was definitely the best policy. While Grim brooded at the window, 
he checked the packs again. They were taking very little with them: some 
food, a blanket each and one for Scall, a spare cloak, warm jerkin, and 
gloves for the boy, plus a rope to tie him in case he should get difficult, one 
or two precious oddments that were small and light. With a wrench, Dark 
thought of all the precious books and scrolls they were being forced to leave 
behind them in the Summoners’ tower; all the clothing and the personal 
items that could never be replaced. 
I wonder if we’ll ever come back? 
Like the man said, grow up, Dark. 
I’m scared. 
The younger Summoner hoped the results of their venture would be worth 
the risks—but he had to admit that the prospects were exciting, as well as 
frightening. While they settled into this chamber, waiting for dusk to fall, 
Grim had told his astonished assistant a little about the Shadowleague, and 
Gendival; the reality beyond the Curtain Walls and the peril the world faced. 
Dark was still trying to take it all in. He was beset with a sense of unreality. 
He was finding it impossible to imagine that soon he and Grim would be 
escaping in the night, and heading for a place of strange powers and 
outlandish creatures. 
And I’m going to be a part of it! No more skulking in a mask, a freak who is 
feared and hated. Finally, I’ll be able to develop my mind properly, and use 
my abilities to do some good. 
At last, Grim turned away from his contemplation of the night. “It’s time to 
go,” he said. “I’ll meet you down in the stable, as we planned.” Putting on 
his skull mask and picking up both packs, he left the room. With the door 
open a mere chink, Dark peered through the crack and watched him go down 
the passageway. Around him there was a shimmer in the air—a faint 
distortion that only the trained eye of a Summoner could see. When Grim 
passed the sentries at Arcan’s door, they did not move or blink, or show any 
sign that they had seen him at all. Cloaked in illusion, Grim faded past them, 
unseen. 

I wonder if I could do that for long enough? 
Though Dark understood the basic techniques of glamourie, he’d had little 
need to practice the art, and he wasn’t sure whether or not he would be able 
to sustain an illusion for long enough. Fortunately—for the Summoners 
certainly did not want to risk an encounter with Arcan’s guards—it would 
not be necessary tonight. 
He returned to the fire, soaking up all the heat he could get, while he could 
still get it. It would take a little time for Grim to get into position. While he 
waited, Dark ran through the previous hours in his mind, trying to think of 
anything they might have missed. Grim’s little creatures (when would he 
explain them to his apprentice?) had been sent on ahead to wherever the 
Summoners were going. 
Their livestock had all been brought up to the fortress and, though Arcan 
would not allow Izobia and little Lannol to lodge in the luxurious guest 
chambers near his own, she had been settled in the crowded but lively rooms 
that housed the clan’s widows and orphans. To Dark’s relief, Damaeva, the 
chieftain’s lifemate, had taken the girl under her generous wing to make sure 
that she was not bullied or ostracized by the others. No matter how angry 
Arcan might be when he discovered that his Summoners had fled, 
kindhearted Damaeva would not let him take his wrath out on Izobia— for, 
despite all his brag and bluster, the chieftain knew better than to cross his 
diminutive partner who, when roused, could prove to be a formidable 
adversary indeed. 
So that was it. Everything had been settled, and it was time to go. Dark 
straightened up from the fire and, with a last regretful look at the cosy room, 
went to the door. Following a habit as ingrained as breathing, he paused 
there to don his skull mask, and as he did so, he noticed that the stitching 
round the buckle had become frayed, and the fastening was hanging by a 
thread. For a couple of days, he had been meaning to repair it, but the news 
of the invaders and the chaos of packing up and moving to the stronghold 
had meant that he’d never had the time. Oh, well. There would be no chance 
to do anything with it now, and it had held out so far. It only had to last a 
little while longer, and then, he hoped, it wouldn’t be needed again. The 
Shadowleague, according to his mentor, had no need of such artificial props. 
With a lot more care than usual, he fastened the mask into place and left the 
room. 
Unlike Grim, the Summoner had no need for stealth. He stepped out boldly 
into the stone-flagged passageway, acknowledging the respectful salutes of 
the sentries as he passed the door to Arcan’s chambers. 
It’s a good thing this mask hides my face. At least I don’t have to worry 
about looking nervous. 
Earlier, when Scall had visited the Summoners, Dark had asked the boy 
whereabouts in the stronghold he was sleeping. 
He made his way there now, moving quickly through shadowy, drafty 
corridors that were almost deserted. At this time of night, most folk gathered 

together in the great hall of the stronghold, firstly to eat, and afterward to 
while away the long, dark evening with flirting, gossip, gambling, and song. 
With so much going on elsewhere, there was only a slender hope that Dark 
would find Scall in the cramped, cold room he shared with several others; 
but since it was on his way, he poked his nose in for a quick look. No such 
luck. The room, strewn with the clutter of eight untidy young men, was 
empty. 
Pity. Had I found him here, it would have made life so much easier. 
Shrugging, he made his way down to the great hall and stood in the 
doorway, scanning the crowded chamber. The place looked cosy and 
welcoming, with its two great fireplaces throwing out both warmth and a 
welcome blaze of light to supplement the great tallow candles that burned in 
sconces round the walls. Someone was playing a harp in a corner. By one of 
the fireplaces, a group of warriors were blocking most of the heat, playing 
dice on the hearthstones. By the other, a storyteller had gathered a rapt group 
around him, and Dark saw Scall, sitting with the small child and the pretty 
young girl with whom he had arrived. 
Drat! Now what? Under the circumstances, whatever I suggest won’t be 
enough to tempt him away from that charming creature. 
He lingered for a time in the doorway, unsure of the best way to proceed, but 
luck was with him. The storyteller ended his tale, and Scall’s friend bent 
down to whisper something to the drowsy child in her lap. Motioning for 
Scall to stay where he was, she set the little one down carefully and stood 
up; then, taking the child by the hand, she led her out. When she passed him, 
Dark heard her say, “I know you want to hear another one Annas, but it’s 
past your bedtime. Come on, let’s find your dad and say good night. You can 
hear another story tomorrow.” 
As soon as she was gone, Dark entered the great hall, knowing better than to 
try to slip in unobtrusively. The gleaming, death’s-head mask was enough to 
cause a stir wherever he went. 
Honestly! You’d think the idiots would be used to seeing it by now! 
Scall’s eyes widened with surprise to see him; at least they held nothing 
more than a healthy respect. It made a nice change from the usual fear. Dark 
beckoned the lad away from the fire and led him out of the room. 
“Good evening, sir,” Scall sounded a little puzzled. “Did you settle in all 
right? Did you find out anything more about those objects I discovered?” 
“We didn’t have time.” The lie came with difficulty to the Summoner’s lips. 
“My mentor is looking at them now, so I came out to let him have some 
peace and quiet. I remembered you mentioning your lovely horse, so I 
thought that, if you aren’t busy, now might be a good time for you to show 
her to me.” 
The young lad’s face lit up. “Of course, sir. I would love to.” 
“You don’t need to keep calling me sir, Scall. Dark is fine.” 

“Yes, sir ... Dark.” Chattering enthusiastically about his mare, Scall led the 
way downstairs, using the cramped little back staircase, which was nearest. 
Dark followed, gnawed by guilt. 
The back staircase down to the beast quarters was a tight, narrow spiral of 
hewn stone, lit by sconces set at intervals in the curving wall. It was cold and 
dank, with a whistling draft, and there was barely enough space for two 
people to walk side by side. The Summoner let Scall go ahead of him, so 
that if they met anyone ascending, there would be room for them to pass. 
And at least I don’t have to look that poor lad in the eye. 
Halfway down the stairs, it happened. Dark felt the skull mask slip as the 
broken buckle finally gave way. “Damn.” He grabbed at the falling mask, 
catching it just before it hit the hard stone steps and shattered the delicate 
bone. Had the staircase been straight, he would have overbalanced and fallen 
to the bottom, but as he lurched forward, he managed to catch himself 
against the curving wall. 
“Dark, are you all right?” Scall reappeared from below, and Dark heard him 
gasp as he saw the maskless Summoner. 
Well, what does it matter if he sees my face? He’ll be seeing enough of it 
when we take him out of here to Gendival. All the same, I had better keep the 
mask on for a little longer. It wouldn’t be too likely that we’d meet anyone 
else in the beast quarters at this hour, but it would just be our luck, and a 
maskless Summoner would create just too much interest. 
Dark shrugged. “I’m fine,” he said. “This wretched thing broke, that’s all.” 
He held up the mask with the dangling buckle. “Why don’t you go on ahead, 
and I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve fixed it.” 
“All right.” With one last, curious look at the Summoner’s uncovered face, 
Scall turned and went on down the stairs. 
Following the lad as far as the next sconce, Dark paused underneath it and 
fiddled with the broken fastening of his mask. It proved a lot more awkward 
than he’d expected, and he muttered and cursed, glad that he would soon be 
rid of the accursed thing for good. Finally, he was saved by a length of twine 
he found in his pocket, left over from tying up the boxes of books he’d 
packed that afternoon. With its help, he managed to fasten the mask 
precariously to his face and hoped that it would last long enough to see him 
through. 
Soon it won’t matter anymore. But in the meantime, I hope I don’t run into 
anyone. A Summoner can hardly inspire awe and terror if his mask is held 
on with a bit of string. 
Dark hurried on his way, aware that his mentor would be wondering what 
had become of him. Coming out into the warm darkness of the beast 
quarters, Dark took one of the carefully shielded candle lanterns from the 
shelf at the bottom of the stairs and lit it at the final sconce. Arcan’s 
prohibition of candles and torches down here would stand the Summoners in 
good stead. Cloaked in illusion and hidden in the shadows, Grim would have 

had no difficulty concealing himself. 
In the enclosed space, the moist air was thick with the smells of manure, and 
hay, and horse. Trying not to breathe too deeply, Dark picked his way 
fastidiously through the ranks of tethered horses, holding his lantern aloft 
and trying to keep the worst of the muck off his boots. As he passed along 
the rows, curious heads, their ears pricked, turned to watch him, and the 
lamplight glowed eerily in one pair of eyes after another. Spotting the faint 
glow of a lantern in the far corner, the Summoner headed toward it. He was 
only halfway there when the commotion broke out. 
It seemed to Presvel that he had been hiding for ages in the beast quarters, 
waiting for that wretch of a boy to turn up. However, the heat of so many 
animals made the place comfortable at least, if not fragrant, and the long 
wait had given him plenty of time to dwell on ways to terrify the life out of 
Scall, so that the little rat would be too scared to go tattling to Tormon, but 
would stay away from Rochalla in future. Without her new suitor in the 
picture, surely she would come to her senses and choose the right man. In 
the darkness, he fingered his knife. When Scall saw it, he would know that 
he was dealing with someone who meant business. 
Though the beast quarters were short of good places to hide, there were large 
wooden barrels placed at intervals throughout the big chamber to make it 
easier to water the horses and other livestock. Hidden by the darkness, 
Presvel crouched behind the cask that stood nearest to the chestnut mare, 
waiting, waiting. Once he thought he heard the sound of soft footsteps, and 
someone moving about at the far end of the vast room; but there was no 
glow of lamplight from beyond the barrel, and no greeting for the little mare 
who was tethered nearby. Since Scall had talked to the blasted creature most 
of the way from Tiarond, it hardly seemed likely that he would tend it in 
silence. 
As time passed, Presvel began to doubt. Maybe the boy wasn’t coming after 
all. Maybe—Myrial curse his name!— he was with Rochalla, instead, 
pawing her and slobbering over her, and much too preoccupied to think 
about horses. Presvel, tasting black bile at the thought, leapt to his feet; but 
as he did so, he caught sight of a glimmer of lanternlight working its way 
toward him. Quickly he ducked back down behind his barrel. Could this be 
Scall? Surely it must be! Sure enough, there was the little idiot, calling out to 
the horse as if it were a person who could understand. Presvel waited until 
the boy had hung his lantern carefully on the iron hook that had been set for 
it above the manger. He didn’t want to risk its being dropped or kicked over 
in a scuffle. Being burned alive was definitely not part of his plans. 
Wait, wait. There’s plenty of time. Don’t rush in and scare the 
horse—there’s no point in being kicked to death. He’s sure to give the stupid 
animal some water, and that’s the time to strike. 
It couldn’t have worked out better. Whistling, Scall approached the barrel, 
swinging a bucket by its handle—and Presvel struck. Leaping out from his 

hiding place, he took the boy completely by surprise, knocking him to the 
ground and holding him down with a knee in his back. While he had been 
hiding, he’d found a dirty rag lying on top of the barrel, and now he wadded 
it into Scall’s mouth, making him choke and splutter. The next moment his 
knife was at his captive’s throat. “Now,” he hissed. “I’m going to tell you 
exactly what will happen to you if you don’t leave Rochalla alone.” 
Before he could continue, a voice came from behind him. “What do you 
think you’re doing? Let that boy go!” A figure loomed out of the shadows, 
cloaked in darkness, its face a grinning skull. Arcan’s Summoner had found 
him! Panicked, he leapt to his feet and turned to run, all in one movement, 
forgetting the knife clenched in his hand. Tangling his feet in Scall’s 
recumbent form, he tripped and fell headlong, colliding with the masked 
figure. There was a grunt of pain, he felt the knife wrench in his fist, and a 
gush of warm wetness across his hand. Then the black-robed figure 
crumpled and lay still. 
“No!” Presvel shrieked. Throwing down the knife, he bolted toward the 
main stairs, and as he ran, he heard Scall’s voice yelling, “Dark! Dark!” 
The Summoner ran up in time to see a figure rush off into the shadows, but 
he paid it little heed. All his attention was riveted on the crumpled form that 
lay, unmoving, at his feet. Unable to speak for the terror that assailed him, he 
sank to his knees beside it. Scall was already bending over it, muttering, “Oh 
no, oh no, oh no, please, no ...” Together they rolled the still body gently 
onto its back, and Scall stifled a sob. “Oh, Dark, I’m sorry...” 
“It wasn’t your fault.” With shaking hands, the Summoner removed the 
mask from his companion’s waxen face, and felt for a pulse beneath the jaw. 
“Grim? Grim? Can you hear me?” He tore away his own mask, his face wet 
with tears. 
Scall gasped. “I thought it was you!” 
Dark wasn’t listening. “Hush,” he said urgently, putting his face down close 
to the old man’s lips. 
“Listen, my boy.” Grim’s voice was reedy and faint. “You must go on as we 
planned. Take Scall and the artifacts to Amaurn in Gendival. Tell him it’s 
my dying wish that you become a Loremaster ...” 
“No!” Dark was shaking with anguish. He couldn’t imagine a world without 
his mentor. 
“There’s no time for that!” Suddenly, Grim’s voice was an echo of its old 
waspish self. “Listen carefully, Dark. I must tell you how to pass the Curtain 
Walls.” He pulled Dark’s head down, whispering urgent instructions in his 
ear; then, exhausted by the effort, he fell back, his head lolling limply 
against the younger Summoner’s arm. “Tell Amaurn good luck.” The words 
were fainter now. “And Dark... You were the son I never had. I’m proud of 

you, my boy.” 
“Farewell, Grim. Thank you for everything.” Dark bowed his head, 
weeping—and then felt a gnarled old hand clutch his arm. Grim’s eyes had 
opened once more. “Will you stop that? You’re running out of time.” His 
face creased in a twisted smile. “You can do this. I have every confidence in 
you.” Then suddenly his body was limp and heavy, and Dark felt Grim’s 
spirit pass away. Blinded with tears, he laid his mentor gently down and 
straightened the bloodstained black robes. There was no time to mourn, 
however. Grim had given him his last instructions, and they must be obeyed. 
For an instant, Dark felt himself quailing from the responsibility. 
How can I do this alone? How can I dodge Arcan’s patrols, get through the 
Curtain Walls, and find this Gendival place without Grim to help me? He’s 
always been there, a solid rock in my life, but I never realized how much I 
truly needed him until now, when it’s too late. 
But he had faith in me. Every confidence, he said. Grim, I promise I won’t 
let you down. 
Scall was sitting back on his heels, his eyes dark and wide. Dark saw that he 
was shaking all over. “I thought it was you,” he whispered. 
Dark wanted to ask him who had done this dreadful thing, but Grim had 
been right—there was no time to delay, and no time to be subtle, either. 
Holding Scall’s eyes with his own, he reached out and touched the boy’s 
forehead, sinking into his mind, much as he had done with the child whose 
Passing he had accomplished. This time, however, it was not physical 
control he was seeking, but control of the will. It was a cruel and frightening 
thing to do to Scall, and Dark was sorry it must be so, but it could not be 
helped. The skirmish was brief and ugly. Scall fought back, clumsily, but 
with a ferocity born of desperation. What chance did he have, though, 
against a man with the training, abilities, and intellect of a Summoner? Dark 
wrestled the boy’s will into a corner of his mind and penned it there, while 
he himself took control. 
After a moment Scall’s eyes lost their animation, though they still held the 
shadow of that dreadful look of fear. Dark leaned back against the water 
barrel and took a long, shaky breath. “I’m sorry about this, Scall,” he said. 
“Get your horse ready quickly. We have to go.” 
Dark found his own horse, a dark, dappled grey, beside Grim’s white beast. 
Both were tacked up and ready to go, with the Summoners’ packs and 
Scall’s bulky bundle fastened behind the saddles. Quickly he mounted, then, 
on an impulse, he leaned over and untied Grim’s mount. Forced to go on 
alone, and desperately unsure of himself, he needed to take with him 
something belonging to his mentor. 
He returned to Scall and found him already mounted on the restive chestnut 
mare. “Follow me and keep quiet,” he ordered, reinforcing the command 
with all the power of his will. He would have liked to promise the boy that 
he would be safely returned to his friends, but Grim had not had time to 
confide the Shadowleague’s plans for him. 

I don’t even know what their plans will be for me! It’s all very well for Grim 
to blithely talk about them making me one of their own, but what if they 
don’t want to? 
With Dark leading the spare horse, they moved out, threading their way 
between the ranks of tethered animals. As he passed, the Summoner couldn’t 
bear not to take one last look at Grim’s body. It tore the heart out of 
him—but it also filled him with a cold resolve. 
I won’t fail you, Grim—and I’ll hold your memory in my heart for as long as 
I live. 
Though Arcan saw no point in wasting men to guard the inside of his beast 
quarters, outside was a different matter. The stronghold’s inner courtyard 
was well guarded, as was the outer gate. Dark remembered Grim walking 
out of their room in front of Arcan’s guards, cloaked in the illusion that no 
one was there. He knew that he lacked the skill of his mentor at glamourie, 
yet now he was not only going to have to shield himself for the length of 
time it would take to get across the courtyard and out of the main gate, but 
accomplish this miracle for two people and three horses—and, on top of all 
that, to retain his control of Scall. 
Grim, wherever you are now, I hope you’re watching over me. 
Dark extinguished the lantern and opened the door of the beast quarters a 
cautious crack. As he peered through, an icy wind blasted into his face, 
almost taking the skin off—or so it felt—and threatening to pull the door out 
of his hand. The wind was getting wilder all the time, and the sleet had 
turned to hail, yet the wild weather was a lot more providential than it might 
first appear. Though the storm would make traveling a nightmare, at least it 
would mask any noise he might make during his escape. Biting his lip in 
concentration, the Summoner prepared his cloak of glamourie, surrounding 
himself, Scall, and the horses with a shimmering nimbus that would seem, 
from the outside, to be nothing but shadows and swirling, wind-driven hail. 
At least, he hoped it did. Pushing the door open, he sent Scall through ahead 
of him and followed with his own horse and the spare. 
The strain of maintaining the illusion was tremendous. His head and 
clenched jaws ached from all the concentration, and he was trembling all 
over from the strain. It was as though the shield was draining all the energy 
from his body in order to feed itself. Dark knew he couldn’t keep it up for 
very long. Instead of creeping cautiously around the sides of the courtyard, 
as he had originally intended, he struck out boldly across the center, keeping 
Scall on his right-hand side and Grim’s white horse on his left. The closer 
they could stay together, the easier it would be for him, as it would make for 
a smaller area to shield. 
As he had hoped, the guards were all huddling under shelter, and he was able 
to cross the courtyard unmolested. Unfortunately, they had decided to shelter 
from the weather beneath the deep arch of the entrance gate and were 
blocking his way out. 

Damn! Now what? 
Then suddenly, he remembered what Grim had taught him. “Sometimes, you 
scarcely need to cloak yourself at all. If you can manage to divert people’s 
attention elsewhere, it’s amazing what they won’t see.” 
Thinking with feverish speed, Dark pulled Scall and the horses close to the 
courtyard wall on the right-hand side of the archway, then, concentrating 
until his brain felt as though it would burst from the strain, he directed 
energy from his mind into a wooden cart which had been left near the door 
of the beast quarters, altering its underlying structure, to heat the wood from 
within. It wasn’t easy. The wood was wet and cold, and Dark could spare 
only a fraction of his attention from maintaining his shield and restraining 
Scall. Doubt began to gnaw at him. Would he be able to create his diversion 
before he lost control of the lot? 
Without warning, the cart burst into flames—a beacon that burned brightly 
despite the wind and hail. Shouts and curses sounded from the archway, and 
the guards came pouring out, pelting across the yard to put out the roaring 
blaze. Dark reacted instantly, pushing Scall ahead of him through the arch 
and dragging Grim’s horse along behind. He had minutes, at most, to get out 
of there, before they put out the fire and returned. The bar of the gate was 
heavy; normally it took two men to lift it. The Summoner cursed and 
struggled and, bolstered by the fear that jolted through his body, somehow 
he found the strength. The bar grated loose from its socket, and with a relief 
that was almost bliss, he dropped it with a clatter that was magnified by the 
echoing archway and could be heard clearly above the wailing storm. There 
were shouts from the courtyard behind him and the sound of running 
feet—and then Dark realized that he had lost control of his shield. 
“Go!” He gave Scall’s horse a whack in the rump, and the little chestnut 
bolted off into the night with the Summoner following, his stockier horses 
laboring to keep up with the fleet-footed mare. 
It’ll take them a while to get mounted, and hopefully they’ll never find us in 
this dreadful storm. 
In spite of his exhaustion, jagged nerves, and the sorrow that beset him, Dark 
laughed aloud. He had done the impossible! He had escaped from Arcan’s 
fortress, right under the noses of the guards! Then, to his dismay, he realized 
that he had only accomplished the first step on a long, hard road. The 
laughter died on his lips as he considered his prospects of success. He had to 
keep Scall under control, dodge the patrols, and survive this beast of a storm. 
Then, if he accomplished all that, he had to find his way to the Curtain Walls 
and the valley Grim had described to him, and manage somehow to pass 
through the energy barrier. After that, it would simply be a case of finding 
his way through an unknown landscape to a place he’d never seen—and 
once he got there, persuading a bunch of strangers to take him in. 
Grim had every confidence in me—I only hope he was right. 

CHAPTER 11 
Esmeralda and the Magic Sheep 
For most of the day, Tormon had been keeping to himself. Not because of 
his argument with Seriema—though that I had not put him in the best of 
moods—but because, now that the searching and fighting and running had 
all come to an end, he was being forced to confront the death of his lifemate 
Kanella and the unbearable notion of spending the rest of his life without 
her. If he survived the current peril— and survive it he must, for Annas’s 
sake, the long years would stretch out ahead of him, bleak and lonely. How 
would he ever get through them? How could he manage to bring up a small 
daughter on his own? The frantic preparations of the rest of the fortress 
meant nothing to him. Disconsolate and sick at heart, he had kept to his 
chamber and mourned. 
The sound of approaching footsteps in the passage outside, and the birdlike 
sound of his daughter’s prattle, roused him at last from his dismal reverie. 
Wiping a hand across his wet eyes, he rose from the fireside just as Annas 
and Rochalla entered, hand in hand. “Dad!” Letting go of Rochalla’s hand, 
she flung herself on him. “Where have you been all day? I missed you! 
Rochalla and me have been busy. 
We went for a walk, right up on the roof, but it was too cold up there, so we 
came down and helped the other children stack up the blocks of earth for the 
fires. Isn’t it a funny idea, putting earth on the fire instead of coal or wood? 
And we went to visit Rutska and Avrio, and I saved my breakfast apple for 
Esmeralda, and patted a sheep, and ...“ 
“Whoa!” Tormon hugged his little girl. “Slow down.” Over the top of her 
head, he looked at Rochalla with gratitude. While he had been feeling sorry 
for himself, she had been doing his job for him, entertaining Annas and 
making sure that the child had no time to feel as miserable as he himself had 
been. 
Rochalla perched herself on a low wooden stool, close to the fire. “If Arcan 
doesn’t need you for anything tomorrow, you should come with us,” she 
said. Her voice and manner betrayed her concern and Tormon clearly heard 
the additional words that she didn’t speak aloud: “It’s not good for you to 
brood alone for too long.” He blessed her for not saying them. 
“Oh, yes, Dad, please do!” Annas took up the idea with alacrity. “We’ve 
been listening to the storyteller tonight, and he’s really good, you would 
have liked him, but we can hear him tomorrow, and play with Scall, and I’ll 
show you my sheep—it has a black face—and ...” 
“You know,” laughed Rochalla, “I sometimes think you must breathe 

through your ears.” 
With a giggle, Annas clapped both hands over her ears. “No I don’t. That’s 
silly!” 
“Well, when you talk so much, I don’t know when you have time to take a 
breath.” Rochalla smiled at the little girl. 
“Maybe she has gills like a fish,” proposed Tormon. 
“I do not!” his daughter protested. 
“Well, however you breathe, it’s time you were getting into bed,” Tormon 
said. 
Since there were a large number of children running round the settlement 
and stronghold, it had been easy to obtain some hand-me-down clothing and 
nightdresses for Annas. As soon as she was in bed, she asked the inevitable 
question. “Dad, will you tell me a story?” 
“All right. Which story would you like?” 
“Tell me some more about Esmeralda and the magic sheep.” 
“What?” 
“Rochalla told me a story about them today,” Annas said happily. “The 
sheep I patted was a magic sheep, and it went off with Esmeralda to find 
some treasure, and bring it back for you and me.” 
Tormon looked helplessly at Rochalla. 
“I’ll tell you what,” the blond girl said quickly, “you pick another story for 
tonight, and I’ll tell you more about Esmeralda and her friend tomorrow.” 
“You promise?” 
“I promise.” 
“Oh, all right then. Can I have the one about the Cat and the Moon instead, 
Dad?” 
Again, Tormon felt the knife twist of grief in his heart. Kanella had made up 
the story of the Cat and the Moon for Annas sometime ago, and it had been 
her favorite ever since. He had a sudden picture in his mind, bright and vivid 
as a jewel, of the cosy interior of the brightly painted wagon which, until a 
few days ago, had been a happy family home. Annas was in the recessed 
bunk, her big eyes peeping over the edge of the blue-and-white woollen 
blanket, while Kanella sat beside her on a pile of sheepskins, her face rapt 
and smiling in the lamplight as she spun her tale. 
Rochalla leaned down to kiss Annas good night, and the vision shattered like 
crystal, leaving only the gaping void of a loss so deep that for a moment it 
robbed him of breath. As she passed Tormon to go out, she put a 
sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “If you get on with your story,” she said, 
“I’ll go down and get some food for you. I’ll wager you haven’t eaten all 
day.” Then she was gone, calling out a last good night to Annas as she 
closed the door. 

The little girl smiled sleepily. “I like Rochalla,” she said. “But Dad ... When 
is Mama coming back?” 
Tormon froze. He kept forgetting how different the world looked from the 
viewpoint of a five-year-old. It was impossible for someone who had lived 
such a short time truly to comprehend that death was both immutable and 
irrevocable. And what could he tell her? How could he explain? He took 
hold of her hand. “Annas,” he said softly, “you’ve got to accept that you 
won’t be seeing your mama for a long, long time—not until you’re an old, 
old lady, and you can follow where she’s gone.” 
I can’t tell her she’ll never see her mother again, but maybe this way will 
soften the blow just a little. And after all, I hope with all my heart it’s true. If 
we do continue after we die, then one day we will see Kanella once more. 
The child’s lip trembled. “But I miss her. I don’t want to wait a long, long 
time.” 
With tears in his eyes, Tormon enfolded her in a hug. “Nor do I, love. Nor 
do I. But we don’t have any choice.” 
All the way through her favorite story, Annas was very subdued, and the 
trader was relieved when she fell asleep before the tale was done. Bless 
Rochalla for keeping her so busy all day! Even as he thought of the slender, 
fair-haired girl, the door flew open, and she came rushing through, grabbing 
frantically at his arm. “Tormon,” she cried. “You’ve got to come!” 
“Sssh.” Gesturing at the sleeping Annas, he pulled her out of the room and 
closed the door behind him. “Now, lass— what’s wrong?” 
Rochalla had obviously run all the way upstairs, and she could only breathe 
in gasps. “Somebody killed Arcan’s Summoner... They found his body in the 
beast quarters ... And Scall is missing—his horse is gone ...” 
Horror gripped Tormon like a choking hand around his throat. “Look after 
Annas,” he ordered. “Don’t leave her.” With that he was gone, charging 
headlong down the stairs. What in the name of perdition had become of 
Scall? In the last few days, he had grown as dear to Tormon as his own son. 
He had to find him quickly. Whatever had happened to the boy, it was 
certain to be bad, bad trouble. 
Cetain had told Seriema that she looked as though she belonged out on the 
moors in the wind and storm, but it didn’t take her long to decide that the 
man must be an idiot. No one belonged out here, in such filthy weather! At 
nightfall, the sleet turned to hail, and the warm glow of belonging with 
which Cetain’s daft words had originally filled her was no protection 
whatsoever against falling chunks of ice. And it had been so sudden, the 
cold, wet flakes turning into hard icy pellets that came hissing through the 
air, smashing against her skin with stinging force. Quickly she pulled up her 
sodden hood again, feeling it cold and clammy on her wet hair, and tucked 

her head down to protect her face. 
The wind was wailing on a new pitch now; it sounded just like the ghastly 
cries of the winged fiends as they hunted. Seriema felt a chill run through 
her that had nothing to do with the weather. It couldn’t be, could it? Surely 
they wouldn’t have spread out here from Tiarond quite so fast. Would they? 
But what was to stop them? They could move very fast when they wanted to, 
and there was precious little prey to delay them between the city and the 
moors. 
With an effort, Seriema took herself firmly in hand. 
Will you stop this childishness? It’s just the wind, and your own imagination. 
Right now you have enough problems without inventing nonexistent terrors 
in the night. 
As the clouds came down even lower, the darkness deepened further, until 
soon the night was black as the inside of a glove. Until now, Seriema had 
been able to discern her pale, cold hands as they gripped the reins and, to her 
right, the moving, shadowy shape that was Cetain’s horse. As long as she 
could see that, there had been no chance that she would get lost, but now, to 
her utter horror, she realized that she was riding blind. Panic gripped her. 
Frantically, she shouted for Cetain, yelling at the top of her voice to be heard 
above the storm. In less than a moment, he was at her side. “Seriema! Are 
you all right?” 
“I can’t see!” She couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice. 
“Ach,” the reiver said ruefully, “I was forgetting you’d got town-bred eyes. 
We’ve been running around on these moors in the dark all our lives, and 
we’ve learned to find our way around, even on the blackest night.” 
Unhooking a coil of rope from the pommel of his saddle, he measured off 
about a yard and fastened the end to her bridle. Even Seriema could see the 
pale glimmer of his smile in the dark. “There. That should stop you running 
away from me.” 
For an instant, Seriema’s pride reared up. The humiliation, to be led about on 
a tether like a child! 
Don’t be stupid. Would you rather be lost in this shelterless place on a night 
like this? 
When she looked at things that way, the piece of rope suddenly became the 
most comforting thing in the whole world. 
Once she didn’t even have to worry about where she was going, Seriema let 
herself sink into a miserable daze as she rode along, feeling grateful for the 
deep hood that hid her expression from Cetain and saved her from having to 
put on a valiant face. The shrieking wind seemed to be growing louder, rilled 
with a discordant keening that set her teeth on edge. The hail seemed to be 
hitting her shoulders with increasing force; hard enough, she realized, to 
leave small bruises. She gritted her teeth, and endured. 
After all I’ve been through these last few days, I can surely put up with a bit 
of weather. 

After a time, she felt a tapping on her shoulder, gentle at first, then harder. 
She lifted the dripping brim of her hood to hear better, and looked in what 
she assumed was the direction of Cetain. “If these hailstones get much 
bigger, someone will be hurt,” he shouted. “We must take shelter.” 
“Where?” Seriema yelled. 
“If we haven’t lost ourselves in the storm, there’s an old, half-ruined tower 
not far from here. We can shelter in the cellars underneath.” She felt him tug 
on the rope that bound them together, then they were off again. 
A whole cellar! A wonderful, cosy cellar with walls, and a roof. I hope it’s 
not too far away. 
In the meantime, she pulled her hood back over her face and retreated into 
her own little world. 
Warm sunshine, hot baths, tea and toast beside a blazing fire... Seriema was 
deep in a daydream of these happy things when the dreadful scream of a 
dying man tore through the darkness. Terror went through her like a spear of 
ice. She knew at once that this was no reiver ambush, and that her earlier 
fears had not been due to an overactive imagination. It was them. Dear 
Myrial, it was them. 
She heard Cetain curse, and turn back as if to fight. “No!” she yelled. Taking 
a twist of the lead rope around her hand, she pulled back with all her 
strength. 
Cetain was fighting her, pulling so hard on the rope that it crushed her hand. 
“Let go!” 
“Run, you fool!” Seriema shrieked. “Tell your men to run. You can’t fight 
these fiends. Get to the tower—it’s our only chance.” 
For a split second Cetain hesitated, and another shriek ripped through the 
night as a warrior was struck down. The reivers were milling about in 
confusion, unused to a deadly attack from the air and unable to see their 
enemy clearly in the dark and storm. “Come on,” Seriema roared. “To the 
tower!” 
She made as if to ride off, but Cetain hauled her back. “It’s this way,” he 
yelled, and pulled her after him in a different direction. “Follow me, reivers! 
Retreat!” 
It was a desperate race against foes who were stronger, faster, and more 
deadly. Once Seriema was almost knocked from her horse by a blow from a 
great, black, leathery wing. Twice there were further shrieks as the predators 
plucked a warrior from his saddle, but each time someone was lost, Seriema 
knew that a number of the creatures would break off the attack to feed. 
Thank Myrial it wasn’t me. 
It was impossible to keep the shameful thought from her mind. 
The fleeing humans were aided by the storm, which tended to confuse the 
aim of the airborne creatures and buffet them off course. Also, the horses 

were so terrified of the strange and fearsome threat that they discovered an 
incredible new turn of speed. Seriema’s heart was in her mouth as they 
hurtled across the rough moorland, terrified that her mount would catch its 
foot in a hummock or rabbit hole and fall, taking them both to their deaths; 
but the little horses were surefooted and familiar with this terrain, and so far, 
every one of them was managing to keep on its feet. All the time, a litany of 
terror was pounding through Seriema’s head. 
Not again, not again—oh, sweet Myrial, not again ... 
It had been so hard to escape the terrors of Tiarond, and the journey to the 
reiver stronghold had been arduous, but once she had arrived there she had 
felt safe for the first time since the night of the Great Sacrifice. It was too 
cruel that her respite had been so brief. And now that those hideous creatures 
were loose in the world, nowhere in Callisiora would be safe again. 
Without warning, Seriema’s horse plunged to such an abrupt halt that she 
almost went straight over its head. Above the screaming of the wind, she 
heard Cetain’s shout. “Here it is! Duck, Seriema!” Then they were moving 
again, the horses jostling and barging into a narrow opening in their haste to 
get away from the horrifying creatures that pursued them. Seriema, bent 
double with her face pressed into the soaking mane of her mount, banged her 
knee hard on something that could only have been the edge of a doorway, 
and then there was a loud clatter of hooves on stone, echoing hollowly in a 
confined space. Other warriors, crowding from behind, were pushing her 
forward. Groping for the trailing rope, she realized that she had lost Cetain 
in the crush. The only sensible thing to do was to keep low to avoid banging 
her head on the ceiling, and stay on her horse, to avoid being trampled 
underfoot. 
Someone lit a torch, revealing a confused melee of horses with laid-back 
ears, tossing manes, and rolling, white-rimmed eyes. Some of the riders were 
sporting tattered cloaks, and several of them had torn backs and shoulders, 
with blood glinting in the smoky light. Behind Seriema, a long ramp led up 
to a heavy wooden door in a deep, arched doorway, and she could see Cetain 
and a handful of others, off their horses and trying to bar and wedge the only 
defense between the reivers and the fiends outside. 
A hand touched her arm, making her jump violently. “Through here, lass. 
Let’s give ourselves a bit of space.” A grizzled, scar-faced reiver was 
gesturing toward another arch behind him, and Seriema realized that this 
must only be a sort of anteroom to the cellar proper. One by one, the shaken 
warriors were dismounting and leading their horses through, and she was 
just about to do the same when she heard Cetain calling her name from the 
top of the ramp. 
“Seriema—will you come up here?” 
She could hear the fiends quite clearly, scratching and battering on the other 
side of the door, and there was no way she wanted to get any closer; but now 
that she had started with this business of appearing brave and tough, there 
was no going back. Handing her reins to the veteran, she slid to the ground 

and set off up the ramp. Cetain, when she reached him, was pale and wildeyed, 
but when he spoke his voice was calm. “It’s them, isn’t it?” 
Seriema nodded. “I’m sorry. I never thought they’d get here so soon.” 
Cetain took hold of her cold hands. “Don’t fret, Seriema. If it hadn’t been for 
you and your friends, we would have had no chance to prepare. Now, at 
least, we have food and fuel stored, the beasts under cover, and Arcan’s folk 
all safe up in the fortress. Is there anything you can tell me about these fell 
creatures, that might help us tonight?” 
“You’re welcome to what little I know, but the reason we got out of Tiarond 
in one piece is that we didn’t wait around to find out more about them. 
They’re fast, ferocious, and deadly, and once they have their sights fixed on 
their prey, they don’t give up easily. They’re very strong and tough— one 
burst right in through a windowpane in my house, without sustaining much 
damage. They have sharp and powerful claws, so we’d better hope that’s a 
damn sturdy door.” 
“Don’t worry, lass, it’s good, thick, solid timber. These towers were all built 
for defense. A door that an enemy could get through with a couple of axe 
blows wouldn’t be much use out here.” 
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Seriema said. “Because they don’t show any signs 
of going anywhere, and daybreak is a long way off. Tormon thinks they 
must hunt by night, but we don’t know for sure. Hopefully, we should be 
able to ride out of here in the morning, but...” 
“Someone will have to go out there first and test whether it’s safe,” Cetain 
finished for her. He swore bitterly, while behind him, the creatures screeched 
and battered the door in a renewed onslaught. “Well, so much for warning 
the other clans. There’s going to be a bloodbath—and while there are a lot of 
folk whose loss I won’t regret, this disaster will weaken the reivers to the 
point where the Hierarch and the accursed merchants will just be able to pick 
us off one by one.” 
“If there is a Hierarch,” Seriema said. “You’re forgetting what happened to 
Tiarond. And as far as I know, I’m the last of the accursed merchants, and 
I’m hardly in a position to pick anybody off.” 
Cetain rubbed a weary hand across his face. “You know, until tonight, I 
don’t think I ever understood the true horror of this invasion—nor the scale. 
How can such creatures be defeated?” 
“I don’t know.” After the long ride in the biting cold, Seriema found that her 
legs were shaking with fatigue. 
Something in her sagging posture must have conveyed her exhaustion to 
Cetain. “Come on,” he said. “You’ve done wonders for your first day’s 
riding as a reiver, but you’ve had enough. Give me a moment to organize 
some guards for this door, then we’ll rest and get something to eat.” 
The inner chamber, a large, echoing room with a crudely carved vaulted 
ceiling, appeared to have been hollowed out from the rocky bones of the 
moor. One wall boasted a generous fireplace, in which someone had already 

kindled a fire. “What on earth is a fireplace doing down here?” Seriema 
asked in surprise. 
“This tower was built for defense, remember?” Cetain replied. “We are far 
from the first folk who’ve sheltered down here with the enemy hammering at 
our door.” 
The horses had been taken back out and tethered in the anteroom, with some 
hay and a small ration of grain. “We keep a few supplies here in 
winter—firewood, fodder, that sort of thing,” Cetain explained. “There are 
several of these towers scattered about on the moors that don’t belong to any 
one clan, but are available to shelter anyone who needs them. When the 
snows come, they always save lives. That’s why all the clans respect their 
neutrality. Any one chieftain foolish enough to try to claim one would have 
all the other clans down on top of him faster than he could blink. Of course,” 
he added wryly, “if it comes down to a raid or a fight, whoever can claim a 
tower first will often have a great advantage.” 
“I can’t tell you how glad I am that we’ve claimed this one,” Seriema said. 
The warriors were settling in for the night, and the crisis had not found them 
unprepared. Whenever the reivers rode out, each horse carried a blanket 
wrapped in a thin, oiled hide to keep it dry, a water bag, and a small pack of 
rations. Clearly, they had done this many times before, for everyone was 
getting on, quietly and efficiently, with some allotted task. Along one of the 
sidewalls, some of them were spreading blankets. Others were close to the 
fire, laying out food, and a third group was in a corner, where the wounded 
were being tended. The scene was cosy in the firelight—almost domestic, 
had it not been for the fiends that were ravening outside. 
Cetain found the chilled, wet Seriema a place beside the fire, and the men 
moved aside to make room for her. As she stretched out her hands toward 
the flames, steam began to rise gently from her clothing. Though it was 
impossible to disrobe in front of all these men and, in any case, she had 
nothing to change into, she began to hope that eventually she would dry out. 
One of the warriors handed her some food, and she took it gratefully. 
Oatcake and cheese had never tasted so good, even if what she really wanted 
most in the world at that moment was a nice, hot, cup of tea. 
Food and heat were making her drowsy, and soon she found herself 
beginning to nod. She turned to Cetain, who was talking quietly with his 
men. “Where will I be sleeping?” There was a coarse laugh from one or two 
warriors, and for an instant, she felt a flicker of fear. The memory of her 
attacker flashed through her mind: the pain, the helplessness, the humiliation 
and terror, and for a moment she was assailed by doubt. 
Was Tormon right? Was it a dreadful mistake to come out here with these 
wild barbarians? 
Then Cetain looked around his men with a steely glare, and in the sudden 
silence that followed she discovered her courage once more. 
Remember who you are, Seriema. If you let yourself be cowed by this bunch 

of lecherous, foul-minded louts, you’ll have lost any hope of gaining their 
respect. 
Taking her cue from the chieftain’s son, she lifted her chin and favored the 
culprits with her most imperious look—the one that could intimidate even 
the Hierarch Zavahl. Thus it was the turn of the men to drop their eyes and 
look away. She did not sustain it for any length of time—just long enough to 
make her point. She had enough sense to realize that she was only getting 
away with it because she had Cetain’s protection. 
He showed her to a quiet corner, not too far away from the fire, and handed 
her two blankets. “Here you are, lass. You take mine, too. I’ll be keeping 
watch up by the door, with my men.” He smiled at her. “You won’t have any 
more nonsense from the lads, I’ll see to that. Don’t worry—when I asked 
you to come out here I promised I’d take care of you, and I will.” 
Seriema sighed. She was too old for fairy stories at bedtime. “Look, Cetain, I 
appreciate your intervention with the warriors, but when it comes to those 
winged fiends, let’s not fool ourselves. If they manage to get in here, you 
won’t be able to save me, yourself, or any of your men.” 
The warrior frowned. “That may well be true. After all, you know these 
creatures far better than I do. But though it’s best to be realistic, so we don’t 
get any nasty surprises, hope is just as important if any of us are to get 
through these dreadful times.” 
Seriema thought about that for a moment. After all, without hope she would 
never have escaped Tiarond. Without hope, they all might just as well roll 
over and die right now. She took a deep breath and straightened her spine. 
“Cetain,” she said, “you’re absolutely right.” 
CHAPTER 12 
Fugitives 
Packrat wasn’t averse to stealing, or sneaking around in the dark, and 
normally, he didn’t have a problem with going where he was not allowed to 
go. This latest escapade, however, was getting out of hand. 
That Aliana! All those times she’s been down on me for being where I 
shouldn’t be, and taking things I shouldn’t take— and now she goes and 
does a damn fool thing like this! 
But she had welcomed him into the Grey Ghosts, and in all his time with 
them, she had never once let him down. Even though she seemed determined 
to give him the slip, he wasn’t about to abandon her—no matter how much 

trouble she was in. 
He had seen her come back into the Basilica, for the simple reason that 
Hierarch or no Hierarch, he’d had no intention of spending his days cleaning 
the privies and had quietly faded out of there the first opportunity he got. 
He’d been lurking in the Temple itself, staying inconspicuous among the 
other crowds of refugees, when Aliana had gone into Kaita’s sickroom with 
Galveron and the woman they had brought in. Packrat had stayed where he 
was rather than intrude where he wasn’t welcome. The last time he had tried 
to go in there, one of the Healer’s helpers had chased him out with a broom, 
calling him unhygienic—whatever that meant. Though he had not been 
especially aware that he was keeping one eye on the door, he had noticed 
when Aliana came out, and had immediately realized that something wasn’t 
right. Instead of coming over to look for her companions, she had slunk 
along the far wall of the Temple and disappeared through the doorway that 
led down to the basement areas. Had it not been for her sneaky behavior, he 
would simply have thought she was going to scrounge something to eat; but 
there was more to it than that, he was certain. Afire with curiosity, and not a 
little concerned, he had followed her downstairs. 
When he saw Aliana talking to Telimon, he’d thought he had been wrong 
about her suspicious behavior—until he saw her steal the extra food. He was 
dismayed and angry to see her pocketing the Temple rations, not because he 
had any moral objections to a bit of pilfering here and there, but because of 
the insane risks she was courting. How dared she put herself in danger like 
that, not to mention her unsuspecting friends! For the first time, he 
understood how she felt when he did this sort of thing—and it wasn’t a very 
comfortable sensation. 
Well, the damage had been done. The food had been stolen, and there was 
nothing he could do about it. But Packrat knew that Aliana wouldn’t do such 
a stupid thing without a damn good reason, and when you added this latest 
exploit to her earlier behavior, it became more and more clear that she was 
up to no good. 
The leader of the Ghosts had been chatting to Telimon, the picture of 
innocence, while her pockets bulged with stolen food. Now she was taking 
her leave, so Packrat, almost absentmindedly, swiped some cold sausage, 
some cheese, and a couple of griddle cakes. Wherever Aliana was going, he 
planned to tag along, and if she needed supplies, then so would he. He faded 
out of the room as unobtrusively as he had faded in and looked around to see 
where she had gone. 
When Aliana went back upstairs, Packrat was astonished. What was she 
playing at? There was nowhere to hide up there! Surely the caverns down 
here offered a better choice of places? When he came back out into the 
Temple itself he thought, for a moment, that he had lost her in the huge, 
crowded chamber, with all its activity and noise. Then suddenly he spotted 
her again, slinking along the side of the mysterious—and valuable—silver 
filigree screen. The one that the Hierarch didn’t want anyone going near 
There was a guard at the entrance, but he didn’t seem to be taking the job too 

seriously. He looked sleepy, inattentive, and bored out of his mind, and 
Packrat was pretty sure it would be possible to sneak up on Aliana without 
attracting any unwanted attention. Perhaps he could catch her up and stop 
her before this craziness went any further? For a moment he was torn 
between the urge to protect her from her own idiocy, curiosity about what 
she was up to, and fear that he might get them both caught—with stolen food 
in their pockets—if he interfered. 
While he was wrestling with his indecision, two small children broke out of 
a nearby refugee encampment and came chasing toward the heavy-eyed 
guard. The one in the lead tripped over the broken corner of a flagstone and 
tumbled down, wailing loudly. The guard ran forward to pick it up, at the 
same time as the child’s young and pretty mother came darting across to 
rescue her offspring. Packrat, suddenly realizing that he had taken his eyes 
off Aliana, looked back quickly—but she had vanished. Clearly, while 
everyone had been distracted, she had slipped behind the screen. 
Well, two could play at that game. The sentry was still helping the mother 
comfort the sobbing little boy—while getting in a bit of flirting at the same 
time. Packrat waited for a few moments, until he was certain that the guard’s 
attention was completely distracted, then, moving quickly across to the 
intricate screen, he ducked behind it. There was nothing in front of him but a 
narrow doorway, with nothing to be seen beyond but utter blackness. Well, 
that was all right. He had been in plenty of unlit places in his time, and he’d 
never had any problems. Quickly, before the guard came back, he plunged 
into the darkness. 
A hissing noise and a loud click from behind him made him spin round with 
an oath unspoken on his lips. The light from the doorway had vanished 
abruptly, as if to cut him off from the world he had known. He took a couple 
of hesitant steps forward, and his fingers encountered what felt like a 
smooth, featureless wall. The doorway had vanished completely, and though 
Grey Ghosts weren’t scared of the dark—they wouldn’t have survived very 
long in their business if they were—he was unnerved by the feeling of being 
shut in and annoyed that he had been trapped when he was in a hurry to find 
Aliana. 
Well, bugger this for a game of soldiers! 
Packrat didn’t know about the constraints under which the Hierarch must 
enter this sinister portal, and had he known, he wouldn’t have cared. He 
groped in his pocket and found tinder, striker, flint, and candle—standard 
equipment in his line of work—and made a light. To his surprise, the flaring 
flame reflected softly in walls made from a smooth, dark metal with a bluish 
tint. He was just about to examine it more closely when all at once, his 
stomach gave a lurch, and he felt as though he were falling, though the floor 
remained beneath his feet. He overbalanced and dropped the candle, which 
immediately went out. Blackness, dyed with little afterimages of the candle 
flame in purple and green, surrounded him once more. Sticking out a 
cautious hand, he encountered the wall and felt the heat of friction like a 
rope burn on his skin, as the surface whipped upward. He stayed where he 

was, flat on the floor, his heart racing, until a slight jolt told him that he had 
stopped moving. 
“Myrial’s teeth and bloody toenails!” Having tested the wall with a cautious 
hand to make sure that it was still now, Packrat began to crawl about on 
hands and knees, searching for the candle, which must have rolled away 
when he’d dropped it. That was the point at which he decided that this entire 
escapade was getting out of hand; and when he found that wretched Aliana, 
he would have words with her, and no mistake. He tried calling her name, 
but only dared do it softly because he had no idea what else might be down 
here. There was no answer, which was about what he’d expected. 
There was another click, and a hiss of moving air. Packrat still couldn’t see, 
but he was willing to bet that the door had opened again, but he had become 
totally disoriented in the darkness, and since there was not even a glimmer of 
light beyond it to guide him, he had no idea where the exit lay. 
They certainly don’t want people to see what it looks like down here. I 
wonder what they’ve got to hide? 
A moment later, his searching fingers found the smooth, waxen surface of 
the candle, and he sighed with relief. He’d had about enough of the dark by 
now. His other senses were stretched to the breaking point to compensate for 
his lack of vision, and frankly, so were his nerves. Things were decidedly 
weird down here, and if there were any threats around, he preferred to see 
them first. He lit the candle again with a slightly shaky hand and got to his 
feet, spilling hot wax over his fingers. 
He got out of the little, moving room very quickly, just in case it decided to 
do it again, but it was just as well for him that he didn’t keep on going. An 
instant later, he found that he had run out of floor and was teetering on the 
edge of a yawning black pit. With a lurid oath, Packrat sprang backward. 
“What sort of bloody stupid place is this?” A hissing sound, followed by a 
rumble from behind him made him spin around, and gaped as he saw the 
doors of the little moving chamber spring shut. He was willing to bet that the 
whole contraption had risen up the shaft once more, ready to trap its next 
victim. 
Well, there’s no going back now. 
Resolutely, Packrat turned around and lifted his candle high, to see what was 
in store for him next. He was standing on a small, square platform, about 
three steps across in any direction, that extended out over the abyss. It 
seemed to be made from the same, smooth, dully gleaming blue-black metal 
of the moving room itself. A narrow metal bridge—a criminally ridiculous 
design about two feet wide, without a railing or handholds of any 
kind—sprang out across the chasm to another small platform, which seemed, 
most unnervingly, to be hanging in space without any visible means of 
support. Above it, again seemingly suspended in the air, was a massive 
shape like a circle or hoop, balanced on its edge. 
There was no sign of Aliana. Packrat was reluctant to call out to her again. 
After all, who knew what might be lurking down here? Instead, he made a 

careful inspection of the platform on which he stood but, as he had 
suspected, there was no way off it except back the way he had come, via the 
moving room, or across the chasm on the flimsy-looking bridge. 
Typical! 
The light from the candle didn’t reach very far down into the dark well of the 
pit, and there was certainly no sign of the bottom. With a shrug, Packrat 
walked quickly and competently across the bridge. Second-story work had 
never been his favorite form of theft, but he had done enough of it, 
especially in these hard times, to have developed excellent balance—at least 
when the floor stayed put. Once he’d reached the other side, he made a quick 
examination of the slender plinth that stood there, but as far as he could see 
it served no purpose. 
So where in blazes is that blasted Aliana? 
Once again, Packrat began to make a minute examination of the structure on 
which he stood. The rounded plinth rose seamlessly from the floor, as 
though it had somehow been crafted in a single piece. Beyond that, there 
was simply the edge of the platform. Above, and some unguessable distance 
farther on, the great circle hung in midair. Below, there was more black 
nothingness. 
Damn it, there must be a way off this thing! She can’t have flown away! 
He kicked the plinth, stubbed his toe, and swore inventively, and at some 
length. Then, gritting his teeth, he got down on his hands and knees and 
began to feel along the periphery of the square, inch by inch. The only way 
off this thing was down. There must be some kind of steps or ladder hidden 
somewhere. Sure enough, he found it on the third side; a slender rope ladder 
fastened out of sight beneath the platform’s edge. Aliana must have worked 
things out a great deal quicker than he had done. He’d waited until he’d been 
certain that the guard up in the Temple had been fully preoccupied before 
making his move, and that had delayed him a little, but he hadn’t been all 
that far behind his fellow thief. 
Packrat stuck his candle on the brink of the platform in a little puddle of its 
own wax, and lowered one leg over the side, feeling around with his foot for 
the ladder. Getting onto it was one of the less pleasant experiences of his 
life. The smooth metal floor meant there was nowhere to grip, and he had to 
scrabble on the edge, with his body hanging out over the unguessable drop, 
while he got his feet into position then—even worse—had to let go with one 
hand, then the other, while he made a grab for the nearest rung. By the time 
he was clinging to the ladder, swinging out over empty space, he was 
sweating and shaking, and his bowels felt as if they were in knots. 
When I get my hands on that girl, I’m going to throttle her! 
Did Gilarra have to come all the way down here? he wondered, not 
understanding that the Hierarch never needed to venture any farther than the 
platform. Frankly, he couldn’t see her managing it! 
Getting off the platform and onto the ladder had been the worst part of the 

operation, however. Once he had managed that tricky maneuver, the descent 
itself should present no real problems. Holding on with one hand, Packrat 
reached up with the other for his candle, blew it out, and stuffed it back in 
his pocket. Then, taking a deep breath, he started to make his way down. 
It was a long descent, made in pitch-darkness, on a flimsy, swinging ladder, 
with nothing to distract him from worrying about Aliana’s fate, and his own. 
After some time, aware of weariness and the aches in the muscles of his 
shoulders, back, and limbs, he stopped to rest, using one of the rungs as a 
seat and hooking his arms over another to keep himself balanced. He had 
better pace himself, he decided. He didn’t want to succumb to exhaustion or 
cramps and fall off—not when he had no idea how far it was to the bottom. 
When he had recovered a little, he continued; but he had to rest twice more 
before the ladder finally came to an end. He could hardly believe it when his 
feet finally touched a solid, level surface. It had seemed that he’d been 
condemned to climb down for all eternity. 
With a sigh of relief, Packrat let go of the ladder, feeling oddly shaky about 
the knees, and started to rummage in his capacious pocket, looking for the 
candle and his flint. Suddenly something hit him hard, knocking all the 
breath out of him and hurling him to the ground. Before he could recover 
himself, he felt his arms pinioned, and a cold edge of steel biting into his 
throat, then suddenly, a voice came out of the darkness. “Packrat? Is that 
you?” 
Relief flooded through him. “Let go of me, you stupid cow,” he snapped 
back. “Haven’t you caused enough bloody trouble for one day?” 
The pressure on his arms relaxed, the knife vanished, and he heard the rapid 
succession of scrapes and clicks as she tried to strike a spark. After a 
moment or two, a candle flared into life, and in the orb of pale light cast by 
its flame, he saw Aliana’s face, frowning, smudged, and pale. “What the 
blazes do you think you’re doing?” she demanded crossly. 
For a moment they glared at one another in the flickering light. Packrat was 
the first to speak. “Why did you run away?” 
“Why did you follow me?” Aliana countered. 
“I saw you sneaking around, up there in the Temple.” 
Packrat couldn’t keep an accusing edge out of his voice. “I watched you 
steal that food from Telimon. I want to know what the bloody blazes you 
think you’re doing, mucking around like that.” With each word he spoke, he 
was becoming more angry. “You know what your friend Galveron said. If 
one of us is caught pinching stuff, we’ll all be thrown out of the Temple.” 
By that time, Packrat was actually shaking her shoulders. “Are you trying to 
get us all killed, you gormless bitch?” 
Aliana knocked his hands away and started to laugh, though there was more 
hysteria than humor in her mirth. “Stole food? You think that’s bad? Packrat, 
you have no idea how serious this is. I’ve gone and done the most dreadful 
thing. I’ve stolen far more than a few meager provisions. I took the 

Hierarch’s ring, too.” 
“You did WHAT?” 
She winced. “Don’t shout at me, Packrat.” 
“Don’t shout at you? Have you lost your mind?” 
“Well, what did you expect?” Aliana flared. “That cow arrested Alestan and 
split up all the Ghosts. Galveron hadn’t been out of the place two minutes, 
and she was breaking his promises into a million pieces. I’ve had enough of 
her, Packrat. She’s no more fit to be in charge than—than you are!” 
“Thanks,” said Packrat dryly, but his friend was in full flow. “I’m going to 
make her sorry. Without the ring she can’t be Hierarch, and I’m going to 
hide it somewhere down here, where no one will ever find it.” 
“And then what?” Packrat asked her. 
“I’m going to make her release Alestan, and then ...” Her face fell. “I, er, 
haven’t exactly worked the next bit out, yet. But I will,” she added defiantly. 
Packrat sighed. One way or another, Aliana usually managed to get away 
with these impulsive acts, but this time, she might have pushed her luck too 
far. She had been tired and angry, and she hadn’t been thinking clearly. 
What if the Hierarch threatened to kill Alestan if the ring was not returned? 
It seemed the obvious action to take. With a shudder Packrat realized just 
how much trouble they could be in. For the time being, protectiveness took 
over from his outrage, though anger at her thoughtless act still lurked in the 
background. “Come on.” He took her arm. “We can’t stay here. It won’t take 
Galveron long to work out where we’ve gone.” 
Aliana took a deep breath and nodded. “I had a bit of time to look around 
before I heard you coming down. We’re on another platform, a bit like the 
one up there—” 
“Oh, bollocks! Not more ladders!” 
“No. It’s all right. There’s another bridge—a much more sensible design 
than the first one. I didn’t have time to find out where it went.” 
“Then let’s find out now. Which way?” 
“Over here.” 
“Good. We’ll go on until we find some safe place to hide out—then 
somehow we have to find a way out of this mess.” 
In the stronghold of the reivers, it was the clan chieftain who was demanding 
explanations. As Tormon ran down the staircase into the beast quarters, he 
could see, from his high vantage point, a collection of men and women 
clustered around the lifeless form of the old Summoner. Arcan was kneeling 
over the body, his face livid with rage. He got to his feet as the trader 
shouldered his way to the front of the group. “Ah, Tormon. Your arrival is 

timely; I was about to send for you. As you can see, a great evil has been 
committed here. Our Summoner, Grim, has been murdered. It would appear 
that his assistant is missing, and so is the boy you brought with you from 
Tiarond. Can you shed any light on this mystery?” 
Until that moment, Tormon had been praying Rochalla had made a mistake: 
that Scall wasn’t really missing, but had merely, in the manner of 
adolescents everywhere, gone off for his own reasons to be alone in some 
quiet place. “I’m very sorry for your loss, my Chief,” he said. “Summoner 
Grim will be sorely missed. But are you absolutely sure that Scall is gone? 
He’s not the sort of lad to be involved in such a dreadful business, I’d swear 
it.” 
Axcan frowned, and the onlookers suddenly discovered pressing business 
elsewhere. In that moment, Tormon was all too aware of the fragility of his 
own welcome. “I have parties searching the entire fortress,” the chieftain 
said brusquely. “They have already looked in the obvious places, and there 
has been no sign of either of the missing young men.” He sighed. “For what 
it’s worth, I am already certain that we won’t find them. I don’t know how 
deeply your boy is involved in this dreadful business, trader Tormon. It may 
be that he was witness to a quarrel between the two Summoners, and saw 
Dark kill Grim. Maybe Dark took him away as some sort of hostage—but 
that begs the question of why, having murdered his master, the rogue 
Summoner didn’t just kill your lad too. And Dark and Grim have been 
together for a long time, now. As far as I could ever tell with such strange 
beings, they seemed almost as close as father and son.” 
“Sons have killed fathers before now,” Tormon pointed out. 
Arcan nodded brusquely. “True enough. But something about this whole 
business doesn’t sit right with me. Maybe it was Scall who killed Grim, and 
Dark went after him. But then how did Scall manage to leave the stronghold 
without my guards seeing him?” 
“How would either of them have managed to get out?” Tormon asked. 
“Apparently someone set a cart on fire in the courtyard, and while my men 
were all distracted”—Arcan’s scowl boded ill for his inattentive 
sentries—“the culprit simply opened the gate and left.” 
“With a horse? And they didn’t notice him until the gate was opened?” 
The chieftain sighed. “I see where you’re going. Actually, it was three 
horses: Dark’s mount, Grim’s animal, and that pretty chestnut belonging to 
your lad. And you have a point. My men aren’t totally useless—though 
sometimes it may seem that way. Only a Summoner would be able to spirit 
three such large and noisy creatures out from under their noses.” 
“Then one way or another, Scall couldn’t have left this place on his own,” 
Tormon pointed out triumphantly. 
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s innocent,” Arcan said. “Another 
explanation I can think of, is that Dark and Scall plotted together to kill the 
old man. Witnesses certainly saw Scall going into the tower of the 

Summoners earlier today.” 
“That’s ridiculous!” Tormon protested. “Scall’s a good lad. There’s not an 
ounce of harm in him.” 
“Then how do you account for this?” Arcan held out a bloody blade wrapped 
in a cloth. “This was the weapon that killed Grim. It is not a reiver knife. It 
must have belonged to one of your party. No matter what happened to the 
boy, this puts all of you under suspicion.” 
With a chill, Tormon recognized the blade. It was a Godsword knife, with a 
long, keen blade. They had all armed themselves from the weapon store in 
the guardhouse before descending the cliff. The knife could have belonged 
to any of them. 
Just then one of the chieftain’s warriors came pelting down the stairs. 
“We’ve searched the whole tower, my Chief; right up to the roof. No one 
can be hiding there, and Lewic asked me to tell you that the kitchen and the 
storeroom are also clear.” 
Thanking the man, Arcan turned back to the trader. “We’ve run out of places 
to look, Tormon. We already knew that Dark must have fled. Now we’re 
certain that your lad has also gone missing.” 
A chill went through Tormon. “What if Dark killed him too, and hid the 
body?” 
Arcan shrugged. “Where? And if he didn’t bother to conceal his master’s 
corpse, why would he waste time hiding a dead youth? No, Tormon. That 
doesn’t make sense, and you know it.” 
“Your words give me hope, at least,” the trader said. “So long as the lad’s 
alive, he can be found, then maybe we’ll get to the bottom of this dreadful 
business. Will you send out a search party tonight, my Chief?” 
“Have you taken a look outside lately? There’s no point in sending my men 
out into a storm like that. They couldn’t even find their own backsides on 
such a wild, black, night. We’ll wait until first light. Once we can see what 
we’re doing, I have trackers who’ll hunt the culprits down. In the meantime, 
I must see that my Summoner is taken to the great hall, where he may rest in 
state. You have brought black days upon us, trader Tormon. If half of what 
you say about the fate of Tiarond is true, we couldn’t have lost Grim at a 
worse time.” He turned away to supervise the warriors who were lifting the 
Summoner’s body onto a bier, and said no more. 
Tormon knew that he had been dismissed, but he lingered in the beast 
quarters, waiting until Arcan and his warriors had departed with their sad 
burden. The empty space where Scall’s mare had stood seemed to mock him. 
He knew it wasn’t his fault that the lad had met with some sort of 
mishap—after all, he couldn’t lock Scall and Annas away from the world, 
just to keep them safe, and he couldn’t be watching them every minute of the 
day. But somewhere along the line, Scall had become part of his family, and 
the thought of losing another loved one, so close to Kanella’s death, was not 
to be borne. 

Tormon was in a quandary. He knew he should ignore Arcan’s advice, 
saddle up Rutska immediately, and head out onto the moor in search of the 
missing boy; but he was also aware that the chieftain had been right. On 
such a night, how could he even discover the direction in which they had 
gone? And how could he leave Annas again? So soon after her mother’s 
death, she needed him to be there for her, and his first responsibility must be 
to her. He had no right to put himself at risk by riding out alone on such a 
cold, tempestuous night. 
But that poor boy... 
Shaking his head, Tormon turned away and headed reluctantly back upstairs, 
his heart as heavy as his footsteps. He wasn’t looking forward to telling 
Rochalla what had happened. He knew she’d be upset. Nevertheless, her 
presence would be a comfort to him right now. She seemed to be just as 
much a part of the strange new family he was collecting together as Scall. 
How different she was from Seriema, who, as that day’s quarrel had proved, 
would go her own way, no matter what... 
Halfway up the stairs, Tormon stopped in his tracks. 
What about Presvel? He didn’t go off with Seriema today. And he was 
conspicuous by his absence when the word went out that the Summoner had 
been killed. 
Frowning, the trader went on his way, vowing to keep an eye on Seriema’s 
assistant. Since they had left Tiarond, the city man had been coping less and 
less well with the tough world outside, and for a while now, his behavior had 
been giving Tormon cause for concern. 
If I can do it without alarming her too much, I’ll warn Rochalla to stay away 
from him, too. There’s something about him I just don’t trust. He’s a 
desperate man right now. He feels that his life is out of his control, and such 
folk are always dangerous. But if he had anything to do with what’s 
happened to Scall, I’ll wring his neck with my own bare hands. 
Dark knew that if Arcan caught him, he would never be able to explain his 
actions. His mentor had laid this journey on him with his last, dying breath, 
but there had been no witnesses to that save Scall, and since he had 
kidnapped the lad, he couldn’t realistically expect any help from that quarter. 
When someone found Grim’s body, it would look as though he had been the 
murderer and had fled to escape the consequences of his crime. It was no use 
wondering if he had done the right thing. There was no chance now, for 
second thoughts. The young Summoner was grieving, sick at heart, and 
scared, but now he was also homeless, a fugitive, and an outcast from his 
clan. 
Not to mention soaked and freezing—but that’s the least of my problems. I 
had better concentrate on where I’m going, or I’ll be lost, too. 

Not only that, but he also had to concentrate on keeping Scall under control. 
He was aware of the boy’s resentment burning like a smoky flame, and 
could feel his frantic struggles to reassert himself. If Dark should lose him, 
he would have failed in the task with which Grim had entrusted him, and 
everything would have been in vain. 
Like all reivers, Dark had excellent night vision, but he could see next to 
nothing in the icy black turmoil of the storm. Though he was aiming for the 
Curtain Walls, and it was possible to see them from the high tower of 
Arcan’s fortress, at ground level they were over the hilly horizon, their 
glimmer obscured by driving hail. The only way he could gauge his 
direction was by the wind. He kept it on his left shoulder, crossed his 
fingers, and prayed that it wouldn’t veer. It might as well be of some use, he 
thought grimly, because it was certainly making life difficult when it came 
to managing the horses. None of them were happy about exchanging a nice, 
warm stable for this freezing nightmare, none of them liked being pelted 
with stinging hail, and all three of them were badly spooked by the gusting 
wind that howled and shrieked like a host of restless demons. 
Scall’s little chestnut was finding it particularly difficult to cope with the vile 
conditions. Her ears were back, her tail was tucked in, and he could feel her 
shivering all the way through the leading rope. Dark cursed himself for 
bringing her. He would have been far better off to have chosen one of the 
robust reiver horses, who were used to all sorts of black nights and wild 
weather. His reasoning had been that if he must tear Scall away from safety 
and friends, at least the lad would have the comfort of his beloved horse, 
but... 
If the animal dies, he’ll be utterly heartbroken. He’ll never forgive me—and 
who could blame him? 
Dark could no longer fight the tide of despair that rose to engulf him. 
Oh Grim, Grim! How I wish you were here. This seemed like such a simple 
plan when you first worked it out. How could everything have gone so 
wrong? 
For some time now they had been climbing steeply, and as the horses crested 
the exposed ridge, the strengthening wind nearly knocked the Summoner out 
of his saddle. Once more, the two animals that he was leading tried to turn 
and bolt back toward the reiver stronghold, and his own mount seemed to 
have the same idea. He spent a frantic few moments wrestling with the 
recalcitrant creatures, who seemed bent on pulling his arms out of their 
sockets. It took all the power of his Summoner’s will to get them going 
again in the direction he wanted, not to mention keeping Scall safely in the 
saddle in all this confusion; but finally he managed it, and as the horses 
picked their way down the steep slope on the other side of the ridge and were 
shielded once more from the very worst of the weather, they seemed to 
become resigned to their lot and stopped giving him so much trouble. 
As he rode, Dark wondered whether anyone had found Grim’s body yet, and 
if the hunt had gone out for him already. As soon as they discovered the 

missing horses, they would know he had left the stronghold. Would they 
think it was worth searching for him on such a wretched night? He suspected 
not. Probably they would wait until the morning and try to pick up his trail in 
daylight. It made much more sense than blundering about on the moors in 
the darkness. Some of the reivers were excellent trackers, and with the 
ground being so wet they should have very little difficulty in following him 
after daybreak. 
I hope they decide to wait. That way, I should beat them to the Curtain 
Walls, and as long as Grim was right, and I can manage to get through, I’ll 
be safe from my own people, at 
least. Then all I’ll have to worry about is the strangers on the other side. 
Reaching across, he pulled up Scall’s hood, which had been blown or jolted 
back while the horses were plunging around. At least, under the 
circumstances, he could try to make his captive comfortable, if nothing else. 
He was glad that he could see so little in this dim light. If he’d had to witness 
the misery and confusion that he knew must be written on the lad’s face, and 
the hurt and hatred—not unjustified—that must surely be in his eyes, he 
wondered if he would have the resolution to carry on. 
It would be different if I really knew what was going on. If only Grim had 
introduced me to his mysterious friends before now, or even told me about 
them, then I might have a better idea of what they intended to do with Scall, 
and why the artifacts he found are so important. 
The Summoner rode on, worrying, even though he knew there was no point. 
He was committed now, and what would be would be. After a while, he 
realized that he had lost all track of time while he’d been preoccupied, and 
decided that he had better start paying more attention. Pushing his hood back 
a little, he looked around, and was horrified to see that over his left shoulder, 
the driving hail was glowing with a dim and eldritch light. Driving his fist 
into his knee, Dark swore. That pale glimmer could only be the Curtain 
Walls. The blasted wind must have veered while his thoughts were 
elsewhere, and now, instead of heading toward the barrier, he was actually 
heading away from it at an oblique angle. 
Annoyed with himself and feeling a little foolish, he corrected his course, 
and found that now the wind was driving right into his face. Surprisingly, his 
improvised repair of the skull mask was still holding, and at least it provided 
some protection from the weather. He had something to head for, now that 
he could see the glimmer of the barrier, and Grim had told him that the 
weather conditions on the other side would probably be completely different. 
Dark hoped so. Right now, he’d do just about anything to get out of this 
unrelenting storm. The hail and freezing temperatures were bad enough, but 
the wind was definitely beginning to make him uneasy. The gale’s 
discordant screeching sounded like some foul, hideous creature from beyond 
a man’s most grisly nightmares. He told himself not to let his imagination 
run away with him, but to no effect. There was something in the weather that 
wasn’t natural, and that extra awareness that came with a Summoner’s 

training kept warning him that he was in increasing danger. Once more, he 
looked uneasily over his shoulder. The sooner he got through the Curtain 
Walls, the safer he would feel. 
CHAPTER 13 
A Light on the Horizon 
As the night drew on, Toulac sent Zavahl into the shelter to get some rest. 
“One of us has to stay awake,” she said, “to keep the fire going and keep a 
lookout for Veldan’s ship. They might see the glow from our fire, but it’s 
pretty well hidden down amongst the boulders, so we can’t count on that.” 
As she spoke, she was sorting some long, straightish bits of driftwood from 
their fuel pile. “These should do as torches, for signaling, if we see a light 
out at sea. Mrainil of the Dobarchu says there are some tricky reefs out in the 
bay, but he’ll be able to guide a small boat to shore to pick us up.” 
Having put her torches carefully aside, she built up the fire with rapid skill. 
“There. That should keep it going for a while. You take yourself into the 
shelter, sonny, and get some sleep. I’ll wake you later, when it’s your turn to 
watch.” She looked up at the clear, starry sky, and shivered. “Our main 
problem will be the cold. Without coats or cloaks on a night like this, the 
person on watch will have to keep nipping back to the fire.” She shrugged. 
“Oh, well. We’ll manage. See you later.” With that she was gone, into the 
darkness beyond the firelight. 
Zavahl, still wondering when he was going to get a word in edgeways, sat on 
for a few moments, but the scares and sleeplessness of the night before, 
coupled with all the exertions of his day, had left him exhausted. He took a 
sip of water from their dwindling supply in the broken jug and crawled into 
the shelter. Ever since the structure had been completed he had been looking 
forward to this part, but soon he found that camping on the beach was not as 
romantic as it had seemed. With nothing to put between himself and the 
shingle, it was impossible to get comfortable. The pebbles beneath his 
shoulders and hipbones seemed particularly sharp and lumpy; but each time 
he thought he had removed the worst of them, others arrived to take their 
place. The other problem was the cold. Though the shelter caught and 
trapped some heat from the fire, the ground beneath Zavahl seemed to leach 
what little heat was in his body, and he had nothing to protect him from the 
chill. Shivering and miserable, Zavahl lay awake. No wonder Toulac is so 
tough, if she’s been doing this sort of thing all her life. 
He wondered if he should go to join her, or if he should volunteer to stand 
watch for a while, since he seemed unable to get to sleep. Unfortunately, 

however, that would mean going even farther away from the fire. Even as he 
was wrestling with his conscience, he saw a flicker of movement beyond the 
overhanging lip of the shelter. One by one, the Dobarchu were arriving, 
undulating over the rocks with a beautiful, fluid motion. 
Zavahl stared at them with unabashed curiosity. The adults of the group 
were over three feet in length (or should it perhaps be called height, he 
wondered, when they pulled themselves upright to stand on their hind legs). 
Of the three youngsters, two were only half that size, and still had the cute, 
rounded fuzziness of babyhood, while the other was a gawky adolescent, 
closer to the size of the adults. They settled in a ring around the fire, fluffing 
up their fur, basking happily in the warmth and, coincidentally, blocking out 
all the heat. 
Zavahl hesitated. He wanted to ask them to move over a little, but did they 
understand the human spoken language? Besides, even the younger members 
of the group had powerful-looking jaws and pointed teeth, and their paws, so 
much like little human hands, had each digit tipped with a stubby but sharp 
claw. No matter what Toulac said, to the former Hierarch, born and brought 
up in a city, they still had the look of wild animals—and from all that he had 
heard, wild creatures were dangerous, unpredictable, and fierce. 
“Now you’re thinking like the old Zavahl.” 
“I beg your pardon?” These interruptions from the Dragon in his mind still 
took Zavahl by surprise sometimes. 
“All that wild animal nonsense is the sort of thinking that might come from a 
person who had never been to Gendival and seen the many races of 
intelligent and civilized beings who live and work there.” Aethon sounded 
slightly amused. “You were thinking like someone who had never seen the 
firedrake Kazairl, and who didn’t have a Dragon taking up residence in his 
mind.” 
“I take your point on the Dragon business,” Zavahl replied, “but remember 
that I can’t communicate with Veldan’s pet monster. He still looks like a 
ferocious animal to me. And as for Gendival, I might have been there, but 
I’ve never seen the place. I was blindfolded when they brought me in, so I 
don’t really know what you’re talking about. The only other strange 
creatures I’ve seen are the ones who brought us here, and I didn’t find them 
particularly encouraging.” 
“You’re right. I had forgotten that,” Aethon said thoughtfully. “Then let me 
show you Gendival as it really is.” 
Zavahl closed his eyes, and a succession of images appeared, each one like a 
brightly colored daydream, as the Dragon began to show him images of the 
Shadowleague settlement beside the lake and its remarkable inhabitants. 
When eventually, blinking, he came back to the world of sea and stone and 
firelight, he didn’t know how much time had passed, although the fire was 
beginning to burn low. While he had been transported by the Dragon’s 
visions, he hadn’t noticed the cold, but now it struck at him with redoubled 

force. 
Sighing, Zavahl pushed himself up on one elbow. He was just about to duck 
out of the shelter and put some wood on the fire when, to his astonishment, 
one of the Dobarchu left their circle and went to the driftwood pile that he 
and Toulac had gathered earlier. Clasping a few pieces in his short arms, he 
shuffled back on his hind legs to the fire, placing his fuel carefully to build 
up a good blaze. Two of his fellows followed him, each with their own 
burden of driftwood, and between them, they made the fire up to a 
respectable size. 
Something about their deliberate, practiced movements wrought a change in 
Zavahl’s perceptions that not even the visions of the Dragon had been 
entirely able to accomplish. The strange beings that Aethon had shown him 
had aroused his awe, curiosity, and sometimes even fear, but they had still 
not seemed real to him, because he had never seen them for himself. But 
when he saw the Dobarchu engaged in their homely, and very human task, 
he stopped looking on them as animals and started to see them as people: 
furry, oddly shaped folk, to be sure, but people nonetheless. 
He looked at the little group of refugees, seeing them with new eyes. A 
mother was curled around her sleeping infant, holding it close to her and 
keeping it warm and safe. Another was using a stone to break open shellfish 
for the second little one. Two adult couples snuggled with their partners 
beside the fire. One of them whimpered in its sleep, and its mate reached out 
and gently stroked its soft, silvery brown fur, until the nightmare had passed. 
Zavahl was touched by the sight. If what Toulac had told him was true, the 
Dobarchu had experienced enough suffering to fuel a lifetime of bad dreams. 
He felt a great deal of sympathy for them. They had been reft of their homes 
and homelands just as he had, and they, too, had suffered in the transition. 
And now we’ll all have to build new homes and new lives in a strange place. 
I have a lot more in common with these odd-looking creatures, than I do 
with most humans that I know. 
It was a sobering thought. 
Even Zavahl’s fascination with the refugees, however, couldn’t completely 
distract him from the biting cold. He shivered and tried to tuck his chilled 
hands into his tunic— which, of course, only made him colder than ever. 
Suddenly, there was a stir of movement beside him, and he felt something 
soft and warm pressing against him. He looked down to see the other young 
Dobarchu, the slender adolescent who, it seemed, had succumbed to the 
insatiable curiosity of youth and come to investigate him and his shelter. 
There was no doubt in Zavahl’s mind that he was looking at a female. He 
could see a delicacy about her form, especially around her face and 
shoulders, a graceful fluidity of gesture and motion, and a melting look in 
her big, dark eyes, that all bespoke her femininity. 
Zavahl was charmed. “Hello,” he said with a smile. “It’s cold tonight, isn’t 
it?” The little female tilted her head to one side in an obvious gesture of 
puzzlement, but the biggest male, the one who had been down on the beach 

with Toulac, looked up at the sound of the human voice and nodded 
emphatically. 
In his mind, Zavahl felt the Dragon stir. “Mrainil is the only one that 
understands your language,” Aethon said. “Only some of the Dobarchu have 
mind-speech, just as only certain humans do, and he’s the sole member of 
this group who does. That’s why he’s a Loremaster. Though mind-speech 
comes into the consciousness as words, it deals in universal concepts that 
form a bridge between one language and another, which makes the 
understanding of different tongues a simple matter. That’s why Mrainil can 
understand you, though his mouth isn’t adapted to speak as a human does.” 
Zavahl noticed the wistfulness in the Dragon’s tone when he mentioned 
mind-to-mind communication. “You must have had mind-speech, then, 
when you were in your own body,” he said. 
“Dragons are different. As a race, we communicate entirely in mind-speech.” 
“And now you can’t communicate with others because my mind lacks that 
ability?” 
The Dragon hesitated for a moment. “It’s not your fault.” 
“You must miss it.” 
Aethon sighed. “More than you could ever imagine.” 
It occurred to Zavahl that there were more ways than one to be an exile. 
Since the companion in his mind did not seem to want to speak anymore, the 
former Hierarch turned his attention back to the big Dobarchu. “I was just 
saying to this little lady that it’s a cold night.” 
Mrainil looked at him for a long, solemn moment, and he had the distinct 
impression that he was being assessed. Then, without warning, the refugees 
broke into a flood of animated chittering, and every one of them leapt up 
from their recumbent positions beside the fire and came rushing at Zavahl in 
an undulating brown wave. 
Great Myrial! Maybe he didn’t like me talking to the little one! 
Unable to help himself, he flinched back from this sudden onslaught as the 
Dobarchu descended on him in a rush, pressing him down to the ground and 
threatening to trample him. He yelled and flailed in panic, but he was 
completely overwhelmed. Then, as they pressed close to him, he realized 
what they were doing and forced himself to relax. The furry creatures 
covered him like a warm, brown blanket, sharing their body heat with him, 
as they did with one another. 
Mrainil looked down at him and chittered reprovingly, and he felt rebuked 
for his moment of panic. The adolescent female edged herself under one 
arm, and snuggled up to him with her head on his shoulder, watching him 
with her melting dark eyes. “Thank you,” Zavahl said. “I’m very grateful.” 
A shadow at the mouth of the shelter blocked out the firelight. “What’s all 
the yelling about?” Toulac demanded. 

“I’m sorry.” Zavahl, beginning to warm up nicely, squinted up at her 
silhouette, but made no attempt to move. This was the first time he’d felt 
vaguely comfortable all night. “It was a misunderstanding. The Dobarchu all 
came rushing at me, and I got a bit of a shock,” he explained. “I thought they 
were attacking me, but they only wanted to keep me warm.” 
“My, what a lot you’re learning today,” Toulac said dryly. “Try to keep the 
noise down, though. When the boat gets here, we’ll be home and dry, but in 
the meantime, I don’t want to go advertising our presence far and wide.” 
“But this place is the back end of nowhere,” Zavahl protested. “There can’t 
be anybody around for miles.” 
“Well, you’re probably right,” Toulac admitted. “But there’s one thing been 
bothering me all day, and that’s the amount of stuff we picked up from the 
beach that came from shipwrecks.” 
“So?” 
“So why would such a lot of ships get wrecked on this particular bit of 
coast?” 
Zavahl shrugged. “Well, all those reefs sticking out look nasty enough, and 
maybe there are freak currents, or something?” 
“Freak currents, my eye. If there’s a place like that, mariners normally know 
to keep well away, unless they happen to get blown onto the coast in a 
storm.” Toulac shook her head. “No, I don’t like this. I have a bad feeling 
that those ships didn’t get wrecked all by themselves, and I won’t have an 
easy moment until we’re safely out of here.” 
“Is it my turn to watch?” Zavahl had to drag the offer out of himself. He was 
so tired and so comfortable now that he really didn’t want to move. 
Toulac gave him a piercing look. “Don’t let me disturb you, sonny. I can 
manage a bit longer.” With that, she stumped off, back toward the water’s 
edge, leaving him with an obscure but gnawing sense of guilt. Fortunately, 
however, he managed to master the feeling, and was soon drifting off to 
sleep in a warm haze of contentment. He didn’t worry himself one bit about 
Toulac’s dire prognostication that something was amiss. It was probably just 
another way of making herself appear more knowledgeable to an 
inexperienced adventurer like him, he decided. 
“You ought to listen to her,” Aethon warned. “When it comes to these 
matters, she has far more experience than you do.” 
But Zavahl didn’t hear. He was already asleep. 
Up on the cliff top, the wreckers were watching and listening. “I wish the 
ship would come,” Shafol muttered. “The old battle-axe is starting to get 
suspicious.” 
Tuld shrugged. “What if she is? That other idiot didn’t seem too interested, 

and she can’t prove nothing. She’s not about to climb that cliff a second time 
today, not at her age, so she’ll never find us up here, and she’ll never see us 
light our bonfire when the ship comes. She might be waving a little torch 
down on the beach, but it’s our beacon they’ll be looking at. And you know 
how it works. No one lives along here, so the ships always come in to see if 
someone has lit a distress signal—and this lot actually have a reason, for 
once. Once we’ve lured them onto the rocks, it’ll just be business as usual. 
The old girl won’t be worrying about an attack from the land side. We’ll just 
go down there and mop up.” 
“What about those animals?” Shafol wanted to know. “I’ve never seen 
anything like them before, and they’re a fair old size. Look at them, all 
gathered round the fire like that, and sitting on top of that man. It’s not 
natural, is that.” 
“It makes no difference what they are,” Tuld replied. “They’re just animals 
of some sort, and they can’t be very savage if they’re sitting down there like 
a bunch of stupid lapdogs. They’ll probably just run away when we get 
down there, but if they don’t, we’ll deal with them when the time comes.” 
“I wish that ship would get a move on,” Pelorm complained again. “I’m 
freezing my backside off up here.” 
“I wish we didn’t have to do this at all,” the fourth man said. “Most of the 
folk we’ve wrecked might have drowned, but it’s cold-blooded murder just 
the same.” 
“Shut your mouth, Feresh,” Shafol growled. “What choice did we have? We 
were finished as fishermen when so many of the fish disappeared. We’ve got 
to feed our families somehow.” 
Feresh shook his head. “No good will come of this,” he warned. “There’ll 
come a day when we find we’ve pushed our luck once too often.” 
“If that’s the way you feel, why don’t you just bugger off?” said Tuld. “We 
don’t need you anyway, and your whining is starting to get on my nerves.” 
“All right.” Feresh got to his feet. “I will. I’m taking my family away from 
here and heading upriver. There must be somewhere we can work and eat.” 
Tuld spat on the ground. “Well, don’t blame me when you’re all starving to 
death in a ditch in the back of beyond.” 
“At least we’ll die honest,” Feresh said quietly, and walked away. 
Tuld looked at the other two. “Follow him and kill him,” he said quietly. “I 
don’t want him getting a fit of conscience and warning that lot on the 
beach.” 
“Good idea,” said Shafol. He and Pelorm vanished into the darkness. A few 
minutes later there was the sound of a scuffle, and a muffled cry, quickly 
stifled. 
Shafol and Pelorm came back, sheathing their knives. “Bigger shares for us, 
then,” Pelorm said, settling back down among the bushes. “Feresh always 
was a bloody fool, but I never thought he’d be getting a tender conscience at 

this stage.” 
“I think his woman’s been at him,” Shafol replied. “You know how women 
are, and she never did like what we were doing.” 
“She didn’t do him any favors, then,” Tuld said, with a leering grin. “Still, 
she may be a bit brainless, but what a looker! Now that she’s a widow, I 
might have a go at her myself. She’ll be needing a man about the place.” 
As the night wore on, Toulac watched and waited with increasing anxiety, 
straining her eyes into the darkness to catch the first glimmer of the ship’s 
lights on the horizon. Though she was weary and frozen right through, she 
had decided to keep vigil herself rather than awaken Zavahl. She knew very 
well that he had not taken her uneasiness about the shipwrecks seriously. 
Besides, he wasn’t used to keeping watch, and she was afraid that he would 
let his attention wander at a critical time. Cold though she was, she had only 
been coming back to the fire when she lost all feeling in her hands and feet, 
or when the dimming glow told her that its wood needed to be replenished. 
Not that she was worried about the fire going out if Zavahl was left in 
charge—far from it—and the Dobarchu wouldn’t allow that to happen in any 
case. No, there wasn’t any need to worry about spotting a light out at sea, 
then having to rekindle a signal fire from scratch. 
She did worry, however, about this business with the wreckers. She knew 
that she might be overreacting, and maybe Zavahl was right about this being 
a difficult stretch of coast. But she didn’t think so. There was something 
about this place that caused her a good deal of disquiet, and she hadn’t lived 
this long by ignoring her instincts and intuition, or by skipping optimistically 
through life, hoping that the worst would never happen. 
Whoever is on watch tonight has got to stay alert—and that’s just what 
Zavahl won’t do. I’m better off dealing with this myself. I’ll sleep on the 
boat—when the damn thing finally gets here. 
The time dragged by, and little by little, as her eyes grew heavy Toulac felt 
her concentration slipping. Since there was no way she would admit that she 
didn’t find staying up on watch all night as easy as she had done in her 
younger years, it only remained for her to berate herself for growing sloppy 
and careless, and that she did, at some length. It was a great relief to her 
when Mrainil left the fire and his sleeping people, and came down to the 
water’s edge to keep her company. She had been trying, from time to time, 
to contact Veldan again, but without the stimulus of a crisis she had been 
finding communication just too difficult over such a great distance. Mindspeech 
with the leader of the Dobarchu—apart from being interesting, 
distracting her from her worries, and keeping her awake—had the additional 
benefit of reassuring her that, with some hard work and a bit of expert 
training, her initial success could be repeated. 
They talked for a while, perched out on the rocks, looking over the ocean. 

The previous time they had spoken, he had told her of his people and their 
exodus. This time, he wanted to know how she had left her own land, and 
come to be stranded here. As she spoke to him, she kept her eyes roving the 
horizon; but in the end, she was so engrossed in telling him of her 
adventures and misadventures that the faint, distant twinkle off the far 
headland came as a surprise. 
Toulac gave an excited whoop. “There it is!” She rushed back up the beach 
to get the torches, and thrust the ends of the first two brands into the fire. 
“Zavahl, wake up!” she yelled. “They’re coming!” A vague, drowsy mutter 
came from within the shelter. Well, she didn’t have time to wait around until 
he pulled himself together. As soon as the torches were well alight, she 
pelted back down the beach again, with the flames from the torches 
streaming out behind her, and a couple of spare, unlighted ones tucked under 
one arm, just for good measure. Mrainil, who had swum these waters, had 
shown her exactly where to stand and wave her signal, so that the ship had 
the best chance of making a clear approach. Forgetting her own injunctions 
about making too much noise, she jumped up and down, yelling and waving 
the torches over her head; knowing, even as she did so, that she was acting 
like a nine-year-old, but too excited to care. 
Soon, it was easy to see that the lights were coming closer. Mrainil, 
however, in contrast to Toulac’s exuberant behavior, was sitting up on his 
hind legs, still as a statue, and staring out to sea. “Does it look to you as 
though those lights are veering off to the side?” he asked. 
Some of his anxiety communicated itself to Toulac, and she ceased her wild 
waving and simply stood as still as the Dobarchu, keeping her torches held 
up high. “I think you’re right.” 
Mrainil chittered anxiously. “What do those idiots think they’re doing? 
They’re heading right for the reef!” 
CHAPTER 14 
On the Reef Zavahl had been so deeply asleep that he found it remarkably 
difficult to pull himself back into wakefulness. When Toulac’s voice cut 
through his dreams, he had no idea for a moment where he was, or why his 
bed was hard and lumpy and his coverlet so heavy and thick. Had somebody 
been calling him? he wondered groggily. Well, never mind. He was sure it 
couldn’t have been all that important. He was just drifting back into his 
dreams when a blast of moist, fishy breath roused him more thoroughly than 
a whole bottle of smelling salts. He dragged his eyes open to see a rounded, 
furry face with twinkling black eyes peering at him from a distance of a 
couple of inches. The Dobarchu chittered interrogatively, tickled his face 

with coarse, bushy whiskers, then nuzzled its broad, black, leathery nose into 
his ear. Zavahl recognized his little friend, the young female, and finally his 
hazy thoughts fell into place. In the distance, he could still hear Toulac 
calling... Great Myrial! The boat must be here. 
Dobarchu scattered out of his way as he heaved himself to his hands and 
knees and scrabbled his way out of the shelter. As soon as he left the hollow 
in the rocks and got out of the glare of firelight, he saw Toulac down on the 
reef, waving torches above her head and yelling. 
Damn it! I should have a torch too. 
Zavahl swerved back to the fire, scrambling as fast as he could over the 
stony, rough terrain. He found a long, straightish brand among the firewood 
and held it in the glowing heat of the flames until it was well alight. Then 
turning quickly, he ran back to help Toulac—at least, he ran at first, on the 
higher part of the beach where the rocks were dry and the footing was good. 
Farther down toward the reef, in the tidal zone, they were coated with 
seaweed and slime, and here he was forced to slow his pace considerably, or 
risk a fell. 
He was edging his way down toward the waterline when the men appeared, 
materializing out of the shadows to block his way. He looked from their 
feral, hard-eyed faces to the brutal knives that glinted in their hands, and felt 
a shock of stark, cold fear. They began to advance on him, stepping carefully 
on the slippery rocks, and Zavahl backed away, his heart in his mouth, 
swinging the torch in front of him in wavering arcs. As they began to close 
in, he opened his mouth to yell for help from Toulac—and that was when he 
noticed, from the corner of his eye, that another man was creeping up behind 
her, armed with a sword, not a knife. Because she was making all the noise 
she had told him not to make, she didn’t hear her attacker, and with all her 
attention fixed on the approaching ship, she was oblivious to his approach. 
Zavahl yelled at the top of his voice—and at that moment, his own assailants 
rushed him. Trying to scramble away, he backed into a deep rock pool, and 
felt pain lance up his leg as his ankle turned beneath him on the slippery 
stones. He went down, floundering, and his torch flew from his hand and 
went out. Then they were on him. At the edge of his vision he saw the flash 
of a knife blade coming down, and knew it was all over. 
* * * 
Toulac was desperately trying to reach Veldan with mind-speech, but every 
time she tried it, her concentration kept slipping away. Suddenly, she heard 
Zavahl, yelling at the top of his voice, and an instant later, Veldan’s voice 
resounded in her head. “Toulac! Behind you!” She whirled round, and came 
face-to-face with a sword-wielding ruffian. In the next instant, the man had 
both the torches flung full into his face. He screamed and batted them away, 
beating at his frizzling hair and beard and dropping his sword in the process. 
Toulac took the time his distraction had bought her to draw her own blade, 

and by the time he had picked up his weapon again, she was ready for him. 
It was a clumsy fight, with both participants greatly hampered in their 
movements by the thick, green, slippery slime that coated the rocks 
underfoot. Toulac was desperate and furious. How could she have let him 
sneak up on her like that? It was impossible even to attempt mind-speech 
with all her concentration on the fight, so how could she guide the ship in, 
now that she had thrown her torches away? And this miserable son of a bitch 
was stopping her from getting more. 
“I will take care of the ship.” With a splash, Mrainil plunged into the water 
and was gone, leaving Toulac to focus her attention on her opponent. 
With his advantage of surprise gone, the wrecker suddenly appeared a lot 
less brave, but he was still grimly determined to stand his ground, and he 
was right between the veteran and Zavahl. They moved carefully on the 
slick, uneven surface, edging for position, trading hacking, clumsy blows 
that were curtailed by the need to keep their footing. 
Though Toulac needed to keep her concentration on her own adversary, she 
had, like all good fighters, worked hard to develop her peripheral vision. 
From the corner of her eye she saw Zavahl go down and her heart sank. 
Surely he hadn’t suffered so much, and come so far in so many ways, just to 
end up spitted like a hog by some petty brigand? Then the dreadful 
screaming started. Toulac cursed and lunged forward, feinting to one side 
then dodging in the other direction. When she felt her feet beginning to slip, 
she didn’t try to stop herself, or regain her balance, but threw herself into the 
slide, let herself fall forward, and rolled to one side as her enemy’s sword 
came crashing down on the rocks in the place where she had been. Then it 
was his turn to flounder and fight to stay upright. 
The veteran didn’t waste time trying to get up. From her prone position, she 
brought her sword around in a mighty, two-handed swipe, aiming for the 
wrecker’s knees. She felt the jar of the blade biting into flesh and bone, then 
he went down like a felled tree, the sword falling from his hand as he 
measured his length on the rocks. Suddenly it was his turn to squeal like a 
butchered animal. With some difficulty, Toulac scrambled to her feet on 
rocks that now were slick with blood as well as slime. A quick glance made 
sure that her opponent would not rise again, so there was no point in wasting 
her time finishing him off. In a while he’d be dead anyway. Instead, she 
turned back to Zavahl and his opponents, though she knew in her heart that 
she must be too late. 
Myrial had chosen to take him after all—or so Zavahl thought. He certainly 
didn’t expect what happened next. Unbalanced by the force of his thrust, the 
knife man slipped on the same slimy rocks. He fell forward, on top of his 
victim, and Zavahl cried out in pain as the blade ripped through his tunic and 
glanced along his ribs. The other attacker, also committed to his thrust and 

taken by surprise, drove his knife straight into the back of his companion. 
The wretch struggled to rise from his sprawling position across Zavahl, 
screaming obscenities and flailing helplessly with his own knife hand, as the 
other strove to pull the blade out from between his shoulders. Somehow, 
Zavahl managed to wriggle out from underneath and floundered out of the 
pool, desperately trying to reach Toulac, who was still in the midst of a 
vicious battle with her own attacker. 
The wrecker abandoned his attempts to reclaim his knife, and snatched up 
the blade of his companion, whose struggles were becoming weaker. The 
sight of his fallen friend seemed to enrage him even further, and with a roar 
he scrambled in pursuit of his terrified victim. Zavahl knew how lucky he 
had been to survive the first attack. He couldn’t expect to be so fortunate 
again. Weaponless as he was, and unskilled at fighting, his only option was 
to flee. 
Toulac had downed her own opponent and was struggling to her feet, but she 
would never get to him in time. And Zavahl wasn’t good at running. A 
lifetime spent in the confines of Tiarond’s Sacred Precincts had ill prepared 
him for this sort of crisis, and he was tiring quickly. He could hear his wouldbe 
murderer panting and cursing just behind him, and he knew the man was 
gaining. The wrecker closed in on him and grabbed him by his sleeve, 
spinning him around. Zavahl, despite his struggles, was pulled closer, as the 
other raised his blade to strike. 
All at once, a host of shadowy shapes, running low to the ground and 
unnoticed until now against the dark backdrop, rose up around the attacker’s 
legs, pushing him off-balance and tripping him so that he fell full length. 
The Dobarchu had come to Zavahl’s aid. They swarmed all over the 
wrecker, fouling his attempts to rise and snapping at him with their strong, 
sharp teeth while he screamed curses and struggled to rise. Zavahl hovered 
anxiously nearby, waiting for Toulac and her sword to come and deal with 
the problem. He had forgotten that the man still had his knife. Suddenly the 
blade flashed up, and came down again into the midst of the Dobarchu. A 
dreadful squeal was cut off sharply, and Zavahl knew that the weapon had 
found a victim. 
Images flashed before his eyes: the couple snuggling together by the fire; the 
mother feeding the infant, the melting eyes of the young female who had 
taken such a fancy to him. With a howl of rage, he threw himself forward 
and twisted the knife out of the man’s hand. Holding the weapon in both 
hands, he rammed it down as hard as he could into the wrecker’s chest, 
wrenched it out, and struck again, deeper. He felt the sickening grate of steel 
on bone, and hot blood welled up between his fingers. The ruffian was 
choking, gurgling, vainly clawing at the knife and the hands that still held it. 
Then blood gushed from his mouth, and his body convulsed as his eyes 
glazed over, focusing on the sky in a blank, unseeing gaze. 
“Well, may I be dipped in dog’s dung! Well done, Zavahl. I never knew you 
had it in you!” Suddenly he realized that Toulac was at his side, clapping 
him on the back. Finally, Zavahl remembered to let go of the knife. He felt 

an instant of wild elation that he had survived and eradicated that murdering 
scum of a wrecker. Then the reality hit him. He doubled over, vomiting, 
turning his face away so that he would not have to look at the carnage he had 
wrought. 
Then, as if from far away, he heard Toulac speak again. “Myrial up a tree, 
the ship! What’s happening to the ship?” 
The oceangoing barge had made good time. The sea was relatively calm, and 
the moderate wind, for once, was in their favor. They slipped through the 
dark waters, with Arnond at the helm and Meglyn manning the sheets. 
Rowen was down below, putting a meal together, with Elion trying to help 
and getting underfoot in the cramped living quarters. Kaz was dozing up on 
deck, but Veldan and Ailie had been keeping watch in the bows all the way 
along the coast. They had tried taking turns, but the one who was supposed 
to be resting had inevitably ended up leaning on the rail and peering 
anxiously out into the night in any case, so they had decided that they might 
as well have one another’s company. 
It was impossible to say who saw the beacon first. They both called out 
together as the twinkling light sprang up on the cliff top ahead. Their yells 
brought Meglyn forward and Elion scrambling up through the hatchway 
from below. After a moment or two, Rowen hauled herself up behind him. 
On deck, the firedrake raised a sleepy head and blinked at the twinkling 
light. “About time, too,” he grumbled. “Say what you like about Amaurn, 
but it’s a good thing he had Skreeva killed when he did and stopped her 
minions taking Toulac and Zavahl any farther. Otherwise, we might be stuck 
on this miserable floating prison for a month.” Kaz hadn’t taken to life on 
shipboard very well. During the course of the day he had informed Veldan, 
more times than she cared to remember, that the deck was too cramped for 
him to move around with any comfort, he always had to be concentrating on 
where he was putting his tail, and, furthermore, he was pretty sure that 
firedrakes couldn’t swim, so the presence of so much deep water all around 
him most definitely did not put him at his ease. And though they weren’t 
afraid of Kaz himself, the presence on board of a creature who could breathe 
fire was bound to make Meglyn and the others a little uneasy. 
At the helm, Arnond was frowning. “They would fetch up here,” he said. 
“This is the rockiest stretch on the entire coast. It’s claimed a lot of lives.” 
Now they could hear the hiss and boom of the waves breaking on the reef 
and the border of white surf along the shore. “Will we be able to get in close 
enough, do you think?” Veldan asked anxiously. “You certainly daren’t take 
any risks with Rowen at the moment.” 
“Or my ship,” Meglyn added. 
“Or me—if anyone cares about that,” muttered Kaz, but only the two 
Loremasters heard him. 

“Do those friends of yours know anything about seafaring?” Rowen asked. 
“Would they light their beacon just anywhere along the cliff, or would they 
take the currents and rocks into account?” 
“I doubt it,” said Veldan. “Zavahl certainly wouldn’t. I don’t know for sure 
about Toulac, though. She certainly has lived a full and colorful life. She 
never mentioned spending any time at sea, but that means nothing. In our 
talks, we’ve hardly had time to touch the surface of all the things she’s 
done.” 
“All right,” said Arnond, “we’d better be on the safe side, and presume 
neither of them knows what they’re doing. This is what we’ll do. Meglyn, 
shorten sail to a bare minimum. We’ll have to edge our way in very slowly 
and carefully. Rowen, will you get the lead and take soundings?” 
“Of course.” Rowen went off, hurrying as best she could. 
“What’s the lead?” Ailie whispered to Veldan. 
The Loremaster shrugged. “If it’s anything technical, you’d better ask Elion. 
His partner was a good sailor.” 
“The lead is used to test the depth of the water,” Elion explained. “It’s 
attached to the end of a rope that is marked off into fathoms, and someone 
stands in the bows and throws it out ahead of the ship. There’s a hole in the 
bottom of the lead, too. If you fill it with soft tallow, then it comes up with a 
sample of the bottom sticking to it, so you can tell whether you’re sailing 
over sand, or mud, or rock.” He grinned at Ailie. “There. Now you know as 
much about it as I do.” 
Cautiously they felt their way forward. Veldan, in a moment of inspiration, 
explained to Arnond about Kaz’s remarkable, adaptable vision, and the 
firedrake was immediately sent into the bows to watch for rocks in their path 
or telltale changes on the surface of the water that would indicate currents. 
Suddenly, Ailie gave a yell, and pointed. “Look, everybody! Down on the 
shore, below and to the right of that beacon. There seems to be a fire on the 
beach—see, among those big boulders up near the cliff. And somebody is 
down on the rocks, waving torches at us!” 
Kaz raised his head from his contemplation of the water, but lowered it 
quickly when Arnond roared at him. “Keep your eyes on where we’re going, 
you! Never mind what’s on the shore.” 
Veldan followed Ailie’s pointing finger with her eyes. “It’s Toulac! And is 
that Zavahl behind her?” 
“It certainly isn’t,” Ailie said. 
“She’s being attacked,” Elion cried. “Toulac, look out... Damn. We’re too 
far away for her to hear us over the noise of the surf!” 
I Veldan tried mind-speech instead. There was no response from the veteran, 
but she swung round to face her assailant, so at least she must have heard. 
With her heart in her mouth, the Loremaster saw Toulac throw her torches at 
the man and draw her sword. At the same time, Ailie shrieked. “Zavahl! 

No!” 
Only then did Veldan see Zavahl, who was a little farther along the rocks, 
being pursued by two men. Suddenly they all went down in a heap, and she 
thought she saw a flash as a knife blade rose and fell. So near and yet so far. 
They had arrived moments too late to help. She cursed, and heard a stifled 
sob from Ailie. 
Then, all at once, she heard a strange voice in her mind. “Loremasters! 
You’re heading straight for the reef.” 
Almost in the same instant, Kaz let off a bellow. “Rocks ahead!” 
“Arnond, we’re going aground!” Elion yelled. 
“Drop anchor, Meglyn!” Arnond shouted. “Rowen, lower sail!” 
The crash of surf was growing louder. There was a few moments of intense 
activity on deck, then the barge swung round in the current. Its anchor bit 
into the seabed, dragged a little way, then held fast. Suddenly, they could all 
breathe again. The brief, relieved pause was ended with Ailie’s shriek. 
“Zavahl! He’s up! Get away from him, damn you. Leave him alone!” 
Veldan swung round to see one of the men still lying in a huddle on the 
ground and the other on his feet, in hot pursuit of Zavahl and gaining fast. 
She looked across the stretch of water that still remained between the barge 
and the shore. “Arnond ...” she began to protest. 
“I’m sorry, Veldan.” The captain’s voice was firm. “I won’t risk taking her 
in any farther. We’ll lower the dinghy and row to shore, but it’ll take a few 
minutes.” 
As they watched, a wave of lithe, dark-furred creatures seemed to rise up out 
of the rocks and pull Zavahl’s opponent down. Elion cried out in 
astonishment. “Veldan! Aren’t they Dobarchu?” 
“That’s what they look like. But what are they doing here?” 
They all heard the shriek as one of the creatures died beneath the attacker’s 
knife, and an answering cry of rage from Zavahl. To Veldan’s astonishment, 
he threw himself at the knife man, snatched away the blade, and plunged it, 
twice, into the man’s chest. Toulac was running toward him, but apparently 
he didn’t need her help. 
“Looks like he’s throwing up,” Kaz commented wryly. Once the barge was 
safely anchored he had been able to watch the end of the fight without 
incurring the captain’s wrath. 
Veldan and Elion exchanged a look of sympathy. “Remember the first man 
you ever killed?” Elion said softly. She made a face. “I’ll never forget it. It 
was awful.” 
“The dinghy is ready,” Meglyn said. “Which of you is coming with me? 
Veldan or Elion? If we’re bringing your two friends back, there won’t be 
room for anyone else.” 
“I would suggest I go,” Elion said to Veldan. “I’ve had a bit more practice 

with boats, and that old shoulder injury of yours might make rowing 
difficult.” 
Reluctantly, Veldan agreed that he was right. Backwatering with her oars, 
Meglyn held the dinghy steady against the side of the barge while Elion 
climbed down a rope ladder into the little rowing boat. Onshore, Toulac and 
Zavahl had spotted them, and were standing together on the rocks, waving 
and yelling wildly. 
“Loremaster Veldan?” The mind-speech had a slightly odd accent, and with 
a start, she remembered the mysterious voice that had warned her they were 
heading for the rocks. Clearly Kaz had heard it too. He turned his head and 
gave her a puzzled look. “Yes? Who is it?” she asked. 
“I am Mrainil, the last surviving Loremaster of the Dobarchu.” A sleek, 
round head popped up on the surface of the water. 
“Thank you for your timely warning, Mrainil,” Veldan said. “You probably 
saved all our lives. But what brings you here, so far into these northern 
waters?” 
“Alas, I have bitter tidings.” The sorrow of the Dobarchu washed over her in 
a wave. “My race has almost been annihilated, and I have brought the poor, 
last remnants of my people to Gendival, seeking sanctuary. I know this goes 
against Cergorn’s prohibition, but I no longer care. He is our one last chance, 
and if he will not take us in, the Dobarchu are finished.” 
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Veldan assured him. “Cergorn is no 
longer Archimandrite, and in this current crisis, all policies are changing. 
You’ll have a home with us, and welcome. I’m sure of it.” 
“You ease my mind, Veldan, and your news is the best I have heard in a 
long, dark age. But if Cergorn rules no longer, then who is Archimandrite 
now?” 
Veldan took a deep breath. “Amaurn, once known as the renegade.” 
“Amaurn? I thought that he must be dead!” There was a pause, while Mrainil 
digested Veldan’s startling news. “When we have a moment, you must tell 
me how such an astounding thing could have come about. I was very young 
when he was accused of treason, and like most young folk, I sided with the 
rebel. Since then, my perceptions of the world have changed a good deal, 
and with them, my opinions of Amaurn, who must have been misguided in 
some matters, if not all. But if he will save my people, then perhaps the 
views of my youth were the right ones after all. There is much to be said for 
a compassionate heart, especially in these times.” 
Compassionate heart? Veldan thought of the merciless Lord Blade and 
shuddered, but kept her own counsel. 
People can change, and I truly believe that Amaurn is doing his best to leave 
Blade behind him. At least I hope so, for all our 
sakes. For now, though, I must—we all must—give him the benefit of the 
doubt. 

In the meantime, a change of subject wouldn’t hurt. “How many of your 
people are with you?” she asked Mrainil. 
“Eighteen—seventeen, now,” he added, with a touch of bitterness. “Oh, my 
people were right to help your friend. But we can scarcely afford to lose any 
of our number. Our future hangs by a thread.” 
“I regret your loss most keenly,” Veldan said. “Your people were very brave 
to go to Zavahl’s aid like that, when they could have simply taken to the 
water and saved themselves. At least I can bring you one piece of news that 
might help ease your grief a little. You aren’t the last surviving Loremaster 
of the Dobarchu, Mrainil. Kyrre made it through to us, and though she was 
badly injured, she is recovering now and will be very glad to see you.” 
Mrainil gave a squeak of joy. “Kyrre? She’s alive? Oh, this is wonderful 
news! I can scarcely believe it.” 
Veldan smiled. “You and your people have suffered indeed, Mrainil, but 
we’ll take good care of you now. We’ll get you all aboard the boat, if you’re 
agreeable, and we’ll take you up the river to Gendival in style. And later, if 
you want to come back to the ocean, I’m sure we can find you somewhere to 
settle along the coast. It’ll be much colder than you’re used to, but maybe we 
can find some way around that.” 
“The lake at Gendival will suit us very well at present,” Mrainil said. 
“Freshwater is not ideal for us, but under the present circumstances, it’ll do 
just fine.” 
“And if you get sick of freshwater fish, we can get the Navigators to bring 
you shellfish upriver from the coast,” Veldan promised. “If we put them on 
ice, they should keep fresh enough.” 
“I hate to break up this meeting,” Kaz interrupted, “but the dinghy has 
reached the shore. They’ll be on their way back soon.” 
“I must get my people organized,” said Mrainil, and streaked back through 
the waves toward the shore. 
Veldan hugged the firedrake, then went to join an excited Ailie at the rail to 
welcome the wanderers home. 
With piteous cries, the Dobarchu had gathered round their comrade. As 
Zavahl approached, they made space for him, and let him kneel beside the 
still form. He laid a hand on the soft, sleek fur. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. 
“I’m truly sorry.” 
When he had been Hierarch, Gilarra had often accused him of being too 
uncaring and too detached from the lives of the folk who depended on him to 
care for them. Now he knew how right she had been. In one short night, 
these alien Dobarchu had become closer to him than any of his own 
Callisiorans had ever been. He had found out what it meant to care—and it 
cut both ways. 

Would a single one of my subjects have laid their life down for me as this 
little creature did tonight? I know very well that they wouldn’t. But I was so 
cut off from them. Why should they care what happened to me? 
But someone here cared about him. He looked down to see his new friend 
the young female gazing up at him. She pushed herself under his arm and 
snuggled close. Zavahl hugged her. “Thank Myrial it wasn’t you, little one,” 
he said softly. “You probably can’t understand me, but I’m glad to see that 
you’re safe.” 
Just then, he felt a touch on his shoulder. “Come on,” Toulac said gruffly. 
“Look, they’re bringing a boat in. We’ll have you back to your lady friend in 
no time.” 
Reluctantly, Zavahl let her pull him away from the body of the Dobarchu. 
“Shouldn’t we bury him, or something?” he asked. 
“His people are going to take care of him before we leave,” Toulac told him. 
“Mrainil said they always bury their dead at sea.” 
“As long as he has a proper resting place,” Zavahl said. “I owe my life to 
him and his friends.” 
“And we won’t worry about the wreckers,” Toulac added. “Let the carrion 
take care of itself. At least the crabs will have a feast tonight.” 
Together they went down to meet the boat, which by now was close inshore. 
Zavahl saw that it was being rowed by a strange woman with dark, cropped 
hair and, to his relief, Elion. After everything that had happened, it was good 
to see another familiar face. It was difficult to clamber from the slippery 
rocks into the light, pitching craft, and Zavahl came very close to plunging 
headfirst into the sea; but the tall woman reached out an arm, grabbed a 
handful of his shirt, and yanked hard, so that somehow he found himself in a 
heap in the bottom of the boat, wondering rather dazedly how he had 
managed to get there. To his surprise, his little friend, who had accompanied 
him down to the sea, leapt in after him, clearly determined not to let him out 
of her sight. Elion was grinning at him. “I hope Ailie isn’t going to be 
jealous.” 
Zavahl didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t used to being chaffed in this 
way—after all, who would dare tease the Hierarch of Callisiora?—but, 
though it was a little embarrassing, he liked the warm feeling of belonging 
that it gave him. 
He and Toulac settled in the stern, while Elion and the woman who had been 
introduced as Meglyn bent to the oars. Zavahl glanced back at the lonely 
beach where so much had happened. The Dobarchu were gone, taking their 
comrade to his last resting place. Up on the beach near the cliff, a dim glow 
of firelight marked the position of the shelter on which he and Toulac had 
worked so hard and, glad though he was to be leaving, he felt a pang at 
having to leave it behind. It would always stand out in his memory as the 
first thing he had ever created with his own hands. 
A real bed would be welcome, though. He was shivering with exhaustion 

and delayed reaction to the attack, as well as from the cold. Seawater had got 
into the shallow cut along his ribs, and the wound burned and stung from the 
salt. It was an infinite relief to reach the rescue vessel. After hoisting his 
Dobarchu friend onto the deck, he climbed awkwardly aboard himself, and 
his relief on reaching safety at last was so profound that he almost wept. 
For the first time in his life, Zavahl found himself among friends. Ailie came 
rushing forward and hugged him. Caught up in the exuberance of the 
moment, he hugged Veldan too. After an instant of frozen astonishment, she 
hugged him back, with a smile that lit up her whole face. For the first time, 
he looked past her scar and was stunned by the extraordinary beauty that he 
saw. 
Dear Myrial! And I called her a monster! No wonder she hated me. 
Then he was hugging Ailie again, alight with pure happiness, and if anyone 
had come up to him in that moment and offered to spirit him back to his old 
life as Hierarch of Callisiora, with all its attendant pomp and wealth, he 
would have laughed in their face. 
CHAPTER 15 
Solid Air 
Scall rode helplessly through the darkness, torn between anger and fear. He 
could feel the clutch of the Summoner’s mind, overriding his wishes, 
trapping his own thoughts deep within him. It was forcing him to stay on the 
horse and keep riding through the storm, away from shelter and safety and 
familiar surroundings, away from the trader and Rochalla, away from all his 
hopes of making a new future for himself. 
Inwardly, he raged at Dark. 
How could he do this to me? I trusted him! What right has he to tear me 
away from Tormon and the others like this? 
Beneath the anger, however, fear gnawed at him. If only he could see Dark’s 
face, it might give him some clue as to his captor’s state of mind, but even 
such glimpses as he could get were useless, for the Summoner’s features 
were hidden and inscrutable beneath the expressionless mask of bone, and 
the boy could find no answers to his questions. Why had Dark run away like 
that when he could have identified Grim’s killer and had Scall’s evidence in 
support? It made no sense. Why had he involved Scall in his flight? 
Surely, if he wanted to escape, a reluctant captive could only be a hindrance. 
What does he want with me? Where am I being taken? What’s going to 

happen to me now? Will I ever see my friends again? 
As well as being afraid for himself, he was also concerned for the safety of 
the others; especially Rochalla, who was unaware of the changes that had 
taken place in Presvel, who was now as dangerous and unpredictable as a 
wild beast. Presvel had lain in wait for him, and threatened him. Presvel had 
killed the old Summoner, Grim. Tormon had warned Scall to beware of the 
man and he had been right, but he could have no idea of the extent of the 
threat. Presvel had been finding it increasingly difficult to cope with life 
beyond the luxury and security of Tiarond’s walls. It had been plain, even to 
Scall, that the balance of his mind had been deteriorating with every step that 
took him farther from the city, and now it seemed he had lost his last, 
lingering hold on sanity. Rochalla was trapped with him in the reiver 
stronghold, innocent of her peril—and he, Scall, was unable to warn her. 
In that moment, he detested Dark with all his heart. His only goal must be to 
bide his time—not that he had much choice, at present—and await his 
chance to escape. Surely the Summoner couldn’t keep him under this 
unnatural control forever. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Scall 
knew he must be ready. He looked at the cloaked figure who rode ahead of 
him, dimly visible through the driving sleet. 
You’d better watch out, Dark I don’t plan to be a prisoner forever! 
Only the faint hope that he might somehow get away kept him from sinking 
into utter despair. 
Unfortunately, the Summoner’s unyielding hold over him didn’t keep away 
the night’s bitter chill. Scall’s ears, jaw, toes, and fingers were aching with 
the cold. The wind seemed to blow straight through his wet clothing till it 
reached his very bones. He was more concerned, however, with the fact that 
his little mare was in distress. She was too finely bred for a climate such as 
this, and was without the shaggy coats that let the reiver horses weather the 
wild moors. She lacked their sturdiness and stamina, too. The long journey 
from Tiarond had left her badly in need of a good rest, and now she was 
exhausted from fighting the cold and the storm. He could feel her trembling 
beneath him, and wondered how much longer she could keep going before 
she collapsed. Scall couldn’t bear to think of her suffering. If any harm came 
to her, he would find a way to make Dark pay if it took him the rest of his 
life. 
All thoughts of escape, his friends, and even his beloved horse, fled from 
Scall’s mind as he and his captor drew close to the border of the only land he 
had ever known. Though naturally he had heard of the Curtain Walls, he had 
never had the opportunity to see them, and had only half believed the stories. 
Now, the vast, multicolored sheet of light that stretched across the horizon 
and towered up into the sky struck awe into his heart. They shone brightly 
even through the drifting veils of sleet, and he shrank beneath such 
immensity, unnerved by the flickering, unnatural radiance that lit the 
landscape for miles around, and the snarling, buzzing sound that vibrated 
through his body and set his teeth on edge. There was a smell on the wind 

that reminded him of the air during a thunderstorm, and he could feel an 
uncomfortable prickling all over him, like insects crawling on his skin. 
After a time, Dark slowed his pace and seemed to hesitate, peering around as 
if looking for some landmark. Again, Scall wondered where he was being 
taken. A dreadful thought had begun to grow in him. Had the Summoner 
somehow been driven mad by grief over his master’s death? Had some 
temporary insanity sent him out onto the moors in this dreadful storm? Scall 
had heard tales of such things happening, though he had no way of knowing 
whether there was any truth to them. 
If he hasn’t lost his mind, then I don’t know what the idiot can be thinking of. 
There’s absolutely nothing out here, and if we don’t find shelter soon, we’ll 
die for sure. 
Finally, Dark appeared to have come to a decision. He turned aside from the 
route they had been taking and followed the curve of the slope round the 
bottom of a steep hill. Suddenly, the unnerving glow of the Curtain Walls 
was straight ahead, and both the buzzing and the crawling discomfort on 
Scall’s body were increasing. He saw that they were in a narrow vale, with 
steep grassy slopes and high ridges on either side. Several narrow streamlets, 
edged by occasional clumps of gorse and thorn, ran through the valley from 
springs that trickled here and there on the steep, grassy slopes, but he had 
little chance to notice such details. His mind quailed from the sight before 
him, refusing to believe that they could be heading directly for that glowing 
barrier. Had the Summoner decided to end his life by riding into the Curtain 
Walls? What would happen to someone who rode right into such sheets of 
fearful energy? Would he survive the experience? Scall very much doubted 
it. Dark, however, appeared to have other ideas. With his goal clearly in 
sight, he picked up the pace, dragging a reluctant captive, on his equally 
reluctant horse, behind. 
Suddenly, the shrieking in the air, that Scall had assumed to be the wind, 
grew louder—loud enough to drown the buzz of the Curtain Walls—and he 
recognized the shrill, discordant voices that had haunted his blackest 
nightmares ever since he had left the city. The winged fiends from Tiarond 
were coming, and here he was, penned in this bottleneck of a valley like a 
cornered rat. 
Scall’s mouth went dry. Panic caused his heart to thunder in his chest. 
Desperately he tried to move, to speak, to warn Dark of their peril, but the 
Summoner’s hold was too complete. All he could do was sit helplessly in the 
saddle and wait for his death to come plummeting from the skies. But Scall 
was not the only one who remembered. Without warning, the little chestnut 
took off at a gallop, running away from the threat, toward the Curtain Walls. 
Dark was taken completely by surprise. During the entire journey, the mare 
had been dragging at her tether, and he had been braced against that pull. 
Now she darted ahead, jerking him the other way, and almost yanking him 
out of the saddle. To save himself, the Summoner let go of the rein, and the 
mare, unfettered now, moved even faster. Her panic was contagious, and set 

the other horses wheeling and plunging, so that Dark’s concentration was 
bent on restraining the frightened beasts. 
Scall felt the iron grip that had subdued his mind slacken abruptly, letting 
him regain the mastery of his body. Gradually he got his bolting mount back 
under control—an endeavor made much easier by her weariness and the fact 
that she was almost as afraid of the barrier that lay before her as she was 
terrified by the horrors she had left behind. Scall had no disagreement with 
that. He was going nowhere near that barrier—not if he could help it! Pulling 
her head around, he turned her back the way he had come, and found Dark in 
pursuit some little way behind, unaware of the black airborne shape, halfobscured 
by the skeins of drifting sleet, that was gaining on him fast. 
In that instant, Scall’s resentment of the Summoner seemed insignificant. No 
matter that he had got them into this predicament, he was human, and not 
some vile and brutal monster. Besides, maybe he had some sort of 
mysterious power, or knew some way of defending them. “Dark! Look out! 
Above you!” With all his might, he screamed the words into the storm. 
Without waiting to see if Dark had heard, he cast desperately around for a 
weapon of some kind. One of the streamlets was nearly at Scall’s feet, its 
shallow bed littered along the edges with smooth, waterworn stones of 
various sizes. Scall slid out of his saddle, remembering to put an arm 
through a loop of the reins, as Tormon had taught him, so that his horse 
would have no chance of running away. 
Stooping, he snatched up a missile. Back when he had been an apprentice in 
the Precincts, he had always been the best among his companions at hurling 
stones. He took aim in the direction of the winged shape that was swooping 
low over Dark’s head, and threw. 
Dark had heard Scall cry out, but had been unable to make out the words 
over the discordant drone of the Curtain Walls and the shrieking of the wind. 
He barely had time to wonder at the terror on the boy’s face when Scall 
started throwing rocks at him. Though the Summoner had been present 
during various discussions of the winged fiends, peril that came from above 
was still an abstraction, outside his normal experience, and it was completely 
unnatural for him to look up in response to a threat. Besides, no one had 
expected the deadly creatures to have come so far from Tiarond so soon. 
Thinking that he was Scall’s target, he crouched low on the neck of his 
mount, impeding his vision even further. 
All at once, something hit him with tremendous force, driving his breath 
from his body and knocking him from the saddle. He hit the ground hard, 
banging his head, and narrowly missed being trampled by the two panicstricken 
horses. Dazed, he tried to roll over onto his hands and knees so that 
he could lever himself up to his feet, but he was prevented by a weight that 
pressed down on him, pinning him underneath. As the shock of the fall 

subsided and the flashes of scintillant, colored light cleared from his vision, 
he opened his eyes—and looked into the face of death itself. 
The narrow, bony features of Dark’s attacker were far more terrifying than 
his own skull mask had ever been, perhaps all the more so because they were 
a hideous travesty of the human face. The mouth was the wide maw of a 
predator and filled with cruel, pointed fangs. Its stench was foul, like rotting 
meat, and its pitiless eyes burned with an unearthly crimson light. All of this 
Dark saw in a single, frozen instant of horror that branded the image 
indelibly on his memory. 
The fiend stooped over him and gave a drawn-out hiss. Its great, black wings 
blotted out the light. The long, sharp talons on one sinewy hand pierced 
straight through his clothes into his skin, while the other was upraised, 
razored claws extended, ready to tear him open. Dark cringed away, crying 
out in terror, convinced that his last moment had come, but the creature 
hesitated, its head cocked on one side. It was plainly puzzled by the 
Summoner’s skull mask. Making a small, interrogative sound, it extended its 
talons still farther, reaching out tentatively toward his face—then suddenly it 
gave a lurch, and toppled over to one side with a cry that was cut off 
abruptly as Scall appeared behind it and hit it a second time with the rock he 
held in his hand. 
The lad stood over him, weighing the bloodstained rock in his hand as if 
contemplating whether to hit the Summoner with it, too. Dark noticed that 
the last of the boyishness had left his face. “You know what that was, I 
expect,” he said, in a voice that was dangerously calm. “Now that you’ve got 
us into this mess, would you like to tell me what you plan to do next? 
Because if there’s one of those creatures around, there’ll soon be more, and I 
don’t think it’ll take very long for them to find us.” Abruptly, his fragile 
calm shattered. “This is all your fault!” With a howl, Scall attacked the 
Summoner, who was still trying to rise, kicking him and pummeling him 
with his fists. “Why?” he cried. “Why did you do this, you stupid fool? 
Don’t you realize that you’ve killed us both?” 
Though the boy was too exhausted, and too numb and stiff with cold to do 
much damage, his blows stopped Dark from concentrating enough to get 
Scall’s mind back under control. “Stop! Scall, stop it!” he shouted, 
struggling to get to his feet and defend himself. 
Suddenly Scall broke away and began to run toward his horse, which he had 
tethered to a thornbush at the edge of a nearby thicket. 
“Damn!” Finally, Dark managed to scramble to his feet. Without bothering 
to run after his escaping companion, he simply threw all his will in Scall’s 
direction and, once again, took control of his body. 
Scall fought back, but to no avail. The brief, brutal battle was fought in 
silence; but in the recesses of his mind, Dark could feel the boy’s struggles 
and hear him screaming. Each cry tore at his heart. He knew, however, that 
he had no choice. There was no way that the lad would go through the 
Curtain Walls voluntarily. Yet, judging from what he had said, more of those 

foul creatures might be on their way right now. 
The two reiver horses, still joined by their tether, had managed, in their 
panic, to entangle themselves in a thorn thicket a little way downstream. 
Keeping his will firmly on Scall, Dark hurried to reclaim the straying beasts 
and finally managed to get himself and his captive safely mounted once 
more. This time he didn’t let Scall ride, but used the length of rope from his 
pack to bind the boy across the saddle. He’d need all his concentration to 
find his way through the Curtain Walls without wasting any on keeping his 
captive under control. 
Dark was ready to leave, when he happened to glance down at the creature 
as it lay on the ground hear his feet. It was unconscious, but still alive, for he 
could see the rapid rise and fall of its breathing. He forced himself to 
overcome his revulsion and scrutinize it carefully—while still maintaining a 
safe distance. As he looked at it, a thought struck him, and in his mind, he 
heard his mentor’s voice. 
“Whenever you believe you have an adversary, remember that you must seek 
beyond the obvious, for your true enemy is ignorance itself.” 
That was one of Grim’s favorite lessons, and he had repeated it many times. 
Now, his pupil wondered whether the Shadowleague had ever been given the 
opportunity to study a live specimen of one of these fearsome predators. He 
doubted it. They wouldn’t be too easy to capture alive. It had only been a 
fortunate chance that this one had happened to be alone, and that Scall had 
been there with his rock while it was preoccupied with Dark. Surely, then, 
any knowledge they could gain from this particular creature would prove 
invaluable in working out a way to destroy its brethren. Dark looked again at 
the wiry body, built for speed and strength, and at those evil fangs and 
claws, and knew an instant’s doubt. Would the Shadowleague really be 
grateful for such a gift? Or would they punish him for bringing such a deadly 
threat into their midst? He had no way of knowing. All he had was the 
courage of his own convictions: in his very bones he knew that studying 
these fiends was the right thing to do. 
“In many cases, when you come to understand your foe, you find out that he 
isn’t really your enemy at all.” 
Again, Grim’s words came flashing into his mind. He looked down at the 
formidable natural weapons of this adversary, thought of its ability to strike 
from the skies, remembered the glare of those pitiless red eyes, and doubted, 
in this instance, whether Grim could be right. But there was only one way to 
find out, and little time to waste. 
It was a good thing that Grim had insisted they bring plenty of rope. As 
quickly as he could, he bound the dreadful fiend with hands that were 
clumsy with cold and tied it across the back of Grim’s horse. It took longer 
than he would have wanted, especially as he was continually nagged by the 
possibility that more of its brethren might come flying out of the storm. All 
the while, he was shrinking from the foul stench and the greasy, unclean 
touch of the pebbled, greyish skin, and terrified that the creature would 

awaken suddenly, before he had a chance to make it secure. The horse was 
even less impressed, and it took several precious moments and the full force 
of the Summoner’s will before it calmed down and reluctantly accepted its 
burden. 
By that time, Dark was almost frantic. The shrieking in the wind was 
increasing once more, and with it, his sense of unease. At last everything 
was ready, and with a sigh of relief, he mounted his horse and led his odd 
little cavalcade at a gallop toward the Curtain Walls. 
As he drew near, the crawling sensation on his skin increased to the point of 
real discomfort, giving Dark another reason to hurry. He knew that the 
horses wouldn’t stay close to such an unpleasant phenomenon for long. 
Closing his eyes, the better to remember Grim’s last, whispered instructions 
to him, he reached out toward the barrier with his mind, trying to somehow 
penetrate beyond it, to the arcane intelligence—if it could be called 
that—that lay at its core. It was much harder than he had expected. Grim had 
warned him that this was no human mind with which he was trying to make 
contact, but something vast and alien. “I can’t explain it,” he had said, “but 
when you find it, you’ll know.” 
Well, thanks, Grim. That’s a lot of help. 
Dark squeezed his eyes shut and tried harder—then, all at once, he had it. He 
felt a peculiar sensation of merging as his mind locked with a ... Something. 
It was not a human consciousness, such as he had found in his encounters 
with Scall, or with the young boy whose Passing he had conducted; nor was 
it an intelligence such as that of Grim’s mind when they communicated in 
their thoughts. This was more of an Awareness, and one so vast that it 
beggared all belief. For a giddy instant, Dark merged with an entire 
world—a world that, until now, he had never known existed. His mentor had 
told him that there were other realms beyond the Curtain Walls, and he had 
thought he understood the concept, but now he was overwhelmed by the 
immensity, the bewildering complexity, the beauty, the terror, and the sheer 
fascination of his first encounter with the world of Myrial. 
The buzzing of the Curtain Walls changed in volume and pitch, and, at the 
edge of his awareness, Dark realized that the barrier had parted to let him 
pass. Taking a deep breath, he rode through, and as he did so, he felt the 
Awareness leave him with a wrenching snap. As the aperture began to close 
behind him, he slumped down on his horse’s neck, utterly drained by his 
contact with the overmind of a whole world. 
It was the shrieking cries that warned him. Dark jerked upright, his 
exhaustion dispelled by a jolt of fear. One, two, three black-winged shapes 
came hurtling through the diminishing gap. A fourth came just too late, and 
he heard its agonized screams as the barrier closed upon it. Ignoring the 
death of their companion, the other three came straight for Dark, their talons 

extended and their eyes glowing with a demonic light. There was nowhere to 
run, and no way to fight. 
I’m finished! 
Even as the thought went wailing through his mind, he remembered what 
Grim had done the day they’d been attacked by the father of the young reiver 
boy. Concentrating all his will, he threw up a barrier of his own—a shield of 
force that enclosed himself, his prisoners, and the horses within a dome of 
solid air. As the fiends impacted with his transparent obstacle, Dark flinched, 
but somehow he kept his concentration, and the structure held firm. The 
creatures stopped dead in the air as though they had collided with a stone 
wall, and fell back in a tangle of flailing wings and limbs, sliding off the 
curved surface of the dome. 
Baffled, their eyes blazing with anger, the predators launched themselves at 
Dark once more—and once more fell back, thwarted, only a couple of feet 
away from their prey. In a frenzy, they redoubled their attacks, determined to 
batter their way through to the feast they could so clearly see. It was 
terrifying to be so close to them. The barrier did nothing to keep out their 
foul carrion stench, nor the piercing, discordant shrieks of their voices. He 
was sure that he could hear the faint scrabbling, scratching sound of their 
claws upon the shield he had created. 
It was dreadful to be surrounded by such fiends, for they had placed 
themselves at intervals around the dome, and were attacking it from different 
angles, but in time, Dark came to realize that this was a good thing. If all 
three of them had concentrated their efforts on one place, he doubted that he 
would have had sufficient strength to keep them out—and besides, the 
horses, in trying to bolt away from the threat, would be putting pressure on 
the shield from within. As it was, they had driven into a sweating, panicstricken 
huddle in the center of the dome, trying to keep as far away as 
possible from the threat outside. 
Dark was proud of his barrier. Grim had taught him the technique after they 
were threatened by the grieving father of the reiver boy, but this was the first 
time he’d actually had the chance—or the need—to put his lessons into 
practice. But there was no point in congratulating himself too soon. The 
shield might be effective, and his only hope of survival, but unfortunately, it 
was also a trap. Dark had not yet perfected the technique of moving around 
while keeping his defense in place. Maybe if he only had himself to cover, 
he could manage it—at least, he was fairly sure he could—but he couldn’t 
extend it far enough to keep it in position for long over three moving horses 
that were so scared that they might bolt off over the horizon at any moment. 
To make matters worse, the three winged fiends showed no signs of being 
discouraged by their failure to reach their prey. They could see quite clearly 
that there was food under the dome, and they would simply keep up their 
onslaught until Dark’s strength and concentration gave out and his defenses 
could be penetrated. 
Wonderful. So what do I do now, Grim? 

The strain of keeping up such a large shield was immense, and Dark could 
already feel himself beginning to tire. Despite the cold, he could feel sweat 
forming on his brow and beneath his clothes, and his breathing was growing 
faster. He was glad that he had remained on his horse. He was starting to 
tremble and he doubted very much that his shaking legs could have 
supported him, had he been standing on his feet. Beyond his frail barrier, 
could the predators sense that he was weakening? Was it only his 
imagination that made them seem to be redoubling the ferocity of their 
attacks? Grim had trusted him to get through the Curtain Walls and reach the 
Shadowleague. How could he fail his mentor? Surely he wasn’t destined to 
end his life as scraps of meat in the belly of these foul creatures? 
Help! Please! Somebody help me! 
The cry in his mind had been a reflex, a simple voicing of despair; the 
actions of a man at his wits’ end. No one was more surprised than Dark, 
when he received a reply. 
“Stand firm. I’m coming.” A moment later, a flaming shape came hurtling 
out of the darkness like a comet, trailing a long tail of sparks. It exploded 
into the midst of Dark’s assailants, aiming straight for the eyes of one of the 
foul creatures. There was a blood-freezing scream, and the sharp stench of 
burning flesh came through the Summoner’s shield. The fiend fell to the 
ground, clawing at its eyes, still emitting ghastly shrieks, while its two 
companions scattered in opposite directions. One of them fled, taking a 
course at right angles to the Curtain Walls, and the fiery entity streaked 
round to follow. The other predator flew off parallel to the mysterious 
barrier, heading north at a tremendous speed. 
What in the name of all creation was that? 
Dark slumped in the saddle, running out of strength and desperate to let his 
shield go, but too suspicious of his alien, unknown benefactor to let himself 
relax just yet. Now that the first crisis was over, he realized that the strange 
creature had addressed him in mind-speech, just as his mentor had been 
wont to do. The Summoner shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He 
knew he wasn’t thinking clearly; his thoughts were a seething mix of 
confusion, exhaustion, and fear. Was the fiery being one of the 
Shadowleague, then? Grim had claimed that all sorts of weird and incredible 
creatures were part of that elite order, but Dark had only half believed it. His 
master had been known to tease him before. 
Well, whatever it was, at least it got those foul demons off his back. He was 
just weighing up the possibilities of letting the shield go and continuing on 
his way, when he caught sight of a distant flicker of light in the sky, too 
golden to be a star, and moving fast across the horizon. After a few 
moments, it was plain that the burning one—or another of its kind—was 
returning, and Dark steeled himself for the inevitable confrontation. 
Closer and closer came the fiery shape, growing both in size and brightness 
as it approached. Finally, it slowed and hovered just beyond his shield, and 
he was astonished to see that it was a beautiful bird, about the size and shape 

of an eagle, with a fiery crest and every feather on its body marked in shades 
of gold and delineated in dazzling flame. From the beak and fierce eye of a 
raptor, to a streaming tail of fire and parks at least a yard long, the effulgent 
being was a preternatural vision but, even more miraculously, Dark could 
actually feel the heat that the creature radiated penetrating his shield, and for 
the first time that night, he actually felt warm. 
“Who in the name of wonder are you?” The voice, when it resounded 
through his mind, managed to sound both puzzled and sharp with 
annoyance. It was, however, definitely feminine. “You aren’t a member of 
the Shadowleague,” the glorious entity accused him. “Who taught you how 
to penetrate the Curtain Walls? How do you know mind-speech? And what 
in the name of perdition were you playing at, letting those foul monsters 
through into Gendival? They both got away, you know. I couldn’t catch the 
one I was chasing, and goodness only knows where the other is by now. 
Whoever you are, the Archimandrite isn’t going to be very pleased with this 
night’s work, let me tell you.” She—he supposed he should be calling it a 
she—paused to regard him beadily. “Well? Did the Ak’Zahar steal away 
your tongue? And for pity’s sake, why don’t you drop that shield before you 
collapse? What do you think I’m going to do? Eat you?” 
With that savage, curving beak, she looked as though she could make a meal 
of him—and cook him first. With an effort, Dark pulled himself together. 
“I... I’m sorry about letting the fiends through,” he answered in mind-speech. 
“I couldn’t help it—they just came out of nowhere when I opened the 
Curtain Walls. No one thought they would get here from Tiarond so fast.” 
“You came from Tiarond?” 
“No. From the lands of the reivers, not that far from here. But my clan is 
sheltering a handful of refugees from the city, including this boy.” He 
gestured at Scall, who was still bound across the saddle of the chestnut mare, 
and twisting his head to gape at the fiery vision. “My mentor, Grim, said that 
I must—” 
“Wait! You’re a friend of Grim?” Suddenly, much of the sharpness had 
vanished from the voice of the avian vision. “Why didn’t you say so before? 
Take off that ridiculous mask so I can see your face. And while we’re at it, 
will you please drop that shield, before you collapse?” 
“Oh.” In his amazement at being addressed by such an exotic being, Dark 
had forgotten all about the shield. With relief he let it go and felt it fall away 
from him as though he had finally stopped carrying a heavy burden on his 
back. Reluctantly, he removed his mask, feeling very vulnerable without it. 
For years, the only people who had seen his naked face were Izobia and 
Grim and—briefly—Scall. A shiver went through him as the cold night air 
struck his unprotected skin. Belatedly, he remembered his manners, and 
bowed his head to his bright companion. “My name is Dark, and I was 
Grim’s apprentice—until tonight.” 
She nodded her fiery crest to him. “I am Vaure, Phoenix and Listener, and ... 
Wait! What do you mean, you were his apprentice?” 

Once more, Dark felt the weight of his sorrow descend upon him. “Grim is 
dead. He was murdered tonight, by a companion of this lad who had lost his 
reason, I think, in the attacks of the ... What did you call them?” 
“Ak’Zahar,” Vaure replied absently. “Dark, this is grievous news. Grim has 
been long absent from Gendival, but I remember him when he was young, as 
you are now. He had another name then, but he was greatly respected and 
loved among the Shadowleague.” 
“I loved him too.” Dark discovered that even a mental voice could still break 
on a sob, “And I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. With his last 
breath he charged me to come to you, and to bring this lad with me, as well 
as some strange artifacts that the youth found beneath the city when he was 
escaping Tiarond.” 
“And so you came as Grim asked you, and that is to your credit. But you 
bring more than this young stranger, I fear.” Suddenly Vaure’s voice was 
censorious once more as she glared in the direction of the creature that was 
bound across Grim’s horse. “How dare you bring yet more of the foul 
Ak’Zahar to endanger our land?” 
Damn! I knew there would be trouble about this. 
But Dark was still convinced that he was right. “By a fluke I managed to 
capture the creature alive. Surely that can’t happen very often, so I thought 
the Shadowleague might like the opportunity to study a living specimen. I 
thought we would need all the information about them we can muster, if we 
are ever to remove their threat.” 
“We? Presumptuous indeed! But we will see what the Archimandrite 
Amaurn has to say about your temerity. He may have very different ideas 
about the future of one who has unleashed the Ak’Zahar on Gendival.” 
For a moment, Dark almost capitulated, and suggested that they kill the 
creature here, and be done with it—but the promptings of his stubborn 
conscience would not permit it. He knew that he was right. These creatures 
should be studied. 
I’m already in enough trouble for letting those fiends through the Curtain 
Walls. A little more won’t make too much difference at this point. 
But could he—dared he—argue the Archimandrite round to his point of 
view? Dark hoped so. Otherwise, his sojourn with the Shadowleague was 
going to be brief indeed. 
CHAPTER 16 
Beneath the Temple 

There was no sense of time passing in the Elsewhere that was Thirishri’s 
prison. Though the Magewoman Helverien had created her beautiful 
illusions of sky and ocean, they remained constant and unaltered, with none 
of the subtle changes in color, shadow, and light that marked the passage of 
a normal day. This should have been wearying, but the Wind-Sprite could 
feel no sensations of tiredness and, though she did not eat in the normal way 
of other creatures, but absorbed energy from her surroundings, she now had 
no need to do even that. It was a good thing she had company, or eventually 
she would have lost her mind. She was seething with frustration at being 
trapped in this dreadful place, unable even to communicate with the outside, 
when the world was in such a state of crisis—or at least, it had been when 
she was first imprisoned. She had no way of knowing how much time had 
passed on the normal world while she had languished here. Was it mere 
moments? Hours? Days? Or would she be released sometime in the future, 
and find that centuries had passed, and all her friends and everything she had 
known were all long gone? Would she end up like Helverien, doomed to be 
trapped for millennia, while history passed her by and the world altered 
beyond all recognition? 
How could it be borne? How had Helverien stayed sane? Or had she? 
“Thirishri?” The Mage was looking up at her, the faint lines of a frown 
between her brows. “You’re very quiet. Are you all right?” 
*As right as I can be, in this place,* Shree replied grouchily. *I was just 
wondering how you had managed to stand it for so long.* 
“I wonder that myself, sometimes. Somehow I managed never to lose hope 
that one day I would get out of here, and that helped. The other way was 
creating this landscape you see all around you from my memory, in all its 
multifarious detail. That must have taken me a few aeons, let me tell you. It 
wasn’t as simple as it might appear. I can’t imagine how the Creators 
managed to put together our whole world.” 
*Well, whatever they did, they don’t seem to have built the place to last,* 
the Wind-Sprite told her ruefully. *If we can’t find a way to stop the 
collapse of the Curtain Walls soon, there won’t be much of a world left for 
us, and goodness only knows what few species might be left alive at the end 
of it all.* 
Helverien sighed. “You don’t know how deeply I’ve yearned to see the 
world again, and for how long. It would be hard indeed if we ever get out of 
here and there’s nothing left. If only we could get out, we might be able to 
do something to save it. But as things stand, we’re helpless.” 
*What do you mean, we might be able to do something?* Shree asked 
sharply. *What in the name of wonder could we do?* 
“Don’t you know?” asked the Mage, in what Thirishri considered to be an 
irritatingly superior tone. “Beneath the surface of Myrial there are several 
access points left behind by the Creators. They lead down to the artifacts and 

mechanisms that maintain the planet’s systems. I know for certain that 
there’s one beneath the Basilica in Tiarond. If we could only escape from 
here and find our way down there, maybe we could work out what was going 
wrong.” 
*Do you mean to say it’s that easy? That the Ancients would just let anyone 
walk into these special places and start altering the balances that keep our 
world running as it should? I don’t believe it! And supposing you did find 
what was amiss? Just how would you propose to put it right? We don’t have 
the powers of the Creators.* 
Helverien shrugged. “We would worry about that when we got there—if we 
could only get there. You’re right about it not being as easy as it seems. As 
far as I know, the access is fairly open, but once you get down below, there 
are all sorts of lethal traps and obstacles designed to put paid to any 
unauthorized trespassers.” 
“And what do you propose to do about them?” Shree said tartly. The casual 
attitude, almost bordering on arrogance, of the Magewoman was beginning 
to get on her nerves. *Or do you think you’re so special that the hazards 
simply don’t apply to you, and that you can walk straight through a series of 
obstacles designed by the folk who were clever enough, and powerful 
enough, to Create a world?* 
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Helverien said calmly, “but I do stand a fairly good 
chance of finding my way. You forget that I’m a Recorder and an Archivist. 
I must be the only person still living who can read the script of the Creators. 
If only we could get out of here and find one of the control points, I would 
wager that they must have left some sort of instructions there to help us get 
in and put the problem right. If the world is in as bad a state as you say it is, 
it would be worth a try, surely.” 
The Wind-Sprite was astounded. What utter temerity, to want to go and 
meddle with the devices of a race who were powerful enough to build a 
world! She thought of what Cergorn would say, if he were only here. This 
was exactly the kind of irresponsible interference that he had been trying to 
stamp out. But in this case, would we really be right not to interfere? If 
matters continue to deteriorate as they are doing, surely there won’t be any 
of us left to inhabit this world anyway. And wouldn’t that be against the 
wishes of the Creators who had given us sanctuary here, in order to preserve 
our various races? 
Cergorn is my Archimandrite, my partner, and my friend. I must respect his 
wishes. 
“Even at the cost of the entire world?” For an instant, Shree did not register 
the fact that the final voice of her inner debate had not been her own. When 
the realization hit her, she exploded into anger. *You were snooping in my 
mind. How dare you!* 
Helverien shrugged, completely unmoved by the Wind-Sprite’s outrage. 
“Let’s just say that I’ve had a lot of time in here to develop bad habits. That 

doesn’t make me any less right, though. Whoever this Cergorn is, he’s an 
idiot if he’s just hoping that this situation will rectify itself. It won’t. The 
Curtain Walls are only the start of it. Once the systems start breaking down, 
one will impact on another, which will impact on three more until, realm by 
realm, the world will become an uninhabitable wasteland full of corpses. If 
we don’t start meddling, my friend, and pretty damn soon, there won’t be a 
world left for us.” 
For a moment, Thirishri felt paralyzed by horror. *Are you absolutely sure 
of this?* she said at last. 
“Why would I say so, if I wasn’t sure of my facts? My people managed to 
gain access to a fair amount of information belonging to the Creators, before 
they caught on to what we were doing—thanks to me.” She sighed, a 
shadow of old pain passing across her face, then rubbed a hand across her 
eyes as if to wipe the memory away. “Anyway, at one time, before I became 
a traitor, I came across an account of what had happened to another world of 
their creation, when the systems had started to break down. For some reason 
the usual checking and maintenance had been missed, and the place had been 
left to its own devices—very much like our own situation, it seems.” She 
shook her head. “They discovered the mistake too late. By the time they 
came back to the place, there was very little left alive. We don’t want that to 
happen here. If there are no longer any Creators to take care of our world, 
then we’ll just have to do it ourselves.” 
Somewhere deep in the earth, far below the Temple of Myrial, Aliana 
stopped and slumped against a wall, letting herself slide down until she was 
sitting on the floor. With a sigh, she stretched out her aching legs. It seemed 
as if she’d walked for miles through endless, featureless dark tunnels. After 
the last few strenuous days, she was just about at the end of her strength. “I 
don’t know about you,” she said, “but I need a rest.” 
“About bloody time, too.” She heard Packrat sinking down beside her. “I 
thought you were going to keep us walking till we dropped.” 
“I was scared that we’d be caught,” Aliana admitted. “I wanted to get as far 
as we could before we rested.” 
“Well, I notice you didn’t bother to ask how far I could go without a rest.” 
“I don’t remember asking you to come along at all.” 
For once he was without a retort—they were both far too tired to start 
bickering—and Aliana celebrated her reprieve by getting out the food she 
had brought with her, while her fellow Ghost did the same. Briefly, she 
considered offering to pool their resources and share, but thought better of it. 
She wasn’t sure she fancied anything that had been in Packrat’s pocket. The 
air was very dry, and they both were desperately thirsty, but Aliana only had 
a little leather flask that she had filled the previous night in the brewhouse, 
and Packrat had none at all. They only dared ration themselves a couple of 

sparing sips each, and Aliana hoped that they could find a supply 
somewhere, or they were going to be in trouble. 
After they had eaten, she blew out the candle to conserve it for when they 
were moving, and the two of them were swallowed by absolute darkness. 
Unfortunately, as soon as the light had gone, she couldn’t seem to control 
her drooping eyelids any longer. “Do you think it’s safe to go to sleep 
without posting a guard?” she whispered. 
Packrat grunted. “I couldn’t give a damn.” 
That was about the last thing she remembered before she fell asleep herself. 
Aliana awakened abruptly, panic sweeping over her. How long had she 
slept? How much ground had Galveron gained on her? So far there had been 
no major division in the corridor they followed, though occasionally she had 
seen openings set high into the wall, large enough for a person to squeeze 
through, with short ladders leading up to them. The apertures were covered 
in fine grilles, and appeared to be vents of some sort. Perhaps they were used 
to keep the place clean, somehow. There was no dust on the floor, where she 
would have expected to find it, but she could see plenty of muck caught in 
the rusting grilles. More than once, she had considered climbing into one of 
the vents to look inside for a hiding place for the Hierarch’s ring, but the 
grilles looked to be set solidly in place, and she hadn’t wanted to waste the 
time it would take to free one. 
They were strange, these corridors. The walls, floor, and ceiling all seemed 
to be made of a dark metal with a bluish sheen, not reflective, but polished to 
a soft gleam. Oddly, it felt quite warm to the touch. The air, too, was fairly 
warm, and whispered gently past her face in the softest of breezes, carrying a 
faintly acrid tang that she could not quite identify. So far as her circle of 
candlelight had shown, there had been nothing of particular interest to see up 
to that point, but on the other hand, no danger had threatened either, so all in 
all Aliana was not unhappy with her surroundings. There was only one 
problem: how was she going to find a hiding place for the ring if the 
underground passages continued to be so featureless and empty? 
Don’t be silly. They must lead somewhere. We just haven’t gone far enough, 
yet. 
She lit the candle again. Then, because it was very unwise to awaken a Grey 
Ghost suddenly, she took herself prudently out of reach of Packrat’s knife 
before she gave a shout to rouse him. As she’d expected, he was on his feet, 
knife in hand, almost before his eyes were open. “Come on,” she said. “It’s 
time we were moving again.” 
Packrat glared at her and muttered a curse. Aliana thought of reminding him 
that no one had forced him to come along, but on seeing his sour expression, 
she thought better of it. They might as well not start the day—if day it 
was—with an argument. 
After another meager sip of water each, they continued on their way, driven 
by Aliana’s urgent need to keep going. “Galveron’s not stupid,” she told her 

complaining companion. “Once we’re missed, it’ll only be a matter of time 
before he works out where we’ve gone. They’ll look everywhere else, and 
then they’ll realize that we can’t be anywhere but down here.” 
“Right in her precious Holy of Holies, where no one but the Hierarch is 
allowed to set foot,” Packrat said thoughtfully. “That puts her in a bit of a 
fix, doesn’t it? Will she break her own rules, do you think, and let Galveron 
come down here after us?” 
“Well, she can’t send anyone else, that’s for sure. Galveron is the only one 
who knows about the ring. She won’t risk her secret going any further.” 
“What about Alestan and the rest of the Ghosts? They know. Maybe she’ll 
get them to help. That brother of yours would be anxious to find you, 
especially once he knows that you’re in trouble.” 
“That brother of mine is locked up in a prison cell—if Gilarra hasn’t thrown 
him, and the others, out of the Temple already.” 
“Nah. Not yet, anyway. Your friends are the only bargaining counter she 
has.” Packrat’s voice took on an accusing tone. “You know, if it was anyone 
else, they’d get thrown out of the Grey Ghosts for this. You know damn well 
what Galveron said about stealing—and then you not only go and run off 
with the most valuable thing in the whole accursed Temple. You’ve done it 
now, you stupid fool. We’re all finished here. There’ll be no more sanctuary 
in the Temple for us. Even if you could manage to talk your way around old 
Blue-Eyes, there would still be the Hierarch to deal with, and she won’t 
forgive you if you live to be a million—which, seeing as she’s going to 
throw us all out into the streets, isn’t very likely.” 
Packrat began to stamp along faster, as his voice grew angrier. “I don’t know 
what you were thinking of. After everything we went through to get to the 
safety of the Temple—after all you did, risking the winged fiends and 
crawling through all those corpses to bring the blasting powder across—why 
did you throw it all away? And how could you put the rest of us in such 
danger? I thought we were supposed to be your friends.” 
“It’s Gilarra,” Aliana protested. “It’s not just the fact that she hates us, and 
we can’t trust her, and she had Alestan arrested. She’s no damn good at 
being Hierarch. She doesn’t know how to inspire people, and make them feel 
they matter. And she’s such a cow! Galveron would make a much better 
leader, but he’s so upright and honorable and loyal, it would never cross his 
mind to take the ring for himself...” 
“So you decided to take it for him.” Packrat threw wide his hands in a 
gesture of despair. “For pity’s sake, Aliana, I always thought you had some 
sense! When did you stop thinking like the leader of the Grey Ghosts, and 
start acting like some woolly-headed simpering virgin without a sensible 
thought in her head?” He drove one fist into the other. “I can’t believe this. 
You fall for a handsome face and a pair of blue eyes, and the next thing we 
know, you’ve broken your word to the most powerful person in the city and 
betrayed your friends—your only family—and for what? Do you really think 
that Mister Honorable is going to say, ‘Oh, what a good idea, Aliana, I never 

would have thought of that, I’ll seize power at once’? You idiot!” 
I don’t believe this. Surely it can’t be true. He actually sounds as though 
he’s jealous! 
Aliana stopped in her tracks, so abruptly that Packrat almost fell over her. 
“You’re wrong!” she yelled. “Gilarra started this, the lying, conniving bitch, 
when she arrested my brother. I’ll get her for that if it’s the last thing I do. 
And I did not fall in love with Galveron! It’s just so obvious that he should 
be the leader! I just thought that if I hid the ring, so that he couldn’t hand it 
over straightaway, there would be a chance of persuading him. And Gilarra 
can’t throw us out in the meantime; otherwise, the ring would be lost to her 
for good—and surely Galveron wouldn’t? Especially if we’d just handed 
him power?” 
There was a long pause before Packrat spoke again. “You do know, don’t 
you, that when you eventually try to give the ring to Galveron, he’ll only 
take it from you and give it back to Gilarra?” 
Aliana sighed, and sank to the floor, feeling wretched and spent. “I know. 
It’s the part I hadn’t quite worked out yet— how to cope with that bloody 
integrity of his.” 
Packrat sat down beside her, and when he spoke again, it was in tones of 
someone picking his way across an unsound roof, knowing that one false 
step would collapse the whole structure. “Aliana, if you’re determined to get 
rid of Gilarra as Hierarch, the only way you could possibly do it would be to 
get rid of Gilarra herself.” 
Shock sheeted like ice across Aliana’s skin. “You mean ... Kill her?” 
“Why not?” Packrat’s tones were matter-of-fact. “Do you reckon she would 
lose any sleep over killing us? Ever since we set foot through the door of her 
accursed Temple, she’s been desperate to kick us out again. What else is that 
but murdering us? She’s just telling herself that if the winged fiends did 
happen to kill us, our blood wouldn’t be on her hands. She’s wrong about 
that. It would still make her a murderer—just a dirty, cowardly one. That 
wouldn’t matter to us, though. Either way, we’d be just as dead.” 
The notion of actually killing the Hierarch, however, was too extreme for 
Aliana to deal with all at once. She had begun this escapade when she was 
exhausted and angry, and her thinking had not been at its clearest. She was 
still sure that her plan to make Galveron leader had its merits—if only she 
could find a way to bring it off. But to actually murder Gilarra? If Packrat 
was right, it meant that what had started off as a simple plan was getting way 
out of control, and the consequences, in the long term, would be staggering. 
“Come on.” She scrambled hastily to her feet. “We’d better get moving. Our 
first priority is to get this ring hidden.” Without waiting for him, she set off 
down the corridor, walking fast. 
“It’s no good trying to run away.” Packrat’s voice followed her. “You’ll 
have to face this sooner or later.” 
“Oh, shut up, Packrat.” 

They traveled on for a while, though Aliana had little idea of exactly how 
much time had passed. It was easy to lose track in the darkness, and besides, 
her mind was still wrestling with Packrat’s suggestion. Though she had 
twice killed someone in a fight since she had first become a Grey Ghost, she 
had never murdered in cold blood. The knife in the back was the mainstay of 
a very different sort of thief— which was one of the reasons the gang had 
survived so long undetected. Even when Lord Blade had been the Godsword 
Commander, Galveron had been directly responsible for the men who 
policed the city’s streets, and he took a very dim view of murder. 
Aliana sighed. Galveron again. Why did everything keep coming back to 
him? She wished she had never set eyes on him, or the damned Hierarch. 
Maybe I should just take the ring back, apologize, and say that it was all a 
mistake, that I forgot about it and fell asleep somewhere. But how can I? No 
matter what Packrat was trying to imply, this isn’t just about Galveron. 
When she had Alestan arrested, Gilarra proved that she couldn’t be trusted. 
If I give her the ring, we’ll have lost our only hold over her, and she’ll be 
free to do what she likes with us. 
As for as she could see, there was no other option other than to carry on with 
her original plan. Once she no longer had the ring, no one could take it from 
her, and with it hidden, she would have some room to negotiate. Right now, 
that seemed the only hope for herself, her friends, and her poor brother. 
And what about Packrat’s plan to murder Gilarra? Was it true that she would 
really have no choice? Dear Myrial, I hope it doesn’t come to that! Aliana 
was finally distracted from her gloomy thoughts by a glimmer of light that 
came from somewhere ahead, round a bend in the passage. “What’s that?” 
She stopped and blew out the candle to get a clearer look at the faint 
gleam— then, with Packrat moving cautiously at her side, she tiptoed closer. 
It was not a constant radiance, but seemed to wax and wane in pulses like a 
heartbeat made visible. With each pulse the color changed, moving from red 
to orange to yellow to green to blue to violet. 
“Myrial’s backside,” Packrat muttered. “That’s enough to make your eyes 
water.” 
“But why?” Aliana wondered. “If they wanted to light it at all, why not just 
use ordinary light? It would be much more practical. What’s the significance 
of all these colors?” 
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Packrat said. “We can go round 
that corner and see what’s there. On the other hand, we could do something 
sensible for the first time today and go back.” In the dim, chameleon light, 
he met her eyes. “Give it up, Aliana. We’ve precious little water, we’ll soon 
run out of food, and there’s nothing down here—or nothing that’s ever likely 
to do us any good.” He put his hand on her arm. “It was a good try, but it just 
didn’t come off. We weren’t to know what it was like down here. Look, let’s 
go back, give that ratbag her stupid ring, and break Alestan out of jail. Then 
we should all just get out, and go back to the city. Surely we can find a place 
somewhere that’s safe from those monsters? Maybe we could stay in one of 

those crypts you told us about, where you spent the night before. We might 
as well face it. No matter how hard we try, we’ll never fit in with that 
Temple crowd.” 
His words were like a slap in the face for Aliana: all the more so because she 
knew in her heart that they were true. For lack of a better target—probably 
Gilarra—she kicked the wall and swore viciously. “It’s just not fair, Packrat! 
Why should we always be excluded, suspected, and looked down on? In the 
end, we’re no different from those other folk!” 
“Oh, but we are,” Packrat said quietly. “Don’t fool yourself, Aliana. We’re 
thieves, we’re dregs, we’re scum. They don’t want us because we live 
outside their rules, and there’s no getting away from that.” He gave her 
another very direct look. “I suppose it’s harder for you to accept. Once, you 
were inside their cosy little community, before your family fell on hard 
times. That’s why you keep wanting to change things. It’s not like that for 
me. I’ve always been an outcast. I don’t know any different.” 
In all the time that Packrat had been one of the Ghosts, she had never known 
him to be so forthright, and Aliana didn’t know how to reply to him. 
Luckily, he let her off the hook. “Come on, then,” he said roughly. “I’ll 
make a deal with you. Let’s go and look around the corner at these stupid 
lights, and if it turns out to be just more of the same, only with pretty colors, 
we’ll go back. All right?” 
“Maybe,” Aliana hedged. “These lights must have some significance. Let’s 
have a look before we decide.” 
Heading toward the pulsing, changeful radiance, they crept cautiously 
around the corner of the passage. “See,” Packrat said. “It is the same.” 
“No it isn’t.” Aliana pointed. “Farther down the passage, there’s no more 
gleam from the walls and floor. Either it changes from this metal stuff to 
some very black material, or it just stops.” 
Packrat squinted. “I don’t see any difference. ”Let’s go back.“ 
Aliana gave him a hard look. “You’re only saying that because you don’t 
want to go on. Well, I’m going to have a look. You can please yourself 
whether you come or not.” Without waiting to see whether he was following, 
she strode off down the corridor, unable to stop her feet from keeping time 
with the weird pulses of light as they faded from one color to another. 
Though she looked hard to find the source of the radiance, it seemed to come 
from nowhere and everywhere, emanating from the walls and floor as well 
as the ceiling. As she walked farther down the passage, even the very air 
itself seemed to be vibrant with color. 
It’s all very pretty, but why? I can’t think of any practical reason for the 
light to change like that, but it makes me feel as though this place is alive, 
somehow. 
When Aliana had gone on a little farther, she had a much clearer view of the 
place ahead, where everything changed. It looked as though the passageway 
ended abruptly in a blank, black wall; but when she drew close, she realized 

that it was nothing of the kind. The corridor just ended. Another step would 
send her plummeting for some unguessable distance, and as far as she could 
tell, there was nothing beyond the edges of the walls but a featureless black 
void. It looked as though Packrat had been right. This idea of hers had been 
doomed to failure from the start. 
Without warning, Aliana’s eyes began to swim with tears, but she was saved 
from a most uncharacteristic and embarrassing fit of weeping by the sound 
of Packrat’s mocking voice. “Told you so. Now can we go back?” 
“I suppose so.” 
“Hooray.” Sarcastically, Packrat clapped his hands. As he did so, 
light—bright, white light—came pouring down from somewhere in the 
featureless black spaces above, to illuminate the void. Aliana gasped. Where 
before there had been only darkness, she could now see a shaft, about eight 
yards wide, and extending unguessable distances above and below. In the 
center was another platform, about six feet across, which was simply the flat 
top of a square pillar which rose from below. As far as Aliana could see, it 
was floored with a metal grid, with spaces about an inch wide. Through the 
holes she could see only a dark background, though from this distance, that 
wasn’t surprising. On the other side of the shaft was a square opening that 
presumably must be the continuation of the corridor. It looked the same as 
the passage they had just traversed, except that, for some reason, the lighting 
had gone back to normal. 
Packrat looked at the gap, measuring it with his eyes, then peered down into 
the unguessable depths below. “Like I was saying, it’s time to go back.” 
“Now hold on a minute,” Aliana protested. “We said if nothing had changed 
we would go back, but this is different. We can do this.” 
“Yeah, right,” Packrat sneered. “Take too big a run at this end, jump a bit 
too far, and you’ll go straight over the far side of the platform, with nothing 
to stop you. And if you do manage to land on target, then you’ve got a 
precious short run-up for the jump on the other side—or either side, for that 
matter, because it’ll be just as impossible to jump back again. You’ll have a 
choice of starving to death on the platform or taking a plunge off the side to 
end it quick.” 
Annoyed by his obstructiveness, Aliana rounded on him angrily. “Will you 
stop being so bloody feeble, Packrat? In second-story work we do bigger 
jumps than that all the time.” 
“But when you’re burgling there’s always something to hold on to,” Packrat 
countered. “A ledge, or a shutter, or maybe a drainpipe. But misjudge a jump 
here and you’ll just keep right on going—all the way to the bottom.” 
Ironically, had she been alone, Aliana might have thought twice about 
continuing. But Packrat’s objections were having exactly the opposite effect 
to the one he wanted, making her all the more determined to succeed. 
Mostly, however, she was driven on by her acrimony toward the Hierarch. 
From their very first meeting, when the thief had risked her life to bring the 

desperately needed blasting powder from the Citadel to the Temple, and she 
had met with so little appreciation and gratitude from Gilarra, she couldn’t 
help but dislike her, and the feeling had not improved with further 
acquaintance. Had Gilarra not arrested Alestan, however, Aliana might have 
given up this mad scheme, in the face of the difficulties she was 
encountering. But no one—not even the Hierarch—was going to fabricate 
charges against her brother and get away with it. As far as Aliana was 
concerned, the more difficult it was to recover the wretched ring, the better. 
“I’m not giving up,” she said stubbornly. 
Packrat let out a long sigh, and she could see how difficult it was for him to 
keep his irritation under control. “You know, maybe there’s another way to 
get at Gilarra,” he said. “One that you haven’t thought of. Why don’t you 
just chuck the ring down there?” With a wave of his hand, he indicated the 
seemingly bottomless shaft in front of them. “She’d never get it back then.” 
Aliana shook her head. “Packrat, I daren’t. They all seem to feel that the 
wretched thing is significant, somehow. I can’t imagine what sort of 
practical use it might have, but I just can’t take the risk, in case it really is 
important. No, I’m going to jump. Listen, you wait here for me. There’s no 
need for you to risk yourself. Hopefully, I won’t need to go too far on the 
other side to find a hiding place for the ring, then I’ll come straight back.” 
Without waiting for a reply, she went a little way back down to the passage, 
then turned and ran forward. Right on the brink of the shaft, she launched 
herself into the air. 
Her feet hit the platform hard and, as Packrat had predicted, her momentum 
was such that she had a difficult time stopping before she went skidding over 
the far edge. For a heart-stopping instant she teetered right on the very brink, 
flailing her arms for balance, then she managed to throw herself backward 
and landed hard on her backside, bereft of dignity but extremely relieved to 
be safe. Scrambling to her feet, she turned back to Packrat, to tell him that 
there was nothing to it. The words froze on her lips, however, as she saw 
him getting ready to jump. 
“Packrat, no!” she yelled. The leap suddenly seemed to be a lot more risky 
when one of her friends was attempting it, and Packrat wasn’t the most 
athletic person in the world. 
Pausing only to make a rude gesture at her, he broke into a run, and hurled 
himself across the gap. 
There was no danger of his overshooting the platform, as Aliana had done, 
for he landed short of the center, but at least he had made his leap safely. 
Aliana steadied him as he landed. 
“Get off me.” He shrugged himself out of her grasp, his movements jerky 
with anger, and Aliana realized that his face was white with fear. Her heart 
went out to him. Irritating though he might be at times, he had overcome 
both his apprehension and better judgment to follow her, because he didn’t 
want to leave her alone. She knew better than to mention that fact, however. 
“So you’ve decided to come along after all,” she said. “I thought you had 

more sense?” 
He gave her a dirty look. “I came because you aren’t to be trusted on your 
own,” he snapped. “You haven’t the sense of a baby sparrow. Come on. Stop 
blethering, and let’s hurry up and get off this damned thing. I don’t like 
being perched up here with a drop on all four sides.” 
In the center of the shaft, the distance to the opening on the other side looked 
far greater than it had from the edge of the corridor, though Aliana knew that 
the gap was the same size as the leap she had already made. Packrat had 
been right, however. The jump would be far more difficult to accomplish 
this time, because the small area of the platform left little room for a decent 
run-up. For a moment she stood, breathing deeply, putting off the evil 
moment when she must commit herself. Then, all at once, she discovered 
that they had run out of time to hesitate. 
A thin jet of flame, about as tall as she, shot out of a hole near the center of 
the grid. With a loud whooshing sound it leapt high, then sank down again 
and vanished, just as another came roaring up from another area of the grid, 
to be replaced by another and another, all springing up at random, so that 
there was no knowing where the next one would appear. 
“Come on,” Packrat yelled. “Shift your backside before we both get fried!” 
Aliana gathered herself, sped toward the brink of the platform, and leapt. She 
wasn’t quite ready, and it was a clumsy jump, with one foot slipping a little 
on takeoff. In the instant that she hurtled through the air, she was horribly 
aware of the gulf that yawned beneath her. Would she make it? 
With a rush of relief, she felt her feet touch the solid floor of the corridor. 
She stumbled forward, falling to her knees; but with Packrat still on the other 
side, there was no time to register her own good fortune. Leaping up, she 
turned and saw him preparing to launch himself—and it was clear from his 
face that he was not confident. Even as he ran forward, another roaring jet of 
flame sprang up, almost beneath his feet, so that he was forced to swerve to 
one side. She was certain he must abort his leap, but even as the thought 
crossed her mind, she saw him reach the edge and recklessly throw himself 
out into space. 
From the very first instant, it was clear that he wasn’t going to make it. His 
face a distorted mask of horror, he slammed into the edge at chest level and, 
as he began to slide backward, scrabbled in vain for a handhold on the 
smooth metal of the corridor floor. Aliana threw herself forward with a yell, 
landing on her belly, with her arms outstretched as far as they would go, and 
made a wild grab for his slipping hands. Holding on tightly, she tried to pull 
him to safety, but it was difficult to stop herself from sliding forward as 
Packrat was dragged down by his own weight. Then, just as she was 
thinking she had lost him, he managed somehow to wedge the toes of his 
boots against the wall and keep himself from sliding any farther. It was a 
slow and difficult business, but inch by inch they managed between them to 
pull him out of the abyss and get him safely back up into the corridor. 
Aliana rolled over onto her back, wincing. Her arms felt as though they had 

been pulled out of their sockets. Packrat sprawled facedown on the floor of 
the passageway, gasping and shuddering. Finally, he raised his head and 
scowled at Aliana. “Next time, you stupid bitch, maybe you’ll listen to me.” 
“Maybe next time, you’ll listen to me, you pigheaded oaf,” Aliana snapped 
back. “I told you to wait for me.” Then, ignoring his usual disreputable 
appearance, she grabbed him and hugged him hard, until his trembling 
stopped. 
Poor Packrat. He didn’t deserve to be dragged into this. I only hope that 
things will get easier from here—but I have a really bad feeling that this is 
only the beginning. 
CHAPTER 17 
The One to Blame 
Seriema was amazed at how quickly she had come to look on the reiver 
stronghold as home. As she rode over the brow of the hill with Cetain and 
his warriors, she had never seen a more welcome sight than Arcan’s valley: 
its little settlement of roughly built houses with their roofs of turf, the tower 
of the Summoners by the brooding waters of the tarn, and the fortress 
standing foursquare, sturdy, and secure on the hill above. 
The bad weather had vanished away to the south, leaving a calm, bright day 
with nothing but a skimming of high, grey cloud to veil the sun. They had 
left the ruined tower at daybreak and made much faster time on the return 
journey without the storm to fight, getting back to the reiver settlement not 
long before noon. There had been no sign of the predators on the return 
journey, which indicated to Seriema that she had been right about their being 
nocturnal. Nevertheless, she hadn’t dared to relax for an instant, all the way 
back, in case she should suddenly hear the horrendous screeches of the 
hunting fiends and see the sky grow dark with wings once more. Knowing 
that its stable was ahead, her tired little horse quickened its pace, and 
Seriema gladly let it have its head. She knew exactly how it felt. After the 
night she had just spent out on the moor, sheltering in the cellars of a ruin 
and trying to hold off the marauding fiends, she too was looking forward to 
food, rest, and the security of those thick and solid walls. She glanced across 
at Cetain, who rode beside her, keeping pace with her as always. To her 
surprise, he wasn’t looking happy to be home. Noting his frowning silence, 
she realized that he must be worried about telling his father that he had failed 
in his mission to warn the other clans of the impending threat. 
Seriema reached across and touched his arm. “You made the right decision,” 

she said quietly. “Those vile creatures were abroad on the moors last night, 
so the chances are that they’ll have found the other clans already. There’s no 
point in throwing more lives away, when your warriors will be much more 
use—and stand a far better chance of surviving—here in their own home.” 
“I only hope my father will see things as you do.” Cetain shook his head. 
“The trouble is that anyone who has not experienced your demons for 
themselves will have difficulty understanding just how lethal they can be.” 
He hesitated. “I have a confession to make, lass. When I first heard your 
account of what had happened in Tiarond, I didn’t take it as seriously as I do 
now—though I did believe you,” he added hastily. “All the same, I thought 
your descriptions of those creatures were the outpourings of a bunch of 
scared townsfolk who were so used to the soft life that anything would seem 
a threat.” 
He gave a wry, self-mocking grin. “I learned my lesson last night, and no 
mistake. When we came out this morning and found those few bloody 
remains of my poor warriors who didn’t escape them, I realized just how 
much my people owe to you. Had it not been for your timely warning, the 
entire settlement could have been slaughtered last night. But will my father 
realize that?” Once more, his brows were knitted in a frown. “He doesn’t 
have the benefit of your unique experience, my Lady. What you see as 
prudence, he may well view as cowardice on my part. I have disobeyed his 
orders, and he is not a man who’ll tolerate being crossed.” 
That gave Seriema something else to be concerned about—but surely Cetain 
was worrying over nothing? Any reasonable man would surely see that he 
had done the only sensible thing. 
I certainly hope so. I’ve scarcely had a single moment’s peace since those 
winged fiends invaded, and I could sorely use a respite. And what about 
poor Cetain? There was nothing more he could have done last night—in 
fact, he did very well to get so many of his warriors back here in one piece. 
Surely his father will have the sense to see that? 
Neither Seriema nor Cetain, however, could have guessed what trouble 
awaited them within the stronghold. As they rode through the arched 
gateway into the courtyard and dismounted, they were astonished to see a 
number of warriors dismounting and leading their mud-spattered horses 
inside. Arcan was striding about, looking thunderous and hurrying his men 
along with the occasional barked command. He looked up as Cetain 
approached, with Seriema at his side. “What in the name of perdition are you 
doing back here?” he demanded. 
Seriema tried to intervene. “My Chief, surely it would be better to discuss 
this matter inside.” 
Arcan, looking first surprised and then annoyed at her temerity, scowled at 
her. “Hold your tongue, woman.” He turned his glare back onto his son. 
“Well?” 
“The winged fiends have spread out beyond Tiarond, just as Tormon and 
Grim predicted. They attacked us last night out on the moor, and I lost four 

of my men before we could take shelter in the old tower.” A hush fell across 
the courtyard as the warriors heard Cetain’s news. With a glance at the 
chieftain for permission, he continued: “Father, the threat of these creatures 
is far worse than we could ever have imagined. We were besieged until 
daylight, when they dispersed, but there seemed little point in going on with 
our mission. If the fiends were at large last night, then it is likely that they 
would have found the unprotected settlements of the other clans. I decided 
not to risk any more of my men, just to deliver a warning that must have 
come too late.” 
Arcan cursed. “As if we hadn’t problems enough,” he muttered. Addressing 
his warriors, he bellowed across the courtyard. “Ho, you men! After you’ve 
eaten, check your gear and our supplies of weapons. It seems that war has 
come upon us sooner than we expected.” Some of the men gave a ragged 
cheer at the talk of war, but others, having seen the haggard, haunted faces of 
Cetain’s weary comrades, looked a great deal less sure of themselves. 
The Clan chieftain turned to his eldest son, who had apparently been out 
with the riders. “Lewic, you come back to my quarters with your brother. I 
might as well have both your reports together—though it looks as though 
neither of you has been much use at performing the tasks I gave you.” 
Arcan led the way into the fortress, and his sons, having left their men with 
orders to rest and get something to eat, followed the chieftain, with Seriema 
staying firmly at Cetain’s side. As she left the courtyard, she heard a babble 
of voices breaking out behind her, and suspected that his newly returned 
men were being badgered by their comrades for the details of their narrow 
escape. She wondered where Tormon and Presvel and the others were. This 
news would come as a blow to them, as it must to anyone who had 
experienced the horrors of Tiarond. 
As they followed the Clan chieftain up to his chambers, Seriema noticed that 
there was something odd about the atmosphere in the fortress. Yesterday the 
place had been filled with bustle and talk, as people busied themselves with 
their allotted tasks. Despite the threat that hung over them, there had been a 
lot of good-natured gossip, laughter, and chaffing. Today, however, the 
reivers seemed subdued and quiet, going about their work in near silence, 
and with somber faces. They seemed particularly keen to keep out of the 
way of their chieftain, and she wondered what on earth could have happened 
to bring about such a change. Nothing good, that was certain. 
Arcan looked none too pleased when Seriema accompanied his son into his 
chambers. “Who invited you?” he demanded. 
“I did.” Cetain put an arm around his companion’s shoulders. “The Lady 
Seriema knows more about these predators than either you or I, and her 
account of what happened last night should bear just as much weight as my 
own.” 
“I don’t care what she knows,” Arcan snapped. “I wish to speak privately 
with my sons. You had better know what took place here last night, Cetain. 
Summoner Grim was murdered: stabbed by someone right here in our 

stronghold. We don’t know what happened, but Dark, his assistant, has fled, 
and with him that lad who came with trader Tormon.” 
“Scall?” Seriema exclaimed. “But that’s ridiculous. What could he possibly 
have to do with it?” 
Arcan glared at her. “Go and ask your friend Tormon. He knows as much 
about this business as any of us.” And with that, he closed the door in 
Seriema’s face. 
Seriema was fuming. “Of all the rude, obnoxious...” Though her first, angry 
impulse was to burst back in and tell him what she thought of him, common 
sense prevailed. Presumably because of Scall’s alleged involvement in the 
murder of the Summoner, she and her companions didn’t seem to be too 
popular with the chieftain right now. And as this was the only refuge they 
had—especially considering that the winged fiends were at large in the 
vicinity—it would be wise to practice a certain amount of discretion until 
Arcan’s mood improved. Besides, there was a guard on his chambers as 
always; a husky young man as broad as a barn door. Seriema assessed him 
realistically, and rated her chances of getting past him as zero. Since the 
chief of the reivers had so pointedly excluded her in the sentry’s presence, 
she couldn’t even bluff her way in. She glared at the offending door, then, 
with a shrug, turned and went away. She had better find Tormon as soon as 
possible. It was time to put aside their ridiculous quarrel. There were things 
she needed to find out, and she had information that would be equally 
important to him. 
First of all, she looked in the little chamber that Tormon shared with his 
daughter. The merchant was not there, but Annas and Rochalla were sitting 
on the bed, playing cat’s cradle with a long piece of blue yarn. A pair of 
thick, blunted knitting needles with something that looked like a colored 
bird’s nest between them lay discarded on the bed, mute evidence that the 
blond girl had been trying to teach the child to knit. Seriema smiled when 
she saw it. “My attempts at knitting still look like that,” she said. 
Rochalla looked surprised at being addressed in such a friendly fashion, but 
essayed a tentative smile. “But knitting’s easy,” she protested. 
“To you, maybe,” Seriema snorted. “I was all thumbs when it came to 
anything like that. My sewing’s even worse.” She tried to keep the 
conversation on a light note, because, despite her patience with Annas, 
Rochalla looked so tired, pale, and worried. Clearly, the girl had been losing 
sleep over the missing Scall. 
“Well, we all have our talents,” Rochalla was saying. “I couldn’t begin to 
imagine how to run a successful mercantile empire. I don’t know how you 
did it.” 
“Sometimes I wonder myself. And I’m not sure that I would have it in me to 
start again, even if the circumstances were right. I suspect that knitting and 
sewing are going to prove a damn sight more useful in the months to come.” 
Seriema decided that it was definitely time to change the subject. “Have you 
ladies seen Tormon anywhere?” 

“He went to find Scall,” Annas piped up. “Scall ran away, and he took his 
pretty horse. He didn’t take Esmeralda, though.” 
Rochalla stared at her. “How did you know all that?” Her voice grew stern. 
“Annas, were you listening at the door when I was talking to your dad 
outside?” 
The little girl flushed and lowered her eyes. “It was an accident. I couldn’t 
help it. You didn’t shut the door properly.” 
“Well, next time, close the door instead of eavesdropping. It’s not a very 
nice thing to do.” 
Annas’s lower lip began to protrude, but to Seriema’s relief, they were saved 
from the approaching storm by the arrival of Tormon himself. He too looked 
very weary, and was spattered with mud and in need of a shave. “What are 
you doing back?” he demanded of Seriema. Though he sounded surprised, 
she was relieved to see that all traces of yesterday’s hostility and bad temper 
had left his face. 
She looked significantly at the child. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” 
Rochalla took the hint and rose immediately. “Come along, Annas,” she 
said. “Let’s go and see if we can find some food for your dad and the Lady 
Seriema. They must both be starving.” 
“All right.” Annas scrambled down from the bed and, grabbing Rochalla by 
the hand, led the way out. “I’ll get some for my dad, and you can get some 
for Lady Seriema.” 
But before she left the room, Rochalla hesitated beside the trader. “Tormon 
... ?” 
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, lass. The tracks went all the way up to the 
Curtain Walls, then stopped. There were some signs of a scuffle there, but no 
trace of Scall.” He frowned. “Oddly, there were no tracks leaving that valley, 
either. It was like they just vanished into thin air—but don’t give up hope. 
We’ll keep looking, I promise.” 
The blond girl nodded once and swallowed hard, biting her lip as she left the 
room. Tormon sighed. “Poor little thing. And poor Scall, too.” He looked at 
Seriema. “You didn’t sound as if you were bringing good news, either.” 
“We’ve got trouble,” she said, without preamble. “It’s not just Scall.” 
Seriema took a deep breath. “Tormon, I have some bad news for you—for us 
all. The winged fiends have left Tiarond. They attacked us last night, on the 
moor, and killed four of Cetain’s men The rest of us were lucky to get 
away.” 
The trader blanched and sat down heavily on the end of the bed. “Oh, dear 
Myrial, not that! What’s to become of us all? And what happened to that 
poor lad, out there on the moors last night with those brutes roaming at 
large?” 
After a moment, he got his feelings under control once more. “So that was 
what all the commotion in the courtyard was about. I just got in myself—as 

you probably guessed, I went out with Lewic and his men this morning to 
see if we could track Scall and Dark, and I got a bit behind the others on the 
way back. Those little reiver horses certainly take some getting used to after 
the Sefrians. When I got back, I hurried straight back up here to see 
Rochalla. I knew how worried she must be, and I didn’t want to waste any 
time hanging round and gossiping with the warriors.” 
“Speaking of warriors, Arcan didn’t look too happy with us,” Seriema said. 
“I got the distinct impression that he’d rather we were anywhere else right 
now.” 
Tormon nodded. “You’re right. For some reason, the chieftain is convinced 
that Scall was involved in poor Grim’s murder.” He scowled. “As if the poor 
lad would ever do such a thing!” 
Seriema sat down beside the trader. “It’s more likely that he chanced upon 
the real killer, and ...” She didn’t want to follow that thought any further. 
“But that doesn’t make a lot of sense, either,” she added hastily. “If the 
murderer escaped, then why would he take Scall with him? It wouldn’t make 
any sense to encumber himself like that.” She frowned. “Arcan said that 
Grim’s assistant was missing, too, didn’t he?” 
“Aye, you’re right. But I’ve been coming here for years, and I know Dark as 
well as I know any of the reivers. He’s always struck me as a fine young 
man, and I would say that his integrity’s beyond question. Every time I came 
here, I used to go down to the tower for a chat with Grim about what was 
happening in the world—he was a glutton for news— and Dark was always 
there too. In fact, I used to joke about them being inseparable. He loved the 
old man like a father, and whatever Arcan says, I know he would never have 
killed his master.” 
“Then who did?” Seriema wondered. “And why did they do it when Scall 
and Dark were there as witnesses, and what have they done with those two 
poor young men?” She sighed, and thumped the coverlet with her fist. 
“Damn it, we’re just going round in circles! None of this makes any sense!” 
“Well, until we find them, we’ll never know,” Tormon said. “And your news 
about the winged fiends makes that task a whole lot more difficult. As it 
was, I felt bad about leaving Annas this morning. I have a responsibility to 
her, now that her mother... isn’t here. She must always come first, and I 
know I haven’t any business putting myself at risk of being caught out on the 
moors by one of those accursed creatures—but I feel I should be helping 
Scall, too. He’s a good lad, and he’s come to mean a lot to me in a short 
time. How can I just abandon him?” 
A lesson that Seriema had learned very early in life was never to run away 
from her responsibilities. There was a bond, now, between the escapees from 
Tiarond, and if she could help both Scall and Tormon, then she owed it to 
them to do her best. Besides, if Arcan was displeased with his visitors now, 
then it was important that the mystery be solved as soon as possible. The 
chieftain was a tough, irascible man, and who knew how long his gratitude 
would last? 

Seriema remembered how unpleasant it had been out in the storm yesterday, 
and how terrified she had felt when the predators attacked. She had been so 
relieved to get back to the safety of the fortress’s strong walls. How could 
she have guessed that that security would have been so short-lived? She 
sighed. “Let me talk to Cetain,” she said to Tormon. “Maybe we can go out 
and look for Scall, then you can stay here with Annas, where you belong.” 
For a moment, the trader said nothing—just looked at her as though he had 
never seen her before—but Seriema could see the relief written plainly on 
his face. At last he spoke. “You know, back when you were Tiarond’s 
foremost merchant, I never doubted your courage. You had to be brave, to 
make the kind of decisions you were making every day, and, as a woman, to 
have reached the position that you held. But for some reason, you never had 
a reputation for generosity and kindness.” He smiled. “All I can say is, 
maybe folk weren’t looking deeply enough.” 
Seriema was touched by his words. “Or maybe they were right,” she said 
wryly. “Perhaps I’m attaining kindness and wisdom at long last, instead of 
just mere cleverness. These recent events have changed us all. Now, Presvel, 
for instance...” She paused. “Have you any idea where he is, by the way? I 
thought he spent every waking moment dogging Rochalla’s footsteps these 
days.” It was surprising how little the change in her assistant’s loyalties 
mattered to her now. “He doesn’t seem to have been hanging around her 
today, though.” 
Tormon shrugged. “Maybe she told him to get lost.” 
“I very much doubt that. Rochalla is far too nice for her own good, 
sometimes. She would probably be afraid of hurting his feelings.” 
“I wish she had told him to go away,” the trader said. “No offense, Lady: I 
know he was your friend and your assistant, but the way he’s been acting 
lately, I’ve sometimes wondered about his state of mind, and ...” 
With a gasp, Seriema seized the trader’s arm. “Tormon, has anyone seen 
Presvel since last night? Since Grim was murdered? Don’t tell me that he’s 
missing, too.” 
Tormon stared at her, openmouthed. “You don’t think... You don’t think he 
did it?” 
“What?” Seriema was shocked by the notion. “No, surely not. Why, he’s 
always been the least violent man I ever met. And Arcan said that Grim was 
stabbed. I’m quite sure that Presvel barely knows one end of a knife from the 
other. Besides, why should he want to kill the old Summoner? He doesn’t 
even know him. Surely it must have been one of the reivers with a grudge 
against Grim.” 
“I suppose you’re right,” the trader conceded. “When you put it like that, it 
doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Still, I think we’d better keep an eye on 
Presvel, if we can find him in the first place ...” 
“Dad, Dad, we’ve brought you some good things to eat.” Annas burst in with 
such abruptness that Seriema jumped. Rochalla followed her, laden with a 

heavy tray “Annas, you should knock,” she scolded. 
“What for?” said Annas, unconcerned. 
Rochalla stretched her arms and flexed her shoulders as Tormon took the 
tray out of her hands. “Did you say you were looking for Presvel?” Rochalla 
asked. “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear. I’ve just seen him downstairs.” 
She frowned. “He insisted that he was all right, but he looked absolutely 
dreadful.” 
Seriema looked at Tormon. Though neither of them spoke, she was certain 
they were thinking the same thing. 
Dear My ria!, no. It can’t be possible. Presvel has always been a good man. 
He would never murder someone—would he? 
Surely they must know I did it. They must be able to see it in my face, in my 
eyes, in my hand that held the knife... 
There was no rest for Presvel and nowhere to hide. No fleeing from the 
dreadful thing he had done. No escaping the horror that lurked at the back of 
his every thought, bringing back time and time again the memory of Grim’s 
face, contorted in shock and pain; the jarring of the knife as it entered the old 
Summoner’s body, the hot gush of blood that followed, and the rattle of his 
final, gasping breath. 
Yet despite the hideous clarity of those recollections, Presvel still had 
difficulty believing what had happened. He’d had vivid, realistic nightmares 
before—everyone did, didn’t they? If only the horrific scenario of Grim’s 
death had been nothing more than that. 
In his heart, he knew it was not. 
Dear Myrial, I didn’t mean to kill him! I would give anything if I could turn 
back time and undo the harm I did last night! 
And what would happen next? He had lost the knife; had dropped it in the 
straw, when he fled in panic. He didn’t dare go back to look for it—that 
would only draw suspicion to himself. Besides, what would be the point? 
They were sure to have searched the area. They were certain to have found 
it. Arcan must already know that the killer had been one of the party that 
Tormon had brought from Tiarond. 
How long will it be before they start questioning us all? 
So far, Presvel had managed to lie low that morning, changing location from 
time to time lest he be suspected of skulking around in a suspicious manner, 
yet always staying in places that were sparsely occupied or where folk were 
too busy with their own tasks to pay him much heed. He had finally come up 
onto the flat roof of the tower though he knew it would only be a matter of 
time before the cold drove him back down. While he’d been up there, he had 
seen Seriema return with Cetain and his warriors. His heart had leapt, and for 

a mad, wild instant, he had thought of running to her and confessing all. She 
would protect him, surely? She would know what to do. 
Then doubt assailed him. His Lady had changed now. She had thrown 
herself in with these barbarian reivers, seeming to fit into Arcan’s clan as 
though she had been born to it. He could no longer be sure that she would 
take his side, or support him in any way. Besides, a core of honesty within 
him made him ask himself why she should. Caught up, as he had been, in his 
obsession with Rochalla, he had paid Seriema no heed over the last day or 
two, and had neglected and ignored her at every turn. If she was angry with 
him now, she had every right to be. 
For all that, if he should be compelled to unburden himself, there was no 
one, not even his precious Rochalla, that he would rather trust. For a 
moment, he considered doing exactly that. His was a dreadful secret to bear 
alone, and if Arcan had found the knife, then Presvel would be putting all his 
comrades at risk, for the entire group, including Rochalla, must find 
themselves under suspicion. But should he confess? Surely if he admitted his 
guilt to Seriema, she would—she must—tell the reivers who had slain their 
Summoner. 
I can’t. I can’t! They’ll kill me for sure. It was an accident, I didn’t mean to 
do it, and I’m desperately sorry, but they won’t believe that—or at any rate, 
they won’t care. Ml that will matter to them is punishing the murderer, and 
these wild barbarians won’t have any mercy. Oh, why did this happen to 
me? 
Presvel was seized by a wild and desperate rage: against the dreadful 
circumstances that had snatched away his safe, secure, and useful life in his 
beloved city, and driven him out to be a wanderer in this hostile, Myrialforsaken 
wilderness; against that stupid Tormon, for bringing them to this 
uncivilized place, and landing them amongst these miserable savages; 
against Seriema, for throwing in her lot with the reivers; against Scall, for 
causing this entire situation by following Rochalla around like a lovesick 
puppy, and for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 
He’s to blame, damn him! They’re all to blame! It’s not my fault at all. 
He was even angry with Rochalla herself, for encouraging the boy. It was 
her fault too, damn her! He should have known better than to try to rescue 
her from the squalid life she had been leading. Oh, she looked so pretty, so 
young and so innocent, but underneath it all, she was still the same little slut 
she had always been. 
Suddenly, an idea struck him. Maybe he could save his own skin, and at the 
same time pay them all back—or one of them at least—for getting him into 
this terrible situation. Surely, if he were quick and clever, it would be 
possible to fabricate enough evidence to lay the blame where it belonged— 
squarely at the feet of one, or more, of his companions. 
On the freezing rooftop of the tower, Presvel smiled to himself. At last he 
had the answer. Only one thing remained to be decided. Which one of them 
would it be? 

CHAPTER 18 
Vifang 
All morning, while Amaurn had seemingly been busy with various other 
matters, he was, in truth, still preoccupied with Vaure’s message concerning 
that unknown young man who had managed to penetrate the Curtain Walls 
and, in doing so, had unleashed a pair of Ak’Zahar on peaceful Gendival. 
Even worse was the reason that the stranger had been forced to travel alone, 
and meddle, unsupervised, with the faltering barrier. Unbelievably, Grim 
was dead. 
Would it be too much to ask, to hear some good news for a change? 
The death of his old friend grieved Amaurn deeply. In all the time he had 
spent in Callisiora, under the guise of the Godsword Commander Blade, he 
had been very much alone. Such isolation had been necessary, in order to 
build his power base in Tiarond and preserve the secret of his identity, but it 
had not been easy. Sometimes he wondered if it had not been the selfimposed 
detachment from friendly human contact that had allowed him to be 
so cold-blooded and pitiless during those years. He had been forced to 
construct a carapace around himself that had prevented him from giving rein 
to his own feelings, and had forbidden him access to the emotions of others. 
His return to Gendival, however, to the places of his past and the folk who 
were once his fellows, seemed to be hammering crack after crack in the iron 
shell with which he had enclosed himself, and his newly exposed 
sensibilities were very raw. To lose his oldest friend, the one who had 
supported him in secret for so long, and whom he had been so looking 
forward to seeing once again, was a bitter blow indeed. To be honest, 
Amaurn couldn’t help but wish that the assistant had been the one who’d 
died, and that Grim had been on his way home right now. 
All those times he begged me to let him come back to Gendival, and I kept 
putting him off. Oh, why didn’t I let him return when he asked? If I had done 
so, he would still be alive... 
Also, they had not parted on the best of terms, with Grim suspecting his 
intentions toward the Tiarondian boy he was supposed to be bringing with 
him, and himself reacting with cold anger. 
It’s hard, for old friends to part forever on such a misunderstanding. I only 
wish I could have one more chance to talk to him and put things right. 
Much as his common sense told him that such notions were destructive, 
unproductive, and downright irrational, he had to fight to keep his thoughts 

from slipping into a chain of regrets and self-blame at every unguarded 
moment. He didn’t have time for such luxuries. He had so much to do, and 
so many problems to consider, particularly since the Curtain Walls on the 
Callisiora side seemed to be in so unstable a state, that there was no 
opportunity to come to terms with his sorrow. 
Amaurn had been working without rest since his return to 
Gendival—indeed, he had never left this chamber since entering it the 
previous morning. Though he had sent his fellow Loremasters off to sleep, 
he himself had spent all night poring over maps and charts, and dispatches 
from the other realms, trying to coordinate his resources and allocate his 
Shadowleague agents, who seemed such a small and inadequate army to 
combat the chaos into which the world was descending, so that they could go 
where they would do most good. 
From time to time, as he worked, he had been reminded of the former 
Archimandrite. Cergorn’s influence was everywhere in this fearful mess, 
making so many situations far worse by his neglect, and his refusal to utilize 
some of the Shadowleague’s more esoteric knowledge to help the realms in 
crisis. If the Centaur lived, Amaurn thought grimly, he was going to find that 
more than a few changes had taken place while he had been recovering. So 
far, he seemed to be holding his own, kept alive, ironically, by the same 
advanced medical aid that he had refused so many others. On the whole, 
Amaurn was relieved that it was so. Though Cergorn’s survival might cause 
him a lot of problems further down the road, his immediate death would 
cause a whole lot more in the present. At least his fight for life was keeping 
Syvilda, who would have proved a bitter enemy indeed, out of the new 
Archimandrite’s hair. 
Yet as time went on, he had at least begun to see why Cergorn had been so 
willing to hide behind the excuse of noninterference. The temptation to run 
away from so many problems was overwhelming. Only the discipline and 
determination he had learned in his years as Blade had kept Amaurn bent 
sternly to his tasks, plus the knowledge that, after all this time, he had finally 
attained the goal he had striven for at such a cost, both to others and himself. 
There was another reason, too: one that he dared not dwell upon too closely 
in this land of telepaths. The guilty knowledge, buried deep within his heart, 
that it had been he who had tampered with the Curtain Walls in the first 
place. 
When the Loremasters who were assisting him had returned that morning, 
they had found him exactly where they had left him the previous 
night—weary, gritty-eyed, his face grey with pain from his cracked rib and 
injured arm, but determined to continue. Despite their urgings, even those of 
the formidable Maskulu, he had refused to go and rest, so Bailen and Kyrre 
of the Dobarchu had brought him some food, some tea, and something to 
dull the pain—and stood over him until he had swallowed them all. 
Though the breakfast had kept him going for a few hours more, Amaurn was 
beginning to flag. When he found himself reading the same passage for the 
fifth or sixth time, and still with no idea of its contents, he finally admitted 

defeat (according to his own estimation), or used his common sense 
(according to the views of his companions). Maskulu all but chased him out 
of the chamber, and Kyrre sent him on his way with stern instructions not to 
return until he was thoroughly rested—an injunction, he noted, that she was 
loath to obey herself, given her own so-recent recovery. 
He emerged into the sunlight, blinking and rubbing his eyes, and took deep 
draughts of the cool autumn air. After all of the reports of horrors that had 
been his preoccupation for the last day and night, he felt a vague 
astonishment at the sight of the tranquil, beautiful valley. Its colors soft in 
the pale, hazy sunshine, it seemed as ethereal as a dream. But if even the 
Gendival Curtain Walls were failing, how long would this sanctuary remain? 
Amaurn was walking away from the Meeting House when it dawned on him 
that he had neglected to bespeak a bed for himself. While he’d been all 
wrapped up in the woes of the world, such mundane details had never 
entered his mind. Until now, of course, when he needed to rest. The first idea 
that occurred to him was to go and stay in Veldan’s house. He knew it well, 
for it had once belonged to her mother, though he gathered that it had been 
much altered since those days to accommodate the needs of the firedrake. As 
natural as it felt, however, to seek refuge in the former home of his lover, he 
realized that he would be imposing on Veldan. She might not take such an 
intrusion kindly, and he didn’t want to put her at odds with him so soon after 
they had come to know one another. It wouldn’t take much effort to have 
someone organize a place for him to stay, but somehow, he just didn’t want 
to ask. Surely it would undermine his new-won authority if the 
Archimandrite had to beg for a bed like some wandering mendicant! 
Besides, he was still a curiosity in Gendival, and it would be good to escape 
for a while from the many eyes that looked on him with curiosity, or with 
resentment. 
It was ironic, having spent so many years yearning toward the 
Shadowleague, that he suddenly needed to get away from it for a time. 
I must dear my head. 
Seeking privacy, Amaurn walked down to the roofless arch that led out of 
the settlement and took the path which led away from the village, along the 
farther side of the lake, where there were no Loremaster dwellings. After a 
short distance the road forked where the valley was split into two separate 
arms by a long, steep spur which was outflung from Wisdom’s Seat, the 
great hill which reared its bulk above Gendival. To the south of the spur was 
the deep and sinister vale that held the cold, grey waters of the Upper Lake, 
where dark, stunted evergreens clung to the steep escarpments on either 
shore, and buzzards cried in the lonely heights. To the north, the road left the 
lakes and climbed steeply through a cutting, with the green Wisdom’s Seat 
on the left hand, and barren, stony fells on the right—a relic from long ago, 
when they had been blasted by the cataclysmic power struggles between two 
rival factions of Loremasters. The ruined settlement, with its crumbling 
remnants of walls and buildings, was a little farther on, a sorrowful, ghostridden 
monument to the last time there had been schism and conflict within 

the Shadowleague. 
And it didn’t teach me a thing. 
Amaurn had no intentions of going as far as that bleak, haunted place. At 
this time, it struck too close a chord in his own heart. He took the steep 
northern road, but struck away from it after a short distance, making for 
Wisdom’s Seat. Though there was no distinct path, he needed none, for his 
memories of the way were clear. The hill climbed very steeply, in a series of 
small cliffs, crags, and near-vertical slopes where ivy, gorse, and bramble 
proliferated, and hardy little trees—rowan, hazel, holly, and birch—clung 
stubbornly, surviving, it seemed, against all odds. 
According to local folklore, Wisdom’s Seat was unclimbable, but in the 
great underground library of Gendival, the young Amaurn had discovered an 
ancient journal belonging to Iskander, the chief founder of the 
Shadowleague. Among a great deal of other fascinating information that 
might be very useful to an ambitious young man, it described the locations 
of two secret places near Gendival, to which Iskander would go if he needed 
to meditate, make plans, or simply be alone. One was a cave, hidden away in 
the crags above the Upper Lake. Amaurn had tried it a time or two, but 
found it cold and cramped and miserable. The other refuge, however, lay 
close to the summit of the great hill that overlooked the home of the 
Shadowleague, so close that Amaurn often wondered why no one else 
seemed to bother to come up here. 
All those generations of Loremasters, and not one of them, apparently, ever 
bothered to investigate why the hill was called Wisdom’s Seat! Well, my 
methods may be suspect, but someone has to shake the Shadowleague out of 
its lazy complacency. We should be learning and progressing. Instead we 
stagnate in our little backwater of Gendival, doing nothing more useful than 
impeding the progress of other realms. 
Though the ascent was far from easy, especially for someone with a cracked 
rib and only one hand at his disposal, there was a way to reach the 
hilltop—if you knew exactly where to go. Amaurn toiled steadily upward, 
hacking clumsily at vegetation with his sword in his uninjured hand and 
shoving his way through thickets of gorse and bramble. In the steeper parts, 
he carefully searched the craggy places for hand-and footholds that would let 
him climb, and sheathed his sword to free his good hand so that he could 
pull himself up by clinging to the branches of trees. Despite its toughness, he 
enjoyed the climb. After sitting indoors for so long, surrounded by reports of 
death and destruction, it felt good to escape into the clean fresh air, and good 
to use his muscles for a while instead of his weary brain. 
The precipitous rocks and the bark of trees felt rough and solid in his hands 
as he made his ascent. The crisp air was cool and tingling on his skin. He 
could smell the sharpness of autumn, like the taste of water from a mountain 
spring, mingling with other forest scents, each more invigorating than the 
last: the woody musk of damp earth and fallen leaves, the heady green smell 
of ferns and moss in damp and secret places, and the exotic, piquant spice of 

the gorse blooms, which blazed on the hillside in patches of flaming gold. 
A breeze whispered among the trees, and the air was shrill with birdsong 
and, less melodiously, with a riot of noise from the flocks of squabbling 
thrushes that had come to gorge themselves on the vivid scarlet berries of the 
rowan trees. Nature’s generous gifts were everywhere, providing now, at the 
end of the growing season, against the frugal winter months ahead. Clusters 
of mushrooms poked their pale heads out of the woodland loam, and the tree 
trunks sprouted bizarre fungi, some good to eat, others deadly poison. 
Blackberries hung in heavy clusters, shining and dark, and the boughs of the 
hazels were laden with nuts. Suddenly realizing how long it had been since 
his hasty breakfast, Amaurn filled his pockets as he climbed. 
Eventually, with his muscles aching and his skin torn by stinging scratches 
from briar and thorn, the new Archimandrite reached his goal. Not far below 
the precipitous summit of Wisdom’s Seat was a little hanging meadow, a 
surprisingly smooth, green plateau thrusting out of the hill’s craggy face. In 
the very center grew a single, enormous oak tree, exquisite in shape and 
form, a perfect example of its kind. It was a magical place, high and isolated, 
with a compelling atmosphere of clarity and peace. The only sounds were 
the distant birdsong from the forest, the sighing of the breeze in the long, 
lush grass, and secrets whispered among the bronzing leaves of the oak. 
Amaurn crossed the meadow, his footfalls soundless on the springy carpet of 
green. There was a sense of timeless serenity about the tree that was solace 
to his troubled thoughts. Approaching it with reverence, he laid a hand on its 
trunk, letting his own aura mingle with that of the ancient giant, and felt the 
tingling energy of its life force pervade his body. 
For a time he stood entranced, then, with a sigh, he took his hand away. He 
found his old seat, remembered from long ago, where two roots formed a 
comfortable resting place, overlooking the Lower Lake and the Gendival 
settlement, far below. Amaurn took off his sword and laid the naked weapon 
close to his hand—a habit adopted in his time as Lord Blade and one which 
he wouldn’t shake off easily—not that he would want to. He settled back, 
leaning comfortably against the trunk of the tree, and let the peace of the 
meadow wash over him and clear his mind, as it had done so long ago, for 
the founder of the Shadowleague himself. 
I wonder how many other folk have discovered this magical place in the 
ages since then? Not many, I’ll warrant. I could find no other record of it 
anywhere, but that’s hardly surprising. Anyone who found it would naturally 
want to keep it for himself, as I did. Aveole was the only person I ever told, 
and we both swore that it would remain our secret. 
Amaurn ate the nuts, mushrooms, and berries he had collected during his 
climb, then let himself relax, firmly putting all his problems behind him for a 
little while. Soon he felt his eyelids beginning to droop, and was content to 
let it happen. Here, in this peaceful, isolated sanctuary, he could be sure of 
remaining safe and undisturbed. Or so he thought. 

Well, well! Fancy Amaum knowing about this place. 
The Takuru, of course, had always known. The shapeshifters, exiled as they 
were to the sidelines of the main Gendival community, knew every inch of 
the area that surrounded the settlement itself. Vifang, following the renegade 
upstart, had been surprised to see where the human was heading, but from an 
assassin’s point of view, there couldn’t have been a more suitable place. 
Amaurn, exhausted as he was, would be off his guard and easy prey. 
Amaurn would be all alone and far from help. Vifang chuckled grimly. So 
long as he could be killed fast enough, before he had time to broadcast a 
message for help, Amaurn had even been kind enough to hide his own body. 
No searchers would come up here in the foreseeable future. It was unlikely 
that the fool’s remains would ever be discovered. With a little help from 
Syvilda and her supporters, in spreading the right rumors, the Shadowleague 
might even decide that the renegade, having sown the seeds of chaos for 
reasons of revenge, had vanished again, as he had done so long ago. And 
even if Amaurn did have time to send out a call for assistance, it wouldn’t 
matter. He would be dead long before anyone could reach him, and the 
shapeshifter would be gone. 
Imagine coming to such an isolated place without bringing a bodyguard, or 
even telling anyone where he was going! A man with so many enemies must 
be insane to act so rashly. 
It had been worth the wait for such auspicious circumstances. Events could 
not have worked out better. 
The human had not the slightest idea that he had been followed. 
Concealment was child’s play for a skilled shapeshifter, especially in the 
forest. As they had progressed up the hill, Vifang had melted from one form 
to another, becoming a bird, a tree stump, a shadow on the grass. Now there 
was a new bush growing at the edge of the meadow—a holly, its glossy 
leaves dark and inconspicuous against the backdrop of the escarpment. From 
this vantage point, the Takur watched with avid attention, waiting until the 
Archimandrite relaxed and began to drowse. What form would it be best to 
adopt, for an attack? What would be the right shape, that would throw the 
prey off guard? As soon as Amaurn’s eyes were properly closed, the assassin 
sent a cautious tendril of thought toward the man’s unguarded, sleeping 
mind and found the perfect shape. It was but a moment’s work to make the 
change. 
Amaurn was lost in a dream of the past. He was young again; innocent and 
idealistic, free from guilt and doubt. He had brought Aveole up to the 
plateau, to show her this magical place, and they were sitting beneath the 
great tree in the warm summer sun. His arm was round her shoulders, and 
she leaned against him as they spoke of the idle inconsequentialities of 
lovers and looked out at the valley far below. Suddenly the dream seemed to 
shimmer and fade, and when Amaurn opened his eyes, the honeyed sunshine 

of a summer’s day had changed to the silver-gilt of autumn. Aveole was no 
longer there. But what was this? He could see her, coming from the forest, 
walking through the soft grass of the meadow. He blinked and shook his 
head, dazed and disoriented, and not sure whether he was awake or still 
asleep. Then came the hard, black realization that such happy times were a 
long way in the past, and his beloved Aveole was dead. The figure, however, 
kept on coming, and as she drew nearer, he saw the scar running down the 
side of her face. Veldan. Of course. He must be tired indeed to have let 
himself get so confused. She had returned from the coast much earlier than 
he’d expected. 
He hailed her, but she did not answer, and suddenly he began to feel a sense 
of something wrong. How had she come here? How had she known where to 
find him? Why was she so silent, her expression so unchanging? She came 
closer still, almost within leach, and Vie suddenly saw what was wrong, 
what his instincts had been trying to tell him all along. 
Her scar was on the wrong side of her face. 
Wrong-handed, Amaurn snatched up his sword and was on his feet, all in 
one swift movement. His arm was actually moving to deliver the deadly 
blow, when a single thought made him falter. 
Are you sure? 
If he was wrong, then Veldan would be dead. It was too late for him to pull 
the blow—his body was already committed to the swing—but that split 
second’s hesitation cost him. 
Before his eyes Veldan vanished. 
The sword, robbed of its target, clove through the air with nothing to stop it, 
pulling him off-balance. Even as he tried to recover himself, something 
tightened round his ankles, binding his legs so that he toppled, falling 
headlong into the grass, loosening his grip on the sword, and sending a stab 
of agony through his injured ribs. Amaurn looked down at his feet and saw a 
huge, green serpent; its body, thicker than a swordsman’s arm, was wrapped 
around his legs. 
A shapeshifter! How Amaurn cursed his carelessness, in coming to the hill 
all alone, without telling anyone where he was bound. He had sent away all 
the Loremasters who could fly, to patrol the Curtain Walls, and by the time 
any help could reach him on foot, it would already be too late. Nevertheless 
... Amaurn had learned a thing or two, lately, about not being too proud to 
ask for assistance. With all the force of his mind, he flashed an image of his 
location to Maskulu, along with a desperate plea for help. 
The serpent had already thrown three or four coils around his legs, and was 
working its way higher, constricting as it went. It opened its mouth, and 
hissed, revealing long, curving fangs, and its menacing eyes—cold, flat, and 
black as obsidian—never left his face. 
Constricting snakes tended not to be venomous, but he didn’t want to take 
any chances Barely daring to move, Amaurn groped in the long grass for his 

fallen sword and, with relief, felt the hilt slide into his hand. He rolled—the 
snake lunged at his face, but by that time the blade was already coming 
toward it in a travesty of a decapitating blow. 
Again, the whistling steel struck nothing but thin air. The pressure around 
his legs vanished, and a hawk flew up out of the grass, went hurtling through 
the branches of the great oak, and vanished amid the leaves. 
Swearing heartily, Amaurn clambered to his feet. What next? Where was the 
damned creature? It could be anywhere, look like anything. In what form 
would it come at him next? He didn’t have long to find out. From the edge 
of the forest came a low, rumbling growl—loud, full of menace and 
somehow, oddly familiar. There, emerging from the trees, came the very 
double of Veldan’s firedrake friend, Kazairl. 
Bloody wonderful! 
Even as he thought it, he was already diving to one side. A great jet of flame 
came shooting from the killer’s maw, missing him by inches, and burning a 
great, black swath through the soft, green meadow. As Amaurn rolled over, 
and got back to his feet, his brain was working like lightning. There was no 
point in even trying to fight the Takur in its new form. As a firedrake, the 
thing was faster, tougher, stronger, and better armed—and it could incinerate 
him from a distance. Without another thought, he took to his heels and ran, 
swerving back and forth to avoid the blasts of fire, and heading for the edge 
of the plateau where the hillside dropped away. The firedrake started after 
him but, impelled by a jolt of pure terror, Amaurn reached his goal in time. 
Without hesitation, he leapt over the edge, and went sliding down the steep, 
wooded bank beyond. 
Out of control, Amaurn went slithering down the slope, carried downward 
by a shifting, rolling layer of leaf mold, loose soil, and stones. He tried 
desperately to hang on to his sword and keep his feet from sliding out from 
underneath him, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he fell. Had 
it not been for the trees, he must surely have lost his balance, but he kept 
colliding with one sturdy trunk after another, doing no good whatsoever to 
his injured arm and ribs but slowing his momentum enough to let him stay 
upright. 
Above him, he heard a roar of fury from the firedrake, then nothing. Its body 
was too large and ungainly to pass easily between all the trees, and he was 
pretty sure that it wouldn’t want to flame him and risk setting the woods on 
fire. A forest fire in damp autumn would warn the Loremasters that 
something was amiss on the hill, and with Kazairl far away at present, the 
circumstances surrounding the Archimandrite’s death would raise too many 
awkward questions. Besides, a shapeshifter had innumerable options. If the 
firedrake’s shape proved unsuitable, it would simply try something else, and 
something else again, until it finally succeeded. 
In what form will it come at me next? 
Amaurn had managed to keep his footing for a goodly distance down the 
hill, and had even succeeded in avoiding the most precipitous parts of the 

slope, but such good fortune couldn’t last. Scrambling to one side to miss a 
large rock that stood in his path, he managed to hurtle headlong into a low 
clump of bushes and briars, where he came to an abrupt—and thorny—halt. 
Painfully, he disentangled himself, never once letting go of his sword. The 
tension of waiting for an attack to come out of the unknown was 
overwhelming. 
Where is it? 
From what direction will it come? 
What will it look like? 
Grimly, Amaurn again set off down the hill, skirting the thicket and making 
all the speed he dared. There was no point in waiting around for the damn 
thing to strike. Here, on the lower portion of the hill, the slope had grown 
more gentle, and he could try to make a more controlled descent, though he 
certainly wasn’t dawdling. By this time, he was certain that the Takur 
assassin must be toying with him. How far would it let him get, before it 
pounced? 
Not far. In a thicket to his right, a shadow moved, just on the edge of his 
vision. 
So there you are. 
The temptation was either to go on the offensive and attack the creature, or 
at least put himself in a defensive position, with his back against a tree or a 
rock, and wait for it to come. Amaurn did neither—in dealing with a 
shapeshifter, either option would be a deadly mistake. So long as it didn’t 
know he had spotted it, he would have one slender advantage: surprise. 
Gritting his teeth, he continued on his way as if nothing had happened. 
Fast as lightning, it came at him out of the bushes. The Takur was using its 
own form at last: a dark, amorphous creature, almost as big as a man, but 
with a shadowy, shifting body that seemed to shimmer and melt from one 
guise to another, too fast for the eye to detect. A cluster of small eyes could 
be seen in the midst of the shape, glowing with a cold, white glitter. There 
seemed to be a number of flexible and elongated limbs, and Amaurn saw to 
his horror that some were tipped with curved and savagely pointed claws, 
while others ended in knifelike blades which had the keen-edged gleam of 
sharpened steel All that he absorbed in an instant—then the Takur was upon 
him. Amaurn, however, was ready for it, and as the long, black tentacles 
reached out toward him, he clove desperately at them with his sword, 
managing to lop off several, which twitched and writhed upon the ground, 
their weapons useless. The creature hissed and snarled with pain, but already 
the severed ends of its limbs were elongating once more, and growing a new 
collection of blades and claws. 
Again, Amaurn attacked the groping extremities and, though he had lost the 
advantage of surprise this time, he was gratified to see that the injuries and 
the effort of growing replacements seemed to be slowing the shapeshifter a 
little. He certainly hoped so. He, too, was tiring, having begun the battle with 

injuries from a previous fight, and he was being forced to fight with the 
wrong hand, although in his years as Godsword Commander he had trained 
himself to be adept with both left and right. 
Right-handed or left-, however, Amaurn only had one arm, and one sword, 
against a host of deadly weapons wielded by many limbs. Desperately, he 
kept on hacking at the creature’s flailing tentacles, which came snaking in at 
him, now high, now low, now slicing at his guts, now gouging at his eyes, 
forcing him to make greater and greater efforts to defend himself. 
For a time it seemed as if the two combatants were stalemated—but 
something had to change, and soon. The Archimandrite, hurt and exhausted, 
knew that he was running out of time. The assassin also seemed to be in 
some distress, and both were slowing noticeably in their timing and 
reactions. But which would give way first? 
Amaurn never saw it coming. He only knew he had been wounded when an 
icy shock in his side sent him reeling away, as agony scored through him. He 
could feel blood soaking into his tunic, his vision swam, and giddiness 
overwhelmed him. The Takur followed up without mercy. It bore down on 
him, the bloodstained blade that had proved his undoing poised to strike 
again. 
All those years—all those schemes and sacrifices—and it ends like this. 
He had to admit, there was a certain grim justice in it. 
Then, without warning, the ground erupted underneath the assassin, sending 
it flying backward, wailing, in a shower of soil and stones and fallen leaves. 
One of the trees tilted, and fell with a crash that shook the hillside. Out of the 
ground came Maskulu, length upon monstrous length of him, with an 
armored hide that could turn any Takuru blade, and formidable weapons of 
his own in his multitudinous claws and razor-edged diamond mandibles. 
Amaurn had never seen a more beautiful sight in all his life, but his huge 
comrade was at a disadvantage amid the trees. As the shapeshifter fled, he 
went to pursue it, but before he’d had time to turn his long, unwieldy body, 
his prey had vanished once again. 
“Stay here,” Amaurn called, as Maskulu seemed about to set off in pursuit. 
“It’s a Takur—you won’t find it.” 
“I can try.” 
“No—don’t go anywhere,” the Archimandrite gasped. “Keep in my sight. 
That’s the only way I can be sure you’re you.” 
“I never thought of that,” Maskulu rumbled. “But how dare we leave such an 
assassin at large? He can come at you from anywhere, at any time. You 
could be dead before you even knew what had happened.” 
“Tell me about it,” Amaurn grunted. Each small movement sent white-hot 
agony lancing through his side. “Come over here. I’ll need you to help me 
get back.” 
Coming closer, the Loremaster lowered his hideous head to make a closer 

examination of the wound. “As far as I can tell, it mainly went through 
muscle. It doesn’t look deep enough, hopefully, to have done any serious 
damage.” 
“If I don’t bleed to death, that is.” 
“You’ll never walk back,” his companion told him. “Maybe, if you could 
manage to climb up, I could take you on my back—or maybe I should go 
and fetch some help to carry you back to the settlement.” 
Amaurn looked at him. “But whom can you trust?” He grimaced, half in 
pain, half in anger at the clever way in which Syvilda had wrought his 
undoing. She had to be behind the attack—of that he was certain. Though 
her assassin had failed to take his life, its amorphous nature had cut him off 
from friend as well as foe. 
Well, I’m damned if I’ll let her get away with it! 
He was growing light-headed, and his limbs felt very cold. He realized that 
he was going into shock, but the last thing he could afford to do at this point 
was pass out. “Come on,” he said to Maskulu. “There’s no time to lose. I’m 
going to climb up on that fallen tree and get up onto your back from there. 
When we get back to the settlement, we’ll work out the rest, but we have to 
get there while I’m still conscious.” 
Maskulu rumbled in concern. “Are you sure you’ll be able to manage?” 
Amaurn thought back to the night he had fallen down the cliff and managed 
to claw his way back to safety only by refusing to consider any alternative. It 
was a comfort to know that he still had the iron-hard Lord Blade within him, 
to handle such emergencies. “Oh, yes,” he said grimly. “I’ll manage.” 
CHAPTER 19 
Traps and Conundrums 
They can’t possibly have gone across there!“ Galveron’s face, in the 
pulsing, colored light, was a picture of dismay. Alestan, standing on the 
brink where the passage ended so abruptly, looked again at the seemingly 
bottomless shaft in front of him, the small square platform in the center that 
seemed to be topped with some sort of fine-meshed grid, and the long jump 
to the other side, where the corridor began again. In truth, he didn’t like it 
any better than his companion, but he certainly wasn’t going to admit that. 
”Where else could they have gone?“ he pointed out. 
Gaiveron frowned. “Those side vents ...” he began. 
“Galveron, we checked the grilles on every one of those vents,” the thief 

retorted. “Judging from the muck on them, and the rust, not one of them has 
been opened in living memory. You’ve got to face it. Aliana and Packrat 
must have crossed this shaft, if they came down here—and we know they 
must have done. The food crumbs we found back there, the place where 
somebody relieved themselves—who else could it have been?” 
Despite the ever-changing hues of his skin, the Godsword Commander 
looked very pale as he studied the awful drop down the shaft, but he set his 
jaw firmly. “You’re right,” he admitted. “We’re going to have to jump 
across.” 
“You could always wait here,” Alestan suggested hopefully. “I’m much 
more accustomed to the climbing and jumping side of things. I’ll go on 
ahead, find the others, and bring them back to you.” 
Galveron gave him a withering look. “You’ll go on ahead and join with 
them, and leave me sitting here like an old maid at a wedding,” he retorted. 
“Do you think I was born yesterday?” 
“But we’d have to come back this way.” 
“Yes—but only if you can’t find another way out.” 
The thief cursed under his breath. He kept forgetting how astute the 
Godsword Commander was. 
“Anyway,” Galveron continued. “What if you went on alone and came 
across another ladder?” 
Alestan glared at him. “Trust you to throw that in my face!” With his broken 
arm in splints and a sling, he had been unable to manage the ladder down 
from the podium platform and been forced to wait while Galveron fetched a 
rope, then suffer the ignominy of being lowered down. But much as he hated 
to admit it, the Commander had a point. “Very well, then.” He gestured 
extravagantly with his free hand toward the shaft “After you.” 
His companion hesitated. “With that arm of yours, are you sure you’re all 
right to do this?” 
“I jump with my legs, not my arms.” 
“But when you land, you use your arms to help keep your balance,” 
Galveron pointed out. “You know, after I brought the rope all this way in my 
backpack, it’s a real pity there’s nothing here to which we can tie it. It would 
have been good to do this without worrying about falling all the way to the 
bottom. Still, if I go first, at least I can catch and steady you as you land.” 
“If you haven’t mucked it up and fallen down the bloody shaft,” Alestan said 
sourly, his pride stung by the implication that he might not be able to 
manage—and the knowledge, deep inside, that it might be true. “Go on 
then,” he muttered. “Get on with it.” 
Galveron stood on the brink, taking in the length of the two jumps, the 
inadequacy of the bare platform in the center—and the depth of the shaft. He 
swallowed hard, walked back a good distance down the corridor, turned, 
ran—and took a gigantic, flying leap that boasted a lot more force than 

grace. He came down hard on the central platform, and stumbled as he 
landed. Alestan heard the crack of his knee hitting the floor, and winced. 
“Clumsy as a pig on ice,” he called, unable to resist such a good opportunity 
to needle the Godsword Commander. 
Galveron’s lips were moving silently as he got back to his feet, and by the 
look on his face, he wasn’t saying his prayers. Limping slightly, he turned 
and glared at Alestan. “At least I didn’t break my arm.” 
Now it was the thief’s turn to scowl. Muttering dark things about Galveron’s 
probable parentage, he stalked off down the passage until he was sure he had 
given himself a long enough run. He steadied his breathing, focused on the 
jump ahead of him, sped lightly to the takeoff point, and launched himself 
just at the right moment. 
For someone who was used to making his way across Tiarond via the 
rooftops, the jump presented no problem. Alestan landed lightly, took a step 
or two forward to keep himself balanced, then turned to Galveron and 
bowed. “Anytime you need some lessons, Commander...” 
“Next time I’ll just leave you in prison,” Galveron grumbled—then he 
grinned, and clapped the thief on the shoulder. “Good jump,” he said. 
Alestan was just opening his mouth to reply, when a rumbling, roaring sound 
came up from under his feet. Reflexively, he jumped aside, just as a jet of 
intense flame came up through the grid, right where he’d been standing. A 
split second later, another shot up inches from the Godsword’s face. 
“Jump,” Alestan bellowed. “Now!” Without waiting, he dashed to the edge 
of the platform and threw himself across the gap. The leap lacked both the 
power and grace of the first, but it got him to safety, a few inches past the 
corridor’s edge. As he landed, he turned, anxious about his companion. 
Galveron, with a desperate, do-or-die look on his face, was just jumping, but 
clearly he had been hampered by the short run-up. 
He’s never going to make it! 
The thief looked on in horror, fully expecting to see the Godsword plunge to 
his death, but somehow he managed to find that extra ounce of effort, 
coming to earth right on the brink where the passage began once more. Offbalance 
and teetering, he threw himself forward, and Alestan winced as his 
knee—the same one as last time—cracked down hard against the floor. 
White-faced, he raised himself carefully, grimacing with pain, and looked at 
the thief. “When I see your sister,” he said in pleasant, almost conversational 
tones, “I’m going to wring her neck.” 
Alestan looked back at the platform, where random flames were still 
shooting upward at a tremendous rate. “Join the queue.” 
They stopped for a while to rest and eat, relieved that those irritating colors 
had gone, but still mystified as to why they had been there in the first place. 
“I think they might have been some kind of alert, or alarm,” Galveron 
suggested. “Maybe our passing through the colored lights triggered the traps 
in some way—you know, like cocking a crossbow.” 

The thief shrugged. “It’s as good an explanation as any— not that it’s any 
use expecting anything in this place to make sense. I mean, who would think 
of constructing that shaft and putting a platform in it with flames that shoot 
out? If you ask me, the builders of this place were seriously deranged.” 
For a time, however, it seemed that the strange place beneath the city had 
nothing more to throw at them. They walked on through those same, 
monotonous corridors for an hour or so, and Alestan was just beginning to 
think that the greatest danger down here would be perishing with boredom, 
when Galveron stopped him with an ourthrust arm. “Wait,” he said. “What’s 
that?” 
For a stretch of several yards, the walls on either side were covered with 
tiles, about a foot square, that bore pictures of little stylized figures, all busy 
with a variety of activities. Alestan went closer to examine them. “Myrial’s 
teeth and toenails!” he gasped. “Look—they’re moving!” 
The little figures on each tile seemed to go through a short sequence of 
actions which then started from the beginning once more, repeating 
themselves over and over. A man was being swallowed by a giant fish; the 
same man was leaving a house on a hill and waving goodbye to a woman 
and children who were weeping; now he was returning to the house on the 
hill, leading a donkey laden with boxes of treasure; now he was deep 
underground, battling with a Dragon; now he was confronting three hideous 
ogres; now he was on board a ship that was engaged in a desperate battle 
with another vessel bearing a pirate flag. There seemed to be no particular 
order to the tiles; all the activities of the little man seemed random and 
unconnected to one another. 
Galveron, fascinated, couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the amazing wall. 
Alestan, too, had never seen anything like it. Reaching out a cautious finger, 
he touched one of the tiles, wondering if such interference would affect the 
movements of the figures in any way. All he could feel, however, was a 
smooth, cool surface, while the activities went on, unchanged, beneath his 
finger, like fish swimming beneath a layer of clear ice. After a time, 
however, he began to wonder what it was all for. The tiles with the moving 
pictures were astounding, and the antics of the little hero were quite 
diverting to watch, but what purpose did these things serve? And why place 
them all this way underground, in the middle of a corridor? 
Alestan knotted his brows. These moving images had not been placed there 
for entertainment. They must serve some other purpose. Seeking answers, he 
looked farther down the passage. 
Just as the tiled stretch of the walls turned back to the smooth, blue metal, 
the floor of the corridor changed to a another checkerboard of tiles, the same 
size as those on the wall, which were mainly white, but interspersed at 
random intervals with blue. The blue tiles seemed to be sunken about the 
length of a fingertip below the level of the others and, though they were 
irregularly spaced, were each about a long stride apart from one another. 
This tiled stretch lasted for about thirty yards, then the floor changed back 

again to its original composition. 
Galveron, still entranced by the images, was laughing heartily at one 
particular tile where the little man, in trying to shoot a bird in a tree for his 
supper, hit a hornets’ nest instead and was chased all the way through the 
woods by a swarm of angry insects. He turned away reluctantly when 
Alestan tugged at his arm. The thief rolled his eyes to the heavens. 
Maybe that’s their purpose. Perhaps they’re meant to be some kind of 
diversion, to delay us here, and put us off our guard. Then something awful, 
like those accursed flames, will happen. 
But at present, nothing seemed to be happening that was any worse than 
Galveron’s irritation at being interrupted. “Well?” he snapped. 
With great restraint, Alestan forbore to remind him why they had come 
down here. Instead, he indicated the tiled stretch of corridor ahead. “What do 
you make of that? I don’t like the look of it, myself.” 
Galveron frowned. “You’re right. It looks very suspicious.” He unslung his 
backpack, and took out one of the hard, doughy griddle cakes. “Stay back,” 
he said softly, and with a flick of his wrist, he flipped the cake onto the white 
tiles. 
From the walls on either side shot something that looked very like sizzling 
bolts of energy, which crisscrossed the corridor from floor to ceiling, as far 
as the tiled section continued. After a few moments, they died away, leaving 
the passage looking as innocuous as before. 
“I thought as much.” Galveron started forward cautiously. “It was bound to 
be another trap. It looks as though we have to keep to the blue tiles, to get 
safely across this part.” 
“Wait.” Alestan pulled him back. “That’s too easy. The last obstacle looked 
simple, remember? And look what happened there.” From out of his pocket 
he pulled a half-eaten pastry of his own, and lobbed it, with impressive 
accuracy, onto one of the blue tiles. Galveron jumped back, cursing, as the 
bolts went searing across the passageway once more. 
Alestan looked at him curiously. “You know, before we came down here, 
I’m not sure that I ever heard you swear.” 
The Godsword Commander glared at the offending stretch of corridor. “In 
this place, I’m learning fast. So what do we do now?” 
“You have to learn to think like a thief,” Alestan said, with an evil grin. 
“You would be amazed at the number of snares and locks and obstacles that 
people invent to protect their belongings from the likes of us. After a while, 
we learn how to deal with them—or starve.” 
“Or end up being caught.” Galveron sounded disgruntled. 
“Yes, that happens sometimes—but not nearly as often as you would like to 
think,” the thief retorted. 
At that, Galveron settled himself on the floor, leaned back against the wall, 
put his feet up on his backpack, and tucked his arms behind his head in a 

most irritating manner. “Off you go, then. Wake me when you’ve found out 
how to get through.” 
Alestan ground his teeth. Damn the Godsword! If only he actually would go 
to sleep, then he himself could find out how to get across this trapped area 
and head off on his own, where Galveron couldn’t follow. By the time 
Galveron had managed to work out the solution for himself—if he ever 
did—the thief could be miles away, and hot on his sister’s trail. 
And if you think for one moment that this accursed Godsword was telling the 
truth about going to sleep, then you II be able to cross this stretch on a 
flying pig. 
Pretending that he hadn’t noticed Galveron watching him surreptitiously 
through half-dosed eyes, Alestan turned to examine the puzzle. Not just the 
blue squares, nor yet the white—then what? He toyed with the idea that there 
might be some sort of sequence to crossing the tiles, but if there was, they 
wouldn’t stand a chance of getting across. They didn’t have enough pieces of 
griddle cake, or anything else, for that matter, to test out every damned tile, 
and couldn’t throw accurately enough to the farther stretches in any case. 
Muttering sourly, he began to pace back and forth across the corridor—and 
once again, he started to think about the pictures on the walls. All his 
instincts were screaming that they must be significant. But how? 
Come on, Alestan—think! With every moment you waste here, Aliana is 
getting farther away. And if she could work this out—as she must 
have—then surely you can? 
Galveron, in the meantime, had clearly decided that he had irritated Alestan 
enough and stopped pretending to be asleep. Within moments, he was back 
at the wretched wall tiles, engrossed once again—which, of course, only had 
the effect of irritating the thief still more. Muttering sourly, Alestan 
continued to pace, glaring at the offending stretch of floor. There must be an 
answer here. There must be! 
Then Galveron spoke, almost echoing his thought. “I think I’ve got the 
solution.” 
Alestan whirled to face him. “What? You?” 
“Not bad for a plodding Godsword, eh?” His grin was wide and malicious. 
“Maybe we’re one step ahead of you thieves a little more often than you 
seem to think.” 
“That’s supposing you’re right, of course,” said Alestan. “Go on, then, if 
you’re so bloody clever. What’s the answer?” 
“Look.” Gently, Galveron pressed one of the wall tiles with his fingertips. 
There was a soft click and, to the thief’s surprise, the tile came loose from 
the wall. “You see?” the Godsword said. “You can take them out and move 
them around.” 
“How absolutely fascinating. Perhaps, when you’ve stopped playing around 
with those ridiculous things, you can tell me how you propose to get across 
the floor.” 

“But this is the way to get across.” Galveron’s smug expression made 
Alestan’s fists itch. “Don’t you see? These moving tiles make up a story. 
Right now, they’re all mixed up, but if we can get them into the right order, 
we then put them into those recessed blue spaces on the floor. I’ve been 
counting, and there are exactly the same number of spaces as there are tiles. 
Unless I’m mistaken, if we get everything in the right place, that’ll disarm 
the lightning bolts—either that, or we can then step safely on the story tiles 
and get through that way.” 
Alestan looked at him in disgust. “A story? We have to make a story out of 
these damned things? Have you lost your mind?” 
“Have you any better suggestions?” 
“I wish to Myrial I had. This is ridiculous! What in the name of all creation 
could be at the end of this passage, to make whoever built these tunnels go to 
such elaborate lengths to protect it?” His voice grew thoughtful. “It must be 
something pretty valuable.” 
“Right at the minute, the Hierarch’s ring and your wretched sister are down 
this passage,” Galveron reminded him grimly. “As far as I’m concerned, 
anything else is incidental. Come on, help me get these tiles down. We’ll lay 
them out on the floor and see if we can put them in order.” Alestan still only 
half believed his companion’s theory, but it wasn’t as if he had anything 
better to do. As he took down the tiles, he was surprised to see that the 
images kept moving, with the little hero repeating a sequence of actions in 
an endless loop. But how? What made the pictures move like that? 
Curiously, he looked at the backs, but they were simply a plain, featureless 
white. By this time he was beginning to understand why Galveron had 
become so fascinated with the things. 
How did they—whoever they were—manage to do this? It’s incredible! 
Galveron was holding up two tiles. “I think these are the beginning and the 
end,” he said. “See? Here the man is leaving his family and setting out on his 
adventures, and here he is coming back with all the treasures that he won.” 
“Well, that’s a start.” Alestan frowned. “But what order does the rest of it 
take? I mean, does he get eaten by the fish before he fights the dragon, or 
what? And where do the hornets fit in?” He flung his arms up in the air. 
“How do they expect us to do this? The bloody thing’s impossible!” 
“No it isn’t.” Galveron was walking up and down the line of tiles that lay on 
the floor. “Let me see ... He must have been in the pirate battle before the 
ship got sunk and the fish ate him... And here he is, boarding the ship, so that 
goes before the others ... And when he’s walking into the woods—where the 
hornets are—he’s still dripping, so I would guess that must be after he 
escaped from the fish, but before the dragon ... Come on, Alestan. Help me 
out.” 
Admitting defeat, Alestan joined him. Already, the line of tiles looked to 
have more of a sequence. “Why couldn’t the Dragon be before the pirate 
ship?” he asked. 

“Because he comes away from the Dragon with a big sack of treasure.” 
Galveron pointed out the tile. “And he doesn’t have it on the ship.” 
“Maybe the pirates took it off him?” 
“Don’t be ridiculous. He still has it when he comes home. Look, there it is 
on his donkey.” 
Alestan gritted his teeth. “I hate this bloody stupid thing.” 
“I think it’s fun, myself.” Galveron grinned at him. 
“Aren’t you forgetting that with every minute we waste on this nonsense, 
Aliana will be getting farther ahead?” 
“No she won’t. Don’t forget that she needed to work this out for herself, 
before she could go on, and that must have taken her quite a while. In the 
end, it all evens out—at least, it will if we get on with this and stop wasting 
time.” 
“Hold on.” Alestan’s heart sank. The Godsword’s stupid idea might be 
annoying, but at least it had been some sort of solution. But... “Galveron, I 
think we have a problem.” 
Galveron looked up from his tiles. “What now?” 
“Well, Aliana is ahead of us, and if she did solve this puzzle as you’ve done, 
and she worked out the story, and put the tiles down in order...” 
“Yes?” 
“Then why aren’t the tiles still on the floor? Why did we find them up there 
on the wall?” 
Galveron’s face reminded Alestan of the time, far back in his childhood, 
when he and Aliana had opened their birthday presents and found clothes 
instead of toys. Then the Godsword set his jaw. “Damn it, no. I’m sure I’m 
right. I have no idea how the tiles got back on the wall, but I’m not going to 
worry about that now.” 
“I would if I were you,” the thief replied. “Because if you’re right, then as 
far as I can see, the only way the wretched things could get back to where 
they were, is if someone came along and put them back—and if there’s 
someone else wandering around down here, we had better be prepared.” 
“Good point. I’ll be prepared, all right. If whoever invented these damned 
traps and conundrums is walking around down here, I’d be delighted to meet 
him,” Galveron said grimly, before turning back to his tiles once more. 
With a shrug, Alestan joined him. If there was no alternative, he supposed he 
might as well get into the spirit of the thing. “Look,” he said, after a 
moment. “The donkey belongs to the ogres, and the hero runs away with it 
when he outwits them. And if he didn’t have it on any of his other 
adventures, then this must be the last one before he gets home.” 
“Well done!” Galveron clapped him on the shoulder, and for some reason, 
Alestan felt ridiculously pleased with himself. Maybe the Godsword had 
been right after all about this being fun. He pointed at the tiles again. “That 

only leaves the part when the man gets captured by a witch, and, since his 
clothes have scorch marks all over them, and he has the sack of treasure but 
no donkey, she must come between the dragon and the ogres. That’s it! 
We’ve done it.” 
The two men grinned at one another. “Come on,” Galveron said. “Let’s start 
getting them into place. This is the part where we find out whether I was 
right or wrong.” 
Carefully, they stacked the tiles in the right order. At the edge of the trapped 
area, Galveron squatted, wincing at having to bend his knee so far. “Hand 
me the first one,” he said, reaching behind him. Alestan gave him the picture 
of the brave little man leaving his family and setting off on his adventures, 
and the Godsword reached forward and placed it in the nearest blue 
indentation. The tile slotted into place with a loud click. 
“Now,” Galveron said. “Give me another piece of that griddle cake, and let’s 
test this out.” 
Alestan fished in his backpack and broke off another portion from their 
ration. “Let’s hope we don’t have to do this too often, or we’re going to 
starve down here.” 
Galveron took it from him and looked at it critically. “Best use for it, if you 
ask me. It’s like chewing rocks.” 
“I’ll tell Telimon you said that. I’m sure he’d be interested in your opinion.” 
“If you do, I’ll make you eat the whole lot yourself,” the Godsword 
threatened. He took a few steps back. “Right— stand clear.” He broke the 
hard, flat griddle cake in half, lobbing one bit onto the white tiles, as he had 
done before. Again, the captive lightning sizzled across the corridor, and the 
smell of ozone filled the air. Galveron nodded to himself. “So putting a tile 
in the right place doesn’t disarm the trap,” he said, half to himself. “I didn’t 
think it would. Let’s try it the other way.” Aiming carefully, he tossed the 
other piece of his improvised missile onto the animated square. 
Nothing happened, and a broad grin of relief spread across his face. “I told 
you so. Come on, hand me the next tile.” 
Cautiously, he stepped forward onto the tile he had just placed. In order to be 
able to reach the next blank space, he had to put both his feet on the tile, 
which left him very little room. “This is no good,” he muttered. Returning to 
the safety of the normal corridor, he sat down and removed his boots, 
stuffing his rolled socks inside them and fastening them carefully to the 
outside of his backpack. “You’ll have to follow me with the pieces,” he said 
to Alestan. “I suggest you take your shoes off too.” 
“I’ll be all right.” The thief showed him the light, flexible, soft-soled shoes 
that were so necessary in his trade. “Are you ready now?” he prompted the 
Godsword. “I really want to get on with this.” 
“Come on, then.” Galveron got to his feet again and squared his shoulders. 
“Let’s do it.” 

Step by step, they picked their way along the trapped section of corridor, 
being very careful to put their feet only on the areas with pictures that 
Galveron had just laid down. With each step they took, Alestan handed out 
another of the tiles from the stock he carried, and the Godsword squatted—a 
difficult task, with his feet crammed together on one constricted spot—and 
placed the tile in the next blue indentation, before straightening, very 
carefully, until he was upright again. Alestan admired his fortitude. Going up 
and down like that must be putting a great strain on his thigh muscles, and 
what it must be doing to his injured knee didn’t bear thinking about. It was 
much easier for himself. All he had to worry about was not dropping the 
tiles, and he had nothing else to do but follow Galveron, which meant that he 
could stand with a foot on each of two squares—a luxury that was denied the 
Godsword while he was placing his tiles, as that stance, with one leg 
stretched back, made it impossible for him to reach far enough. 
Their progress was slow and painstaking, and the thief was grinding his teeth 
with impatience long before they reached their goal. Eventually, however, 
they reached the end of the trapped area and stepped onto the smooth, 
metallic floor of the passage with profound relief. Galveron stretched 
mightily, rubbing his thighs. “Thank goodness that’s over. I—” 
“Look, Galveron! Quick!” Alestan had been looking back over the area they 
had just traversed, so he saw the change beginning to take place. One by one, 
the tiles bearing the pictures sank a little below the level of the floor, then 
every one of them turned blue again, so the surface looked exactly as it had 
when the two men had first approached it. With a feeling of inevitability, the 
thief looked back at the wall on which they had first found the tiles, and saw 
the pictures appearing there once again, until everything looked as it had 
before. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he said. “Well, at least that’s one mystery 
solved.” 
“It’s just as well,” said Galveron. “I didn’t really like the idea of a bunch of 
strangers wandering around here resetting these traps behind us.” 
Alestan turned to his companion. “Shall we go on now, or do you need to 
rest your knee a bit, first?” 
“No, let’s go on. Maybe I can work the stiffness out with a bit of exercise.” 
The Godsword shouldered his backpack and limped off determinedly down 
the passage. With a shrug, Alestan followed. 
It wasn’t so far between the tile puzzle and the next obstacle. Galveron 
groaned when he saw it. “I don’t believe this! Not again.” 
Another shaft bisected the corridor. Swearing under his breath, Alestan 
walked to the edge and examined it—and felt his heart sink. “The accursed 
thing’s about twice as wide as the last one. And this time, there isn’t even a 
pillar—or anything else, for that matter—in the middle. It’s just a bloody 
great pit, and we’ll never get across it!” Hurling his backpack savagely to the 
ground, he sat down on the floor, weary, disgusted, and defeated. 
Galveron looked over the edge in his turn. “At least there’s a bottom that we 
can see this time, but it makes no difference. That shaft is deep enough to 

kill us ten times over.” He slumped down beside the thief, his expression 
thunderous. 
“This is just all wrong,” he complained. “There were ways around the other 
obstacles, but this time, they haven’t given us a chance.” 
“You know what?” Alestan said. “You’re absolutely right. This is all 
wrong—but not in the way you think. If it isn’t passable, how come Aliana 
isn’t here?” 
The Godsword’s face brightened. “Good for Aliana! I might have known she 
would do it! Well, if she can get across, we can.” 
Alestan looked at him quizzically. “I thought you were mad at her?” 
“I am,” Galveron protested quickly. “What makes you think I’m not?” 
Aliana’s brother just chuckled. “I believe you,” he said. “Thousands 
wouldn’t.” 
The Commander of the Godswords glared at him. “If you’ve finished being 
stupid, I suggest you help me find a way to get across this pit.” 
Wondering if it was once again a question of standing on the right place, 
they made a minute search of the passage floor for some twenty yards back 
from the shaft. They searched the walls, running their fingers over the 
smooth metal and peering closely until their eyes ached. Hanging perilously 
over the drop, they searched the inner walls of the shaft itself, as far as they 
could reach, and with Alestan sitting on Galveron’s shoulders, they even 
searched the ceiling. They found absolutely nothing. 
Eventually, Galveron shook his head. “I don’t know what else to do,” he 
admitted. “I don’t see how we can give up, but I’ve run out of ideas.” He 
scowled. “A plague on Aliana! I trusted that sister of yours—I can’t believe 
she would turn traitor. But, by Myrial, if the little wretch had to betray us all, 
I wish she had come anywhere but here.” 
It was too much for Alestan. “You leave my sister out of this,” he yelled. 
“You can talk about betraying people—what about your promises to take 
care of us? You think you’re so high-and-mighty, you and that damned bitch 
of a Hierarch, but for all your airs, you’re no better than we are! You’re...” 
“QUIET!” Galveron’s bellow was so unexpected that it startled Alestan into 
silence. “Listen,” the Godsword said. “Can you hear water?” 
As one, the two men turned toward the shaft, and looked over. Just below 
the level on which they were standing, four round apertures had opened, one 
in each of the walls. Water was gushing out of them at a tremendous rate, 
and they could see the shaft filling rapidly, even as they watched. 
Suddenly, Galveron started to laugh. “Well done, thief!” 
“What the blazes are you talking about?” Alestan snapped. He was still 
fuming, and frankly, he couldn’t see why that thickheaded Godsword was so 
pleased. “So the pit’s going to be full of water ... So what? And what did it 
have to do with me?” 

“You set it off—I think,” Galveron told him. “I don’t know if you could get 
away with just yelling anything, or whether the right word just happened to 
be somewhere in your tirade, but it must have been the shouting that 
triggered the water. We didn’t do anything else. And no matter that it was an 
accident, you’ve solved the whole problem. All we have to do is wait until it 
fills up, then swim across.” 
Alestan’s jaw dropped open. If he hadn’t been so angry with the Godsword, 
he would have worked it out sooner. “I wonder who did the yelling when 
Aliana and Packrat found this out,” he said. 
“I can guess,” Galveron said dryly. “You are twins, after all. It’s only natural 
that you’d react to situations in similar ways.” 
The pit was filling up fast. Soon the water would have reached the four 
inlets, and the two men would be able to swim across. Then another problem 
struck Alestan. “What about this?” He held up his splinted arm. “It’s all very 
well for you, but...” 
“Well,” said Galveron thoughtfully, “you could always wait here while I—” 
“No!” 
The commander shrugged. “Funny, you seemed to think it was a good idea 
earlier, back at the fire shaft, when the boot was on the other foot. I might 
point out, however, that if you had gone ahead and left me, you’d be looking 
pretty stupid about now—that is, supposing you had ever managed to work 
out how to use the story tiles.” 
“All right,” the thief snapped. “You’ve made your point.” 
“Can you swim, anyway?” Galveron asked him curiously. “I mean...” 
“You mean, considering my background.” Alestan scowled at him. “As a 
matter of fact I can, though I haven’t done it for a long time. We weren’t 
born and bred in the Warrens, Aliana and I. Our father was a merchant who 
lost all his money and killed himself when we were nine years old. Our 
mother was already dead, so we had to fend for ourselves after that.” 
Galveron looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.” 
“Why?” Alestan challenged him. “Would it have made any difference to the 
way you treated us?” 
“If you can swim, you can float.” The Godsword changed the subject 
abruptly. “I’ll tow you across. We’ll manage.” 
They stuffed their outer clothing into their backpacks and tied their boots 
securely to the outsides. Then they fastened the rope to the packs and tied 
the free end around Alestan’s waist. They meant to leave their burdens 
behind, then once they had reached the other side, they would pull them 
across. The trickiest part of the proceedings was getting the thief into the 
water, but Galveron got in first and helped to support him as he slid over the 
side, then put a hand behind his head until he was floating confidently. The 
water wasn’t too uncomfortable: on the cold side, but not icy. Aware of the 
considerable depth beneath him, Alestan found it very difficult to relax, as 

he knew he must do, and trust the man who was towing him. In the end, he 
managed to distract himself by imagining what he would say to his wretch of 
a sister when he finally caught up with her. 
The crossing didn’t prove too difficult—especially when compared with the 
previous obstacles. When they reached the far side, Alestan clung to the 
edge with his good hand and treaded water, while Galveron, after several 
attempts that involved a good deal of spluttering and cursing, managed to 
haul himself out. As soon as he was safe, he pulled Alestan to safety, then 
paused for a moment to catch his breath—he had been doing all the hard 
work—before pulling the backpacks over to their side. 
The water had managed to seep into the packs to a certain extent, but they 
were Godsword-issue oiled canvas, and so their contents had stayed fairly 
dry. Alestan thought of his sister, forced to go on her way dripping, with her 
soaked clothes sticking to her skin. Now that he came to think of it, he could 
see the odd little puddle and damp patch heading away down the corridor in 
front of them. A smile crept over his face. 
That’ll teach her to go acting like an idiot and running off down here. 
Galveron must have been thinking along similar lines. “Poor Aliana,” he 
said. “She can’t be very comfortable now.” 
Alestan raised his eyes to the heavens, but forbore to comment. “At least 
Packrat will have had a good bath, for once,” was all he said. 
“I forgot about him,” the Godsword said. “You mean he can swim?” 
“He grew up on the midden, and you know how it floods every spring. The 
children who didn’t learn to swim didn’t survive.” 
“Dear Myrial,” Galveron said softly. “It seems there’s a lot I didn’t know 
about your people, Alestan. I’m sorry. I’ve been jumping to conclusions and 
misjudging you all. Stealing is still wrong, of course,” he added quickly, 
“but what’s really wrong is that youngsters like you and Packrat were forced 
into that kind of life in the first place. If we ever manage to rebuild this city, 
we’re going to have to do better by our children.” 
Alestan stared at him. 
Amazing! We’re not even sure how we’re going to survive the next few days, 
and he’s talking about rebuilding the city. I know Aliana believes he would 
do a much better job of leading us than Gilarra. Maybe she’s right. 
Picking up their belongings, they went on their way once more, both of them 
silent now, and very thoughtful. 
CHAPTER 20 
The Newcomer 

The closer Dark came to the Shadowleague headquarters, the more relieved 
he was that he had been provided with an escort. After his battle with the 
winged fiends—or the Ak’Zahar, as he was learning to call them—he had 
been taken to the wayshelter by the Phoenix and told to wait, along with 
Scall and his winged captive, until someone could come to see him safely to 
the settlement. She was unable to do it herself, she said, because she was 
needed to patrol the Curtain Walls, but she assured him that he wouldn’t 
have too long to wait. Though the Summoner knew full well that the 
amazing bird was less bothered about his own convenience, and more 
concerned about preventing him from wandering freely through Gendival, he 
was more than content with the arrangement. Even though Grim had tried to 
warn him that he would be meeting with some very strange-looking 
individuals, the appearance of the large, exotic, golden avian who could 
communicate in mind-speech and who left a fiery trail behind her as she flew 
had shaken him to the core, and he had wondered what other shocks this day 
would have in store for him. 
Still, at least he had half an idea what to expect. Poor Scall looked utterly 
terrified. Dark wanted desperately to untie him; but until his new custodian 
arrived, he didn’t dare risk the boy running off. The Summoner hadn’t 
exactly made an auspicious start here by accidentally letting three winged 
fiends through the Curtain Walls, and deliberately bringing a fourth one with 
him as a prisoner. 
In the wayshelter, he had tried to apologize to the boy, and explain why he 
had brought him here; but Scall had refused to respond, save to glower at his 
captor with hatred in his eyes. Eventually, Dark had given up and was 
concentrating instead on making the poor lad a little more comfortable, when 
he heard someone calling him from outside—speaking aloud as well as 
using mind-speech and, to the Summoner’s relief, sounding very human. 
The escort turned out to be a young man of medium height, with long blond 
hair that fell past his shoulders and a cheerful countenance. He was riding a 
lively, dark bay horse with three white socks and a white star on its forehead. 
Across his back was slung an unfamiliar, complicated-looking weapon, with 
what looked like the stock of a crossbow at one end, attached to an oddly 
shaped construction of metal and crystals, which in turn led to a long, 
shining tube made of some unidentified substance. Dark thought of Scall’s 
arcane discoveries and realized that he had brought the artifacts to the right 
place. 
The young man introduced himself as Loremaster Kher. “It’ll be my 
pleasure to escort you to Gendival,” he told the Summoner. “To tell you the 
truth, patrolling the Curtain Walls was getting really boring. I’ll be glad of 
an excuse to get back to headquarters for a while.” 
When he slid down from his horse, Dark saw that he was limping heavily. 
He removed a staff that was slotted through a loop on his saddle and used it 

to help him walk as he went into the wayshelter. His eyes widened when he 
saw the winged fiend, bound and stinking in its corner. (It had been brought 
inside, very reluctantly, by the Summoner who was afraid that, if he left it 
outside, its fellows might come back to rescue it—or prey on it.) 
“So Vaure was telling me the truth!” Kher said. “When she told me you had 
a live Ak’Zahar with you, I thought she was pulling my leg—what’s left of 
it.” 
Dark sighed ruefully. “Since I had captured one alive, I thought it might be 
some use to the Shadowleague—maybe to help them pinpoint its 
weaknesses—but Vaure seemed to think it wouldn’t be well received. I hope 
it’s not going to get me into too much trouble.” 
Kher frowned. “To be honest, I don’t know how it will be received,” he said. 
“If Cergorn were still Archimandrite, I hate to think how much trouble you 
would be in. Now that the leadership has changed, though—well, it’s 
anybody’s guess. Amaurn is still very much an unknown quantity to most of 
the Loremasters, especially us younger folk. It’s hard to say how he’ll react, 
though I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was very interested in your idea.” 
He grinned at Dark. “Let’s hope so, eh? You look like the sort of fellow we 
could do with in the Shadowleague right now.” 
Next the Loremaster turned his attention to Scall, who was lying on the bed. 
“And who’s this?” 
Dark was opening his mouth to answer, but the boy beat him to it. “I’m 
Scall, and I was staying with the reivers—until this bastard kidnapped me.” 
“I couldn’t help it,” the Summoner protested. “This lad found some very 
interesting artifacts beneath the city of Tiarond, and the new Archimandrite 
ordered us to bring him here, according to my mentor, Grim. He was once a 
Loremaster, and an old friend of Amaurn.” Again he felt the anguish 
overwhelm him at the mention of Grim’s name. “With his dying breath he 
told me to carry on and bring Scall here, and so I did.” 
There was sympathy on Kher’s face. “I don’t know a Loremaster here called 
Grim, but I’m sorry that you lost your friend, and you were right to carry out 
his wishes. But how came he to be killed?” 
“He was murdered.” Dark’s voice turned hard. “By his companion.” He 
indicated Scall. “The man was going for the boy, with a knife, but Grim got 
in the way.” 
“It wasn’t my fault,” Scall yelled. “I couldn’t—” 
“That’s enough.” There was an unexpected snap of authority in Kher’s voice 
as he looked from one to the other. “Scall, you listen to me. You’re on the 
other side of the Curtain Walls now, and your only hope of safety is to stay 
with us. Do you understand?” Scall nodded. 
“Good. Now, you can either make the journey tied across your saddle like a 
sack, or we can untie you and let you ride properly—as long as you promise 
to come along quietly, and not give us any trouble. Which is it to be?” Scall 
hesitated. “I promise,” he said sulkily. “That’s a sensible lad,” said Kher. 

“Now, I’m going to untie you, and you’ll ride to the settlement with us. 
Once our leader has found out what he needs to know from you, I’m sure 
he’ll send you back where you belong. All right?” The boy’s face lit up. “He 
will?” 
Kher, in the middle of undoing the ropes, patted him on the shoulder. “I 
can’t make any promises, but I don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t, 
especially if your information is of use to him. At least this way you stand a 
damn good chance of getting back through the Curtain Walls. But you’ll 
never do it on your own. Without one of us to open them for you, you’ll be 
stuck here forever.” 
Scall nodded. “I understand.” He glared at Dark. “Why couldn’t you just 
have told me this, instead of tying me up and scaring me half to death? And 
after I saved your life, too, when that winged monstrosity attacked you.” 
“I’m very sorry, Scall. But if you remember, there wasn’t time for 
explanations when we left,” the Summoner pointed out. “And besides, 
would you have come? Honestly?” 
Scall flushed and lowered his eyes. “I suppose not,” he mumbled. “Let’s get 
going,” Kher interrupted. “It’s quite a ride and with those accursed Ak’Zahar 
on the loose, I want to get there before sundown.” 
As a traveling companion, the young Loremaster proved to be good and 
cheerful company. He could certainly talk— as Dark soon discovered—but 
his lighthearted chatter helped take the Summoner’s mind off Grim’s death, 
and he certainly had some interesting tales to tell. Even Scall, who had 
started out by riding pointedly at a distance from the others, soon drew near, 
the sulky look vanishing from his face, to hear what their new companion 
had to say. 
Kher explained that his leg had been injured while he was on a mission in 
another realm, and had been sent home to recuperate. “I’m all right on 
horseback,” he told Dark cheerfully, “but I still walk with a dreadful limp. I 
was attacked by yehteh in the Cloud Mountains, and one of them mangled 
my leg pretty thoroughly before my partner managed to drive them off.” 
“What are—what did you say? Yehteh?” Dark asked curiously. 
“Think of a sort of cross between an ape and a bear, and...” 
“What’s an ape? We don’t have them where I come from.” 
Kher sighed. “Never mind. Yehteh are very big, very shaggy, and light grey 
or white in color. They live up above the snow line, where food is so scarce 
that they prey on just about anything that moves. When they had plenty of 
space up there, they were quite content to stay put, but unfortunately, 
because of the Curtain Walls’ failing, the snow line is receding rapidly, and 
they’re starting to come down off the mountain peaks and prey on the Angel 
hatcheries ...” 
“What are Angels?” 
The Loremaster threw out his arms in surrender. “I’m sorry—I keep 

forgetting that you only just got here, and you don’t know anything. Because 
Vaure said you knew mind-speech, I was thinking of you as just another 
Loremaster. Still, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. If you had arrived a 
couple of days ago, when Cergorn was still in charge, it might have been a 
very different story, but now that Amaurn is Archimandrite, all the policies 
have changed. I know for a fact that he’s absolutely desperate for ablebodied 
Loremasters, and there’s a rumor that he’s planning to rush the 
current trainees through the end of their tutelage and get them out into the 
field. So that should leave plenty of room for new candidates like you. I 
expect Amaurn will welcome you with open arms.” 
“I hope so,” the Summoner said fervently. “Grim said he was going to ask 
Amaurn to take me, but now that he’s gone...” 
“You miss him very much, don’t you?” 
Dark swallowed hard. “More than I could possibly tell you. He was all the 
family I had, after I was chosen to be a Summoner, and he was like a father 
to me.” 
Kher frowned slightly. “What exactly is a Summoner? The term is 
unfamiliar to me.” 
Dark felt his face grow hot. “This is going to seem awfully primitive to you 
...” he began, but he needn’t have worried. Kher responded to his tale with 
interest not amusement and as they rode on, deep in talk, the Summoner 
began to realize just what he had missed, in spending so many years without 
a friend of his own age. 
“This makes a nice change, I must say.” Toulac, who was standing with 
Veldan in the bows of the wherry, looked on appreciatively as the banks of 
the river slipped by. “It’s years since I was on a boat. I had forgotten how 
good it feels to float along, instead of having to walk or ride.” 
They had made good time getting back, reaching the port of Neymis early 
enough for breakfast at the inn, where everyone, but particularly Toulac and 
Zavahl, ate like starving wolves, and the quayside fish market had been 
emptied of fish and shellfish for the hungry Dobarchu refugees, who were 
finding their first taste of shipboard life very strange indeed. Immediately 
after the companions had eaten, they said their thanks and farewells to 
Arnond and Rowen and transferred back to the wherry for the trip back 
upriver. So far, the journey had been uneventful, though both Veldan and 
Elion had come perilously close to falling in while learning to help Meglyn 
and Chalas pole the boat through the stretches where the current, now 
against them, was running at its swiftest. The difficult part was over, 
however; the river had broadened once more, and the high-peaked sail on its 
tall mast had taken over the work. Soon they would be back at the 
Shadowleague settlement. 
“How long will it be before we get back?” the veteran asked Veldan. 
“Not that long. An hour, maybe a little more, until we get to the trading post, 
then about the same to ride back to the settlement.” 

Toulac glanced at her shrewdly. “And are you planning to wait until we get 
all the way back before you tell me what’s bothering you, or shall we get it 
over with now?” 
Veldan flushed, making her scar stand out white against the rosy skin of her 
face. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and sighed. “Is it really that 
obvious?” 
“Well, let me put it this way—don’t ever try playing cards for money.” Then 
she sobered. “Seriously, though, girlie, what’s wrong? You and Elion have 
been mighty short on information about what’s been happening back at the 
settlement since we were abducted. Is that leader of yours still giving you 
trouble?” 
There was a pause, then Veldan spoke abruptly. “You’re right.” Suddenly, 
she seemed to find the view of the passing riverbanks very absorbing. 
“You’ve got to find out sooner or later—but I’ll warn you now, you aren’t 
going to like it.” 
The veteran shrugged. “There have been a lot of things in my life that I 
haven’t liked. I’ll survive. Go on, spit it out.” 
Veldan turned to look at her. “Do you really hate Lord Blade that much?” 
“What’s he got to do with this? Stop changing the subject, Veldan.” 
“I’m not.” She looked down at her hands. “Toulac, Lord Blade is a great deal 
more than you think he is. Before he came to Callisiora, he lived here, in 
Gendival, and he was a Loremaster, like me.” 
“What?” Toulac couldn’t believe her ears. “That son of a bitch came from 
here?” 
“That’s right. He didn’t like the way that Cergorn was running things—” 
“I never thought I’d say this, but I agree with him there,” the veteran snorted. 
Veldan ignored the interruption. “And so he led a rebellion, which failed. 
Then the Archimandrite had him tried and sentenced to death, but with my 
mother’s help he managed to escape. All these years, he was hiding in 
Tiarond, waiting for his chance to come back here, and ...” 
Toulac stared at her younger friend in horror. “Myrial down a sewer! Please 
don’t tell me the bastard has!” 
“I’m afraid so. He defeated Cergorn and became Archimandrite, and ... And 
we helped him, Elion and Kaz and I,” she finished defiantly. 
“You did what?” Anger flashed like fire through Toulac’s veins. 
“I helped him,” Veldan answered, sounding calmer now the truth was out. 
“He was the one who rescued you, when Cergorn wouldn’t have bothered. 
Cergorn didn’t believe that Zavahl held the spirit of the Dragon Seer, so he 
didn’t think that the two of you had any value. Amaurn—that’s Blade’s true 
name—wants to use the knowledge of the Shadowleague to help the folk 
who are suffering in these dreadful times. He told me that after Cergorn took 
away everything that ever mattered to him, he learned ruthlessness in 

Callisiora, so that he could finally return to Gendival and take back his life. 
He wants to atone for the way he acted when he was Lord Blade, and ...” 
“And you actually believed those lies? Where were your brains? Up your 
backside? He’s a monster, you stupid girl—an unscrupulous, merciless, coldblooded 
murderer.” 
“I know, dammit!” Veldan shouted, before continuing more calmly. “I know 
that’s what he was, and I also know that a person doesn’t change his entire 
character overnight, and that he might revert at any time. But I don’t believe 
that he was always like that. He had many supporters in Gendival, and not 
all of them could have been stupid. He was my mother’s friend, and she 
wouldn’t have been so easily deceived. And I’m telling you here and now, 
that at the moment he’s the best choice we have for Archimandrite. You 
don’t know the inner workings of the Shadowleague, Toulac. Right now 
we’re desperate for a strong leader, one who isn’t afraid to take chances. It’s 
the only hope for our world. You have no concept of the sheer scale and 
complexity of our whole world, and the potential for disaster if something 
isn’t done to stop these systems from breaking down...” 
“Maybe not, girlie,” Toulac snapped, “but I know a damn bad lot when I see 
one. Still, as long as he lets me go my way, I wash my hands of it.” 
“What, leave?” Veldan gasped. “But Toulac...” 
“There is no way that I’ll be staying where that bastard is, and nothing you 
can say will convince me otherwise. He almost wrecked my life once, back 
in Callisiora all those years ago, when he got rid of the female Godswords. 
He won’t be getting the chance to do it again. And while we’re on the 
subject, you or Elion had better have a word with Zavahl. Blade very nearly 
burned him at the stake—or have you forgotten? You may say I know 
nothing of the inner workings of the Shadowleague, but you don’t know 
much about the workings of Callisiora. Blade has been undermining the 
Hierarch for years. Have you thought how that poor sod is going to feel 
when he finds out that the man who wanted him dead is now running things 
back at the settlement?” 
“Elion is talking to him now,” Veldan said coldly. “If you’re planning to 
leave anyway, what do you care?” 
“He might want to come with me,” Toulac said. 
“And leave Ailie behind? I very much doubt that. No, Toulac, I think you’re 
on your own this time. I’m sure someone can be spared to escort you 
through the Curtain Walls, and you can enjoy being stuck back in Callisiora 
again. You ought to give a thought, however, to the opportunities you’ll be 
missing by letting your prejudices run away with you. Amaurn is more than 
happy to let you join the Shadowleague—which is more than Cergorn ever 
was.” And with that, Veldan turned and walked away. 

In the cabin of the wherry, Zavahl felt himself turn cold at Elion’s words. 
“He can’t be here,” he whispered. “It can’t be true!” Dammit, this just isn’t 
fair. He had been through so much these past few days—these past few 
years—and at last it had looked as though his life was taking a turn for the 
better. The demon in his mind, who had frightened him so badly at first, had 
proved to be no evil spirit but a member of an ancient and knowledgeable 
race. Aethon was intelligent and pleasant company, and he was very 
considerate about not intruding himself upon the thoughts of his host. 
The things Zavahl had learned from Toulac had given him hope that he 
might be of some use in this strange new land, and Cergorn, who had wanted 
him out of Gendival, had been removed from power. There was the inn, and 
Ailie, who was sitting on the bed beside him, holding his hand as if she 
never intended to let it go. Furthermore he suspected he had the beginnings 
of a tentative friendship with Elion. But now, just when things looked to be 
improving and he’d dared to hope that he might make a new life here for 
himself, the Loremaster had told him this dreadful news, and all his hopes 
and plans had come crashing down in ruin. 
Zavahl felt anger kindling within him. “Curse him—he took everything 
away from me once and even tried to rob me of my life. I won’t let him do it 
again!” 
Elion’s face split in a grin. “Good for you, Zavahl! Stand up to him! You’ll 
have support from all of us, I promise. Amaurn will listen to me and 
Veldan—especially Veldan. His position isn’t so secure yet that he can 
afford to go about alienating his supporters.” 
“It won’t do him any good to lose all the help from the village folk, either,“ 
Ailie put in fiercely. ”We do a lot for the Loremasters—in fact, most of them 
would be lost without us to take care of them—and we could do a great deal 
to make them very uncomfortable—if we were provoked.“ 
“And don’t forget about me.” The voice of the Dragon echoed softly through 
Zavahl’s mind. “I remember how this Lord Blade acted when he captured 
you, and I, too, almost lost my life when he put you on that pyre. He will 
have none of the answers he seeks from me until I have assurances of his 
change of heart, and until he makes reparation to both of us for his former 
misdeeds.” 
Zavahl was so moved by all their support that he almost wept. He thought 
back to the way he had been when he had left Callisiora: beaten, cowed, 
terrified, and defeated. A lot had changed in a very short time, and though he 
wouldn’t regain his confidence overnight, he knew that he had made a good 
start and set his feet on the road to a new and more fulfilling existence. With 
shame, he remembered his earliest reactions to Veldan and Toulac, those two 
remarkable women who had saved his life and given him a future. How he 
had feared and loathed them at first! How cruel he had been to Veldan, when 
first they had met. He owed them both his apologies and his thanks. 
Suddenly Zavahl became aware of the silence around him, and the expectant 
faces of Ailie and Elion. “Well?” the Loremaster asked him. 

“I won’t let my fear of Amaurn drive me out,” Zavahl said firmly. “I’m 
going to face up to him and stay. I’ve let myself be a slave to fear and hatred 
for too long. I’ve found out where I belong now, and feel as if I’m truly 
coming home.” 
With a cry of delight, Ailie flung her arms around him. Elion grinned. “I’m 
proud of you, my friend,” he said. “And now that’s settled, I’ll leave you 
two alone.” On the way out, he paused in the doorway. “Now that he has 
come home from Callisiora, I really believe that Amaurn is trying to set his 
feet on a different road, Zavahl. I don’t think you’ll have anything to fear 
from him this time.” 
Perhaps—but will he have anything to fear from me? 
The thought took Zavahl by surprise, but he kept it to himself. Only Aethon 
had heard it—and the Dragon kept his own counsel. 
“Why does she have to be so stubborn?” Veldan fumed. 
Elion shook his head. “I don’t know—but that’s half the trouble. Toulac was 
right about one thing: we can’t know what it was like to live under Blade’s 
rule in Callisiora. He admitted himself, he’s done numerous things of which 
he isn’t proud. Perhaps we’d be less forgiving ourselves if we’d been there 
all the time and knew that we and all our loved ones were really in his 
power.” 
“But we weren’t—I mean, they weren’t,” Veldan argued. “Not really. Blade 
was only the head of the Godswords. It was actually Zavahl who was in 
charge. It’s all very well him playing the victim now, and saying that Blade 
deceived him, subverted him, and almost had him killed; but he was 
supposed to be the ruler. Surely the ultimate responsibility had to rest with 
him.” 
“Beware of making too many excuses for Amaurn, Boss,” the firedrake 
warned. “You’re right to say that Zavahl can’t wriggle out of all his 
responsibilities, but he wasn’t a strong ruler, it seems, and we all know who 
was really in charge. And if some of Toulac’s grudges are personal, as she 
says they are, then it doesn’t matter who was ruling the city and who should 
have been. Personal is different.” 
“That’s true.” Veldan sighed. “But she’s my friend, and I hate to see her 
come so close to joining the Shadowleague, then lose it all at the last 
moment. It would be awful if we had to wipe her memory and send her back 
to being what she was. Besides, I would really miss her—even if she is so 
pigheaded sometimes that I’d like to throttle her.” 
“I would miss the old battle-axe too,” Kaz agreed. 
“And me,” admitted Elion. “Even if she does call me ‘sonny’ all the time.” 
“Well, it’s no good sending Veldan back to talk to her,” the firedrake 
pointed out. “It didn’t work the first time, and besides, they both need a little 

while to cool off with one another. We still have a bit of the journey left. 
You and I can work on her, Elion, as we go upriver, but we’ll have to be 
really subtle ...” 
Elion burst out laughing. “Subtle? You?‘ 
Kaz glared at his fellow Loremaster, baring his great fangs and lashing his 
tail, almost knocking down the mast. “You have a problem with that?” 
“Me? No, not at all,” Elion said hastily, holding up his hands and backing 
away, while Veldan laughed in the background. “I think it’s a splendid idea. 
We’ll be as subtle as we possibly can.” 
The firedrake contented himself with one last, dirty look. “Right,” he said. 
“Subtle it is. Will you have the first go at the stubborn old ratbag? Or shall 
I?” 
Feeling much better about the whole business, Veldan left them to it. She 
didn’t think that even Toulac’s pigheadedness could stand up for long to a 
determined assault from both of them. She wandered to the stern and talked 
to Meglyn for a time, but knew that really, she shouldn’t be interfering with 
the captain’s concentration while she was steering. Instead she leaned on the 
rail, and watched the ever-changing river, and the woods and meadows that 
were slipping by on either bank. Almost in a half doze after the recent 
sleepless nights, she was content to let her mind wander for a while and 
make the most of her chance to relax. 
Then Amaurn spoke to her and woke her up in no uncertain terms. Briefly, 
he told her of the attempt on his life by the Takuru assassin, and warned her 
to be on her guard when she returned to the settlement. “I don’t want the 
shapeshifter doing away with any of you, and taking over your form,” he 
said. “It’s no good trying to alert Zavahl and Toulac to the danger—you’d 
never be able to explain it to them—but make sure that Elion and that 
firedrake friend of yours are told.” 
“Shall I warn Ailie?” Veldan asked. “She understands about the Takuru, and 
at least she could keep an eye on the other two.” 
“No, don’t do that. I absolutely don’t want this to go any further at present. 
Maskulu took me to his dwelling because it’s safe and secluded. I don’t want 
the rest of the Shadowleague to see that I’ve been hurt until Kyrre, who is on 
her way here now, has had time to patch me up. Then I’ll stand a chance of 
making light of the situation. You three Loremasters come up to Maskulu’s 
dwelling as soon as you get home, and I’ll talk to you then—but don’t tell 
anyone else where you’re going.” 
“I won’t. Oh, by the way, did you say that Kyrre was with you? Well, I have 
some good news that you might like to pass on. I think I forgot to mention it 
earlier. Before we found them, Toulac and Zavahl had met up with a small 
group of Dobarchu refugees. Mrainil, their Loremaster, has brought them to 
Gendival, seeking sanctuary. He thinks they may be the last of their race.” 
“They’ll be welcome, of course,” Amaurn replied. “Our seas may be 
somewhat less hospitable than the warmer oceans they’re used to, but we’ll 

do whatever we can to help n settle down and adapt. Are you bringing them 
here?” 
“Yes. I thought it best. They’re on the boat with us right now. I know it’ll be 
a blow to Kyrre that there are so few of her people left, but on the other 
hand, it’ll be wonderful news for her that any have survived at all. Tell her 
that Mrainil will talk to her later, when we get closer to the settlement. He 
isn’t getting his mind-speech very far at present because he’s still very tired. 
It was quite some journey that he made, to bring his folk through so many 
dangers, not to mention all the Curtain Walls that lie between their islands 
and here.” 
“They were all very brave,” Amaurn told her. “You can reassure them that 
they’re safe now. The Shadowleague will take good care of them.” 
“Speaking of being brave, are you all right? Really?” Veldan could tell by 
the texture of his thoughts that he was hiding pain from her. She couldn’t 
imagine why it should matter to her, but somehow, she didn’t like to think of 
him being wounded and forced to hide out while he was hurt in Maskulu’s 
uncomfortable tunnels. 
“I’ll survive,” he told her. “But hurry back, Veldan. I need you here. You’re 
one of the very few people in the world that I trust.” 
And with that he was gone, leaving a very surprised Loremaster staring out 
at the river. 
CHAPTER 21 
The Path of Reflection 
Helverien never would have thought that she’d get so tired of talking, so 
soon. She hardly knew whether to laugh or cry at such perversity. 
Throughout all those lonely aeons, she had been filled with a desperate 
yearning for company—and now that she had it, all she wanted was a bit of 
peace and quiet and a chance to be alone with her thoughts for a while. Not 
that this Wind-Sprite was not good company, she told herself hastily. They 
had discussed the past, as she herself had seen it, and the present, as it was 
known to Shree, and each had found a great deal of interest in what the other 
had to say. 
But the trouble is, we can’t discuss the future. Until we get out of here, there 
can be no future for us, and because of the nature of this place, there’s 
nothing for us to do but talk, and that’s hard for both of us. It’s in our 
natures to want to act, and to influence the course of events. This enforced 
inactivity and helplessness is galling in the extreme, and we’re going to have 

to be very careful not to start taking our frustrations out on each other. 
After a time, however, it became clear that the Wind-Sprite’s feelings were 
similar to her own. The two of them fell silent, each lost in her own 
thoughts, contemplating the landscape that Helverien had re-created from 
her memory and imagination, with its groves of silvery green trees, its 
eternally bright sky, and its sea of shimmering peacock blue. 
*Couldn’t we try to make it nighttime for a while?* Shree said eventually. 
*I’m sure, if we put out heads together, we could come up with stars, and 
maybe a moon. It’s a lovely place you’ve created here, but you have to 
admit, some sort of change might be in order.* 
The Mage felt a flicker of annoyance. “Some people are never satisfied! Do 
you think you could do any better? I’d like to see you create a landscape of 
this complexity.” 
*Maybe I should then,* Thirishri retorted. *Perhaps I should take another 
area in all this nothingness, and make some mountains or something—just 
for a change.* 
“Go on, then, Wind-Sprite,” Helverien challenged. “Let’s see how good you 
really are.” Suddenly, she was thoroughly enjoying their discussion, with its 
slight edge of contentiousness. The idea of a competition between the two of 
them certainly added a touch of interest to life. 
*All right then. I wi—* Abruptly Shree stopped in midsentence. *Was it my 
imagination, or did you feel something just then?* 
Helverien nodded, excitement running through her like wildfire. “There was 
a change in the fabric of this place—almost as though a door had been 
opened somewhere.” She looked at the dancing sparkle and shimmer in the 
air that was the Wind-Sprite. “I felt something very similar when you came 
here.” 
There was a moment of silence, with neither of them daring to put their 
hopes into words. Finally, Thirishri spoke. *Do you think someone is trying 
to release us?* 
The Mage shook her head. “I doubt it. Surely we would be aware of that? 
What I do think, however, is that someone—or something—else has been 
put in here with us.” She sighed. “I don’t know. You get no visitors for a 
couple of millennia, then suddenly a whole bunch of them come along all at 
once.” 
* * * 
Galveron and Alestan had been walking long enough for all the residual 
dampness to dry out of their clothes. They had stopped to rest and eat, and 
then gone on their way again, stubborn—or hopeful—to the last. Surely 
sooner or later they must catch up with Aliana and her companion? They 
couldn’t keep on like this forever. Now that they were becoming accustomed 
to dealing with the traps, they made fairly short work of the next one—a 

charming combination of some half dozen whirling blades that thrust in and 
out of the wall at staggered intervals, combined with clusters of long, lethal 
spikes that sprang up and down through small holes in the floor. Though it 
looked very nasty, they discovered that once the sequences of blades and 
spikes had been triggered, the intervals and patterns were the same each 
time. Though their timing had to be perfect, all they had to do was work out 
exactly when to run, when to pause, and when to duck. There was absolutely 
no room for error, and when they reached the other side, they both felt as if 
their hair must have turned pure white—but it had done nothing of the sort, 
and both of them were safe. 
With so many successes under their belt, the two of them were beginning to 
get quite cocky. Soon they were talking confidently of catching up with 
Aliana—though by unspoken consent they avoided the subject of what they 
would do when they had found her. In the unchanging passages, it was easy 
to let their guard drop. Apart from the occasional traps—and there was 
usually some warning of those—the way they traveled continued much as it 
had done before, with occasional sharp corners, or stretches of varying 
length where the floor sloped up or down. They were completely 
unprepared, therefore, when they walked around a corner, and found that the 
passageway ended in a blank wall. 
“What the...” Without thinking, Alestan walked forward to examine the 
obstacle. Galveron gave a warning cry, but it was too late. The floor at the 
end of the corridor, a section about five feet square, dropped abruptly, taking 
Alestan with it. 
Galveron threw himself down on his hands and knees at the edge of the hole. 
“Alestan? Alestan!” 
“I’m all right.” The voice of the thief came echoing back. After a moment, 
Galveron heard an odd, metallic whining, and heard and felt a whoosh of air. 
The section of floor came rising majestically from the depths, with Alestan, 
white-faced but grinning, still on board. “Jump on—quick!” he shouted. “It 
takes us down to the next level.” 
Galveron recognized the device as being kin to the one in the temple that led 
down to the first platform with the podium. Even as he ran onto the moving 
area, it began to sink once more. He found himself in a shaft with the same 
smooth, metallic walls—and a floor that was dropping rapidly, making him 
feel as if he had left his stomach behind. He was sure it was traveling much 
faster, and farther, than the one above. Suddenly, one of the walls vanished. 
The floor gave a sudden lurch, its downward motion stopped, and he sat 
down hard. Alestan, standing well balanced, with legs apart, looked down at 
him and laughed. “Come on, let’s get off this thing—unless you’d rather 
spend all day riding up and down.” 
Galveron would most definitely rather not spend a minute longer on the 
contraption than was absolutely necessary. Hurriedly, he got to his feet and 
jumped off onto a nice stable floor, even as the mobile area began to rise 
again, vanishing out of sight beyond the ceiling of the small antechamber in 

which they now found themselves. It did not return. 
Godsword Commander and thief shared a worried glance. “It looks as if it 
only works when someone’s standing on it,” Alestan said. “For the rest of 
the time, it must wait up at the top of the shaft.” 
Galveron frowned. “That’s all very well, but what happens if we want to go 
back? How are we supposed to get it down here again?” 
“Who knows?” Alestan’s shrug was eloquent. 
Having satisfied themselves that there was no obvious way to summon the 
moving floor—a task which took no time in the featureless little room—they 
decided to worry about that problem later. After all, there might even be 
another way out, somewhere ahead of them—at least, so the ever-hopeful 
Alestan suggested. Galveron sighed and kept his doubts to himself. 
There were two doorways, set into opposite walls, leading out of the 
chamber. The opening on the right led onto another corridor, 
indistinguishable from the one they had followed all the way to this place. 
The passageway on the left, however, was entirely different. It was like the 
inside of a pipe or a tube, with its sides and floor curving to form a perfect 
circle, apart from a narrow, flattened area of walkway at the bottom. The 
walls were soft, warm and springy to the touch, making Galveron think of 
flesh. In a peculiar way, they seemed horribly alive. The weird, changeful 
luminescence within the tube reminded him of the lighted area through 
which they had passed so many hours ago, just before they reached the first 
of the traps. It moved through a spectrum of soft, misty radiance, changing 
from purple, to blue, to green, to yellow, to red, and each pulsing change 
was like the beating of a heart. 
As one, the two men drew back from the outlandish route. They looked at 
one another. “It seems to me,” Alestan said carefully, “that this could be 
another trap, or even a series of them. We went through a stretch of these 
colored lights, after all, before the last obstacles started.” 
Galveron nodded. “It stands to reason that the passage we should follow 
would be the same as the passage we just left... Don’t you think?” 
“Almost certainly.” 
“And do you suppose that your sister would be thinking along similar lines?” 
Alestan nodded. “It’s a fair bet that she would—we usually think alike.” He 
frowned. “At least we always did, before the last couple of days. Now I 
don’t know what she’s thinking anymore.” 
“Never mind,” Galveron said. “That’s good enough for me. Let’s go.” 
With indecent haste, the two men left the disturbing tunnel, with its 
perplexing lighting and its uncanny resemblance to living flesh, and 
hastened down the familiar route of the other passage, which ran straight for 
some distance, before angling sharply to the left. But even this place was not 
without its surprises. As they rounded the corner, Alestan stopped with a 
sharp cry, and Galveron cleared his sword from its scabbard with a steely 

hiss. In the distance, coming toward them, were two figures—one tall, one 
shorter—who were definitely not Packrat and Aliana. 
As he stopped, Galveron saw the distant figures stop too, and one of them 
drew a sword. The truth began to dawn on him at that point. He took a 
couple of steps forward, and burst out laughing. Beside him, the thief let out 
an exclamation of disgust. “We are a couple of lummoxes! Getting spooked 
by our own reflections!” 
Galveron felt similarly sheepish. “I don’t think we need to tell anyone about 
this when we get back, do you? I presume there’s another wall across the end 
of this corridor—only this time, it’s a mirror.” 
“It could also be another trap of some sort,” Alestan pointed out. “I don’t 
know about you, but I learned my lesson last time, with the moving floor. 
Let’s go and look at it— but carefully.” 
They moved on with caution, keeping a sharp lookout for any places where 
there was a difference in the walls, floor, or ceiling; any change in color, or 
texture, or even the soft sounds of their footfalls, that might warn them of a 
trap. But there was nothing. The corridor continued, unchanging, until they 
reached the mirrored wall itself. 
The Godsword Commander looked at his own reflection. It was not a 
prepossessing sight. He was haggard, hollow-eyed, and unshaven, the halfhealed 
scars on his face didn’t improve his appearance one whit, and his 
clothes were a mass of wrinkles after being stuffed into his backpack while 
he swam across the water shaft. 
“Come on, Galveron,” Alestan urged. “You didn’t come down here to 
admire yourself. Is there a way through here, do you reckon? Or do we have 
to backtrack and go the other way?” 
The very thought of the other, weird-looking tunnel was enough to stir 
Galveron into action. “Let’s find out,” he said, and began to push and prod at 
the wall, leaving fingerprints on the reflective surface. 
Suddenly there was a shearing sound from behind them, and they spun round 
to see another wall, its surface mirrored like the first, slide down from the 
ceiling, cutting them off from the way they had come. Galveron experienced 
an attack of violent disorientation that sent his senses swimming—and then 
the world around him vanished, and everything went black. 
So this is what it’s like, being dead? I often wondered. All things considered, 
Aliana felt unnaturally calm. She seemed to be floating in some dark and 
soundless limbo, and if her body still existed, she couldn’t feel it anymore. 
She had a feeling she ought to be panicking, but she was buffered by a sense 
of absolute unreality—due to shock, perhaps. She suspected that this 
delightful, dreamlike state wouldn’t last too long, so she decided she had 
better make the most of it. If being dead was all like this, then she would 

have the rest of eternity to panic and go mad. 
Did Packrat die too? Is he here with me? She tried to call out, but was 
unable to make a sound. If he’s dead, it’s all my fault. 
Anguish began to erode the edges of her blessed numbness. Just because she 
didn’t dare go back to face Galveron and Gilarra until she had hidden the 
ring somewhere safe, she had kept them going, though Packrat had been 
vociferous in his pleas to turn back. She had led them farther and farther into 
the mountain via the featureless corridors, and persevered with the traps until 
she had solved them, one by one. All except the last one, presumably. What 
happened to us, anyway? She had a confused memory of a corridor, and 
some sort of bright, silvery surface—then the next thing she could 
remember, she was here. Wherever here might be. 
She wondered what had happened to her brother, and was wrenched by grief 
that she would never see him again. Was he still imprisoned? Had he been 
released? Would he find out where she had gone and come in search of her? 
Would he fall into the same trap, and would she have his death on her 
conscience, too? Would Galveron follow her down beneath the city in search 
of the Hierarch’s ring? Would he take it from her body and give it back to 
Gilarra? If so, she had killed Packrat—and herself—for nothing. Worse still, 
Galveron might also die. Aliana was crushed beneath the weight of her 
remorse. During her life as a Grey Ghost, she had always managed to escape 
the possible consequences of her impetuous behavior. Too late, she realized 
that she had managed to get away with such rashness because she had been 
in surroundings that were familiar to her, and she knew the rules on a deep, 
instinctive level. In venturing beneath the Temple, she had entered a place 
where all the rules had changed, and her ignorance had led her to make a 
fatal mistake—and drag her friends down with her. For the first time, it came 
home to Aliana that her impulsive actions could have serious repercussions, 
not only for herself, but for others. 
For a time, Aliana was lost in a pit of guilt and self-blame that was even 
darker than her surroundings, but eventually, she was saved by the very 
circumstances that had given rise to all her pain in the first place. In the 
black nothingness with which she was surrounded, she found it increasingly 
difficult to focus on any coherent thoughts, let alone the ones that had been 
causing her such distress. Images seemed to flash through her mind at 
random, scattering and regrouping like shoals of bright fish. Some came 
from her imagination, and there were others that made no sense to her at all. 
Still others came from her memories, and she even saw the face of her longdead 
father, whose features had long been lost to her as time clouded the 
recollections of her childhood. 
Then suddenly there was another image, clearer than the rest, that did not go 
away: a woman with dark hair in which occasional strands of silver glinted. 
She was wearing robes of vivid blue, and her blue eyes were shrewd in her 
imperious face. She held out a hand to Aliana. “Come,” she commanded. 
“Follow me.” 

Without knowing how she did it, Aliana drifted toward the woman, who 
turned and began to walk away, with the thief floating after her like a kite on 
a string. The darkness was split apart by dazzling light, and Aliana felt 
herself falling. There was a jolt that rattled every bone in her body, and she 
found herself on her hands and knees on a stretch of pebbly strand at the 
edge of a lapis-blue ocean. Her father had taken her to the coast when she 
had been very small, so she had vague memories of the sea, but they were 
nothing near so wonderful as this. She could hear the seething of the waves 
as they rolled back and forth across the shingle at the water’s edge, and she 
could hear birdsong, the chirring of insects, and the whisper of wind through 
a grove of trees. Sunlight was hot upon her skin, and she could smell salt air, 
flowers, sun-warmed herbage, and sun-baked earth. After the deprivation of 
the terrible, dark void, it was as though all her senses were being 
overwhelmed. 
Released from the dark limbo in which she had been imprisoned, Aliana 
found herself beginning to tremble violently. She bit her lip against an 
overwhelming urge to cry, but in spite of her best intentions, she found tears 
flooding down her face. Kneeling where she was in the sand, she cried out 
her relief. 
“Well, isn’t that just like a girl! There’s nothing to bawl about, you silly 
cow.” The voice came from behind her. 
“Packrat!” Aliana spun round and got to her feet in one undignified scramble 
and threw her arms around her friend. “I thought I had killed you,” she said 
softly. “I thought we were dead.” 
Packrat disengaged himself from her arms and glared at her. “If we aren’t, 
it’s no thanks to you. The next time I say we go back, we go back—even if I 
have to knock you out and drag you every inch of the way.” 
“Next time, I would appreciate it if you’ll knock me out before I even set 
off,” Aliana told him ruefully. 
“It’ll be my pleasure.” Packrat gave her his gap-toothed grin. “Now, if 
you’ve finished playing silly buggers, there’s a woman up there who says 
she wants to talk to you.” 
Aliana looked up, noticing for the first time what lay beyond the beach. A 
short flight of steps led up a steep bank to a terrace of white marble. Beyond 
was a house, constructed of the same materials and set in the midst of a 
beautiful garden. At the edge of the terrace, leaning on the railing, stood a 
tall, dark-haired woman clad in robes that were the same color as the 
dazzling sea. Immediately, Aliana recognized the guide who had led her out 
of the darkness. Slightly above her, and to the right, there was a weird 
distortion in the air: an odd shimmer and sparkle that seemed to be there and 
not there, all at the same time. Trying to focus on it only made Aliana’s head 
ache and her eyes water, and she looked away from it quickly. She turned 
her attention back to the strange woman, who beckoned and called out to 
her. “Come up and join me. We need to talk.” 
There was no disobeying the note of command in her voice. Staying close 

together, Aliana and Packrat set off up the beach and climbed the stairs. 
Though Helverien was burning with curiosity, she concealed it well. 
“Welcome,” she said, as the two strangers reached the top of the marble 
steps. “Make yourselves at home.” She gestured casually in the direction of 
the table and two more chairs appeared, along with two extra cups. Their 
gasps of astonishment forced her to hide a smile. How gratifying! 
They’re only humans,* the Wind-Sprite pointed out tartly, in mind-speech. 
*They’re a lot more easy to impress than me.* 
“They suit me just fine,” the Mage retorted. “Do you know how many aeons 
have passed since I impressed anybody?” She turned back to the two 
newcomers, who were perching gingerly on the edge of the chairs as though 
afraid that they might vanish again. “Now,” she said, with a pleasant smile. 
“Introductions are in order, I think. Who are you and how did you get here?” 
But before the girl could answer, she was distracted by a repetition of the 
feeling she had experienced earlier—an odd ripple in the landscape, and 
within herself, that indicated that the fabric of this Otherplace had been 
breached once more. In consternation, she looked up at the Wind-Sprite. 
*Yes,* Thirishri said. *I felt it. Someone else has come through.* 
Helverien felt a pang of irritation—and concern. “How in blazes are they all 
suddenly getting in?” 
*I don’t know* Shree said thoughtfully. *But if people are getting in 
somehow, then maybe, just maybe, we can find a way out.* 
There was no way out for the refugees in the Temple. They were trapped, all 
together in a limited space—and Kaita’s worst nightmare had just become 
reality. It had started. And though the Healer had been expecting it since 
Tiarond’s remaining population had been shut up in a single building with a 
pile of decaying corpses outside, the first cases that she identified still made 
her stop dead, with horror knotting her guts, a sickness in her stomach, and 
her heart pounding fast. 
The disaster had begun through an act of charity and kindness. Cerella, the 
woman who had been rescued by Galveron and Aliana, had carried disease 
into the Temple. Already weakened from loss of blood, she had been 
wracked by vomiting, diarrhea, and fever, and had died within hours of the 
symptoms first manifesting themselves. Kaita, already worried about 
infection and fearing the worst, directed her helpers to wrap the body 
carefully and take it through the passages behind the Temple, so that they 
could open the barred gate of the hidden entrance on the mountainside and 
throw it off the ledge. It was far from being ideal, but it was the best 

alternative that she could think of. Burning would have been far better, but 
under the present circumstances she simply didn’t have the facilities. 
She was directing the poor woman’s disposal, when Shelon came running 
up. “Kaita! Cerella’s child has started vomiting, too—and the woman who 
was nursing it along with her own babe says she doesn’t feel very well. Her 
little one’s whiny and fevered, too.” 
That was when Kaita knew. The dead woman had been hiding in a house in 
the Precincts. There were bound to have been rats and flies there, which 
would have been feeding on the decaying corpses outside. They had carried 
the contagion to Cerella, and she had passed it on to her own babe, who had 
carried it to Irline, the wet nurse, and she had passed it to her own child—not 
to mention her other children, who by then would have played with half the 
youngsters in the Temple, who would have gone back to their parents ... 
For an instant, Kaita felt faint. She groped for a chair and sat down, taking 
deep breaths until the dizziness passed. Her assistant was looking at her with 
concern. “There’s going to be an epidemic, isn’t there?” he said quietly, 
looking around to make sure he could not be heard. 
Quickly, Kaita pulled herself together. “Yes,” she said. “Get a couple of 
messengers who are discreet, and send them round to the other Healers and 
the folk in charge of the day-to-day workings of this place. Get them here as 
quickly as possible for a meeting. And you go straight to Gilarra, Shelon. 
Get her here right now.” 
As the young man rushed out, Kaita’s mind started to race, trying to work 
out ways to keep the infection from spreading. One thought, however, kept 
intruding. 
Oh, how I wish that Galveron were here. 
CHAPTER 22 
A Different Perspective 
Scall noted with appreciation that the weather on this side of the Curtain 
Walls was much better than it had been in Callisiora for a good long while. 
High clouds scudded across the sky, making shadow patterns on the exposed 
green fellsides far beneath, and then parting altogether to create long spells 
of dazzling sunlight. Though there was a bracing bite to the wind, the air 
lacked the miserable, damp chill of his mountain home, and it was clear that 
winter was not nearly so far advanced here. On such a day, it was impossible 
to feel too downhearted, and after his talk with Kher in the wayshelter, when 
their guide had explained that his stay here didn’t have to be permanent, he 

had been greatly comforted. 
There was another reason, too, for Scall’s brightening mood. As he rode 
with his two companions across the airy uplands and through lush, green 
valleys, he realized that he was well on his way to forgiving Dark. The 
Summoner had apologized so many times that it was just too much of an 
effort to stay angry with him any longer. He had liked Dark, right from the 
first time they had met; even though, at that time, the man’s appearance had 
been concealed by the mysterious and frightening skull mask. 
Then, Scall had only known that he was slightly more than medium height, 
he wore his black robes with an easy grace, and his hair was long, black, and 
curled down past his shoulders. At the time, it had been much more 
important that—despite the intimidating appearance of his mask—he had 
been kind to the nervous boy. 
Now that he could see his companion’s face, however, Scall liked him even 
better, though even without the mask, he could still appear intimidating. His 
skin was very white— a result, Scall realized, of having kept his face 
covered up for so long. He had high cheekbones, a high-bridged nose, and a 
firm chin. When he brought his black eyebrows together in a frown, he could 
truly look formidable, and the fine lines around his eyes hinted that he was 
somewhat older than he looked. Scall soon found out, however, that they 
were lines of laughter, and though Dark was too sad and worried to smile 
much at present, when he did, his eyes crinkled at the corners in a kindly 
way, and his face lit up with a boyish charm. 
When he had been abducted, Scall had been deeply disappointed and 
aggrieved at what he had seen as Dark’s treachery. Now, at least, he 
understood a little better. He could see how deeply the Summoner was 
grieving for Grim—how could he really blame the poor man for acting on 
his master’s last request? And though he was still upset at having been torn 
away from Tormon and Rochalla, Kher had told him that, in all probability, 
he would be sent back to them as soon as possible. If the sunny-natured 
young man was any indication of the people Scall might find ahead of him, 
he wouldn’t have anything much to worry about. Now that his terror had had 
time to fade, he could look on this extraordinary journey beyond the Curtain 
Walls as a tremendous adventure. Surely Rochalla would have to be 
impressed? 
Kher was beginning another of his traveler’s tales, and Scall put his own 
reflections aside so that he could listen. For someone who looked so young, 
Kher seemed to have had an astonishing number of adventures, with 
creatures that sounded so bizarre that his young companion wondered 
whether he could be making them up. Nevertheless, Scall listened avidly, 
storing every detail in his memory. Already, he was thinking about telling 
them to Rochalla— with himself replacing Kher as the hero, of course! As 
he wondered how many of them he could manage to get away with, he 
looked at the two men who rode beside him, and sighed. Both of them had 
more than their share of good looks; Kher with his blond hair and his open, 
merry countenance, and Dark with his raven curls and his features that were 

so imposing. Scall thought sourly of his own gawky frame, a face that kept 
breaking out in spots, and hair that would keep sticking up all over the place. 
The fact that he had inherited its coppery gleam from his aunt Agella didn’t 
help, either. He sighed. 
It’s just not fair. How will I ever stand a chance with Rochalla? Leading 
Grim’s white horse, with the winged abomination strapped firmly across its 
back, they rode on through the afternoon and into the early evening. Though 
the sun had a distance to go, it had begun to dip, and the light was turning a 
deeper gold. The three riders came down from the crown of the moors on a 
snaking track, and descended into a valley beyond. Green fells swelled up on 
one side, and on the other, the valley bottom was concealed by a belt of 
trees. Looming above them, Scall could see the peaked roof of a tall, round 
tower. 
The road rounded a sharp bend, almost doubling back on itself through some 
cultivated fields, then went through a village with a single street. The houses 
were built of clean grey stone, so different from the buildings of Tiarond, 
which for hundreds of years had been gradually stained and darkened by the 
smoke from countless chimneys. All were different in shape and size, but 
were well built and attractive, combining with the adjacent buildings to form 
a harmonious whole. The doors, the window frames, and the shutters were 
painted in cheerful colors, and flowers growing in long, narrow boxes full of 
earth brightened the windowsills on every dwelling. Children playing in the 
village street stopped their games to look curiously at the riders, and the 
adults, who had been moving briskly up and down the street on various 
errands, paused to stare and gape at the hideous winged predator. It wasn’t 
lost on Scall that every one of them was desperate to ask Kher what was 
going on, but all of them maintained a respectful silence. 
“Here we are,” Kher said, gesturing around him. “Home at last. Scall, you’ll 
be staying here at the inn for a little while. They’ll feed you, and take good 
care of you, and you can rest. You didn’t get any sleep last night, by all 
accounts. Dark, you’re to come with me. The Archimandrite wants to see 
you right away.” 
Scall swallowed hard, his newfound courage deserting him abruptly as he 
realized that the only two people he knew in this whole place were planning 
to abandon him among a bunch of strangers. 
Kher reached across and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, 
laddie,” he said. “They’re good folk, Olsam and his daughter Ailie. They’ll 
make you feel at home, and Ailie is the best cook in the whole valley. I’ll 
come back for you as soon as I can—but I warn you, once you’ve had a taste 
of Ailie’s cherry pie, you’ll never want to leave.” 
He grinned at Scall, who began to feel a little better—especially when he 
compared his own situation with that of Dark. The Summoner looked 
absolutely sick with nerves, twisting the mane of his long-suffering horse in 
restless fingers and darting nervous glances here and there. His pallid face 
had taken on a slightly greenish cast, and Scall felt sorry for him. 

I don’t know who this Archimandrite is, but I’m glad it’s Dark he wants to 
see, and not me. 
He tried not to think about who might want to talk to him, at some point. 
At least they can’t get mad at me. It’s not my fault I’m here. 
The inn was a large building at the end of the village street. Laboriously, 
Scall spelled out the words: the griffin on the signboard, and gaped at the 
fantastic creature, half-lion, half-eagle, that was depicted there. Kher 
dismounted stiffly and unhooked his staff from his saddle. “Just hang on 
there for a moment, Dark, and keep an eye on that monstrosity of yours. I’ll 
just take Scall inside and come straight back. Then we can go on to the 
settlement.” 
Dark tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “You take as long 
as you like. I’m in no hurry.” 
Kher clouted him on the leg as he went past. “Chin up, man. Amaurn won’t 
eat you.” 
“How the blazes do you know?” There was an edge to the Summoner’s 
voice. “You haven’t even met him yet.” 
Kher paused, looking up at him. “Because he was your mentor’s old friend,” 
he said quietly. “For Grim’s sake, he’ll be kind to you, you mark my words.” 
He turned back to Scall. “Are you ready?” 
While the other two had been talking, Scall had dismounted, but he stayed 
where he was, clinging tightly to the reins of his chestnut mare. “What about 
my horse?” he asked. “Who’s going to look after her? Is there a stable at the 
inn?” 
“Leave her with Dark just now,” Kher said. “She’ll go down to the 
Shadowleague stables with our own beasts.” 
Scall clutched the mare’s bridle more tightly. “I want to take care of her 
myself,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t want to leave her among a bunch of 
strangers. How do I know they’ll look after her properly?” 
Kher sighed. He had been all affability so far, but clearly his patience had its 
limits. “Look here, boy, I’ve coddled you so far, but now I’ve got to take 
Dark to see the Archimandrite, and I don’t have time for this. Now listen to 
me. She’ll be safe with Harral. He takes good care of all his horses, and he’ll 
be so careful with your mare that it’ll be as if she was made of cobwebs and 
silk. Now give those reins to Dark and get inside!” He grabbed the boy’s 
arm, and before he knew what had happened, Scall had been hustled through 
the door, to stand in the long, whitewashed hallway. “Olsam!” Kher bawled. 
“Ailie! Where the blazes are you?” 
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” The voice seemed to emanate from beneath their 
feet. After a moment, a door that was tucked underneath the staircase 
creaked open, and a little man with greying hair came hurrying out. “Oh, it’s 
you,” he said shortly. “What can I do for you?” 
“Is that any way to talk to your best customer?” The edge of reprimand in 

Kher’s voice was so slight that Scall wondered if he had imagined it. 
The innkeeper seemed unconcerned. “If you don’t like it, you can trek all the 
way down to the trading post and try Ruthar’s evil brew,” he snapped. 
Kher’s eyebrows went up. “What’s got into you today? Did you drink too 
much of your own ale last night? You’re certainly acting as if you’ve got a 
sore head.” 
Olsam sighed. “All right, all right. But I’m that busy I don’t know where to 
turn. Ailie has been away since yesterday, jaunting off downriver in a boat, if 
you please, with Loremaster Veldan and her outlandish partner, and 
Loremaster Elion, too. And here’s the inn in such a mess after those accursed 
Dierkan attacked the other night, coming in here and knocking down walls, 
and I don’t know what all else. And here I am left at home to do all the 
work, and I’ve only got one pair of hands...” 
It looked like becoming a long tirade, but Kher interrupted swiftly. “Well, 
just to crown the pleasures of your day, I’ve brought you a new customer. 
This is Scall, come all the way from Callisiora, beyond the Curtain Walls. 
He’s here at the invitation of the new Archimandrite, so I’m sure you’ll 
make him very welcome.” 
Olsam shot him a sour look. “I would make the lad welcome whoever had 
invited him, as well you know, Loremaster Kher.” 
“That’s fine, then,” Kher said quickly. “You’ll need to feed him pretty 
quickly, by the way. We’ve been in too much of a hurry to eat, and he’s 
hardly had anything since yesterday. We don’t want him fading away.” 
Turning, he clasped Scall’s hand. “You get some rest, laddie. I’ll come back 
later, when I know what’s what. And don’t worry about that little horse of 
yours. Harral will take good care of her, I promise.” He paused. “Come to 
think of it, he has a beast in his stable that looks very like your mount. She’s 
the darling of his heart and the apple of his eye, so I’m sure he’ll look after 
your mare just as well. See you later.” He ducked out of the doorway, 
oblivious to the fact that Scall was staring after him in horror. 
Elion? Elton came from this place? Surely it couldn’t be the same man ... 
But Kher said that Harral, whoever he is, had a horse just like mine... 
In Scall’s mind, the pieces all fell into place. “Kher, no! Wait!” He made a 
lunge toward the door, but Olsam caught his arm and hauled him back. 
“Come on now, youngster,” he said sternly. “Strangers aren’t allowed to go 
wandering around the place by themselves—those are the rules. You just 
stay right here, until Loremaster Kher comes back for you.” With that, he 
pushed Scall ahead of him, up the stairs, and onto a broad landing. Through 
an open door, the boy caught a glimpse of a mason repairing a sizable hole 
in the back wall of the room and a carpenter hammering together a new 
window frame to replace the splinters of the old. “Sorry about all the 
banging,” Olsam said. He scowled. “Blasted Dierkan. Breaking up my inn.” 
Scall wanted to ask him what a Dierkan was. It sounded pretty alarming if it 
could put a hole like that in a solid wall. Experience as an apprentice, 

however, had taught him that when adults had that expression on their faces, 
it was wise to keep his head down and his mouth shut. Olsam ushered him 
into a bright, clean room that overlooked the village street. “There, now,” he 
said. “You rest yourself, young fellow. I’ll be back shortly with something 
for you to eat.” 
By this time, Scall’s other worries had crowded out the Dierkan again. Too 
numb with dismay to notice his surroundings, he sank down on the bed. 
Firefly didn’t belong to Elion at all! She belonged to this 
Harral, and she was the darling of his heart and the apple of his eye, and 
now he’ll take her back, and I’ll never see her again. I’ve lost her! 
Throughout his abduction, the loss of Rochalla and Tormon, his fight with 
the winged monstrosity, and his journey beyond the Curtain Walls to this 
strange new place, Scall had remained brave. This, however, was one blow 
too many. He rolled over and punched his pillow until the feathers flew, then 
he burst into tears. 
“Does it still hurt?” It was hard for most people to imagine that a creature of 
Maskulu’s size and appearance could actually sound so concerned. Amaurn, 
however, knew better. He had been bearing the brunt of his companion’s 
overwhelming solicitude since the Senior Loremaster had brought him back 
from the hillside where he had been attacked. 
“Of course it still hurts,” he snapped. He wished Maskulu could leave him 
alone for a while. He was desperate to rest, and collect his thoughts, and 
sleep. Unfortunately, it just wasn’t possible. There was too much to be 
done—too much to attend to. It was vital that he play down his injury as 
much as possible, so that people didn’t lose confidence in him. Cergorn’s 
supporters would be quick to take advantage of any weakness. Certainly, no 
one must know he had almost been killed by an assassin. One attempt was 
bad enough—he didn’t want anyone else getting the same idea. 
Besides, if I fall asleep, that accursed shapeshifter might creep up on me 
again. 
Even though the fearsome Maskulu was guarding him, it was an 
uncomfortable thought. 
“So what are you going to do about it?” Clearly, Maskulu had been picking 
up his thoughts. “There must be something we can do to find the assassin! 
How can you function properly as Archimandrite with this constant threat 
hanging over you?” 
“I’m working on it,” Amaurn said. “If I could, I’d clear every damned one of 
the Takuru out of Gendival. But the only way to be certain they wouldn’t 
come sneaking back is to kill the lot of them, and even then, how could I be 
sure I’d managed to get them all?” 
But there might he another way... “Maskulu, I want you to mind-speak a 

message to the leader of the Takuru, and ask him—or her—to come here. 
And be polite. Then contact the Archivists, and tell them to find me every 
scrap of information we have on the Takuru. Tell them to be quick.” 
The Senior Loremaster stared at him. “Amaurn, you must be delirious. You 
can’t invite the Takuru leader here” 
Rather than take Amaurn back to the settlement when he was clearly 
wounded and vulnerable, Maskulu had carried him to his own underground 
dwelling and put him in a chamber with only one exit that was easily 
guarded. He had made the Archimandrite as comfortable as he could, given 
the nature of the surroundings, then, in mind-speech, he had told Bailen, and 
Kyrre of the Dobarchu, who was adept in healing skills, what had happened, 
sworn them to silence, and summoned them to his lair. 
Once more, Amaurn summoned Blade and felt his face settle into those 
obdurate, granite lines. He gave Maskulu the cold stare that had intimidated 
everyone in Tiarond from the Hierarch on down. “Firstly, I’m not delirious; 
secondly, yes, I want the Takuru leader here. Thirdly, I want that 
information as soon as possible, so why are you just standing there, wasting 
time?” 
Grumbling, Maskulu turned away and began to send the messages, leaving 
the Archimandrite to concentrate on staying awake until the healer came. 
Luckily for Amaurn, the Takur’s hurried blow had sliced rather than stabbed, 
but the gash in his side, though it did not seem too deep, had been bleeding 
freely. Though it hurt like perdition, he had managed to bind a pad of cloth 
torn from his shirt tightly over the wound and, though it was in an awkward 
place, kept pressing down on it with the heel of his hand. The bleeding 
seemed to have slowed, but the injury would need expert medical attention, 
nonetheless. 
When the two Loremasters arrived, Amaurn was pleased to see them, yet he 
remained wary until Maskulu, who knew them better, had asked them 
certain questions to which only they would know the answers. It was the 
only way that he could think of, at this point, to make sure that his friends 
were his friends, and not some Takuru assassin in disguise. The strategy 
worked quite well for close confidants, such as Bailen and Kyrre, but the 
system was too clumsy, inaccurate, and open to abuse to be used with 
everyone. Amaurn knew he was going to have to think of something better, 
but right now he was finding it difficult enough to stay conscious, let alone 
focus his brain on such a difficult problem. 
Kyrre and Bailen were laden with bags and baskets. “We told people that we 
were going on a picnic,” the young blind man said with a smile. “You’d be 
amazed at the number of folk who warned us that we’d get into trouble with 
the Archimandrite for sneaking off when the whole place has been stirred to 
a ferment by his new plans and instructions.” As he spoke, he was unpacking 
the baskets, identifying objects mainly by touch, but occasionally using 
Kyrre’s eyes for confirmation. “You couldn’t have a fire down here, so 
we—er—borrowed some of those heating crystals from the collection of 

advanced artifacts that we don’t really understand. You know, the ones that 
Cergorn wouldn’t let us use in case we accidentally broke them somehow in 
our ignorance or wore them out.” 
“Well, you have my heartfelt permission to use them,” said Amaurn, who 
was shivering violently, partly, no doubt, from blood loss and shock and 
partly from the dank chill of Maskulu’s underground home. 
There were about two dozen of the precious crystals. Bailen took them from 
the basket one by one and carefully unwrapped them from their individual 
coverings of felt. They were irregularly shaped, the biggest about the size of 
two fists held together, the smallest about the size of a hen’s egg. They 
glowed with a warm, red-golden light, and when they were rubbed against 
one another, they began to radiate heat which, in a short time, grew so 
intense that it could be used to boil water. Working by feel, he began to 
place them around the Archimandrite, so that the warmth was coming from 
all sides. The last four he saved and grouped together, a little out of the way, 
beside the wall. Borrowing Kyrre’s sight for a few moments, he went to fill a 
metal pot at a trickle of water that dripped out of a crack in the wall on the 
far side of Maskulu’s artificial cavern. He wedged the pot between the 
glowing crystals and left it there for the water to boil. “Some tea would be 
welcome right now,” he said. “It might warm you up a bit. And I brought us 
plenty of food, too.” 
Kyrre, in the meantime, had activated a number of glims, and the 
Archimandrite was grateful for the extra light. From a bag she extracted a 
tightly rolled quilt and proceeded to open it out with her stubby little fingers. 
Though her lack of size gave her a certain amount of difficulty, she 
persevered, refusing to let Amaurn help her. “It looks as if your wound has 
almost stopped bleeding,” she told him sternly, in mind-speech, “so don’t 
you dare exert yourself and open it up again.” She spread the large quilt on 
the floor and made him lie on one side of it. “We’ll wrap the rest of it over 
you, once I’ve examined your wound.” Amaurn began to feel the warmth 
from the crystals spreading over him, and with it came drowsiness. Finally, 
he gave up the struggle and let himself relax. He was safe here—for the time 
being, at least. Guarded by Maskulu and tended by this earnest young man 
and this healer of another race, he felt himself to be among friends—a 
sensation he had not experienced for many years. 
Pain stabbed through his side as Kyrre opened his tattered shirt and 
unwrapped his clumsy bandages, and Amaurn caught his breath sharply. 
Holding a glim close to the wound, the Dobarchu examined it minutely. 
“Still leaking blood,” she muttered, “though you did well to stop the worst. 
You did the right thing to put pressure on it as you did. The blade didn’t 
penetrate far enough to hit anything vital, though it did slice through some 
muscle, and that’s going to take a while to heal, I’m afraid. Your movements 
will be constrained for some time to come.” 
“They can’t be.” Amaurn spoke through gritted teeth. “I don’t have time for 
that.” 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to make time,” the Dobarchu told him. “It’s not as if 
you have much choice. If we can get you down to the infirmary, we can use 
the healing lights on you, and we have certain medications which can speed 
things up. Nevertheless, those tissues won’t knit up overnight, and the more 
you move about, the longer it’ll take.” 
As she spoke, she was rummaging in another basket, sorting through packets 
and powders. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing,‘ Amaurn told her, 
”I don’t want to be unconscious.“ 
“You’ll be sorry,” Kyrre told him, “but if you insist, I can give you 
something instead that will dull the pain, a little.” 
“Haven’t you got anything to take it away completely?” 
The Dobarchu made the chattering sound that passed for laughter in her 
kind. “Yes,” she said. “Unconsciousness.” 
“Not an option,” Amaurn said firmly. “Are you going to Stitch it?” 
Again, she laughed. “You’re not in Callisiora now, you know. We have 
something else from the technology of the Ancients that will seal the tissue 
together—but before you ask, you’ll still have to be very careful until the 
wound has time to heal. And yes, it will still hurt.” 
He sighed. “If that’s what it takes. All right, Kyrre. Let’s get this over with.” 
Suddenly, Bailen interrupted them. “I have a message from Kher, 
Archimandrite. He says he’s here with that stranger, Dark, who found his 
way through the Curtain Walls—the stupid idiot who let those Ak’Zahar 
through at the same time.” His eyes widened. “This man even captured one, 
and brought it with him! Of all the nerve!” 
Amaurn looked across at Maskulu. “I want to see this young man. He’s the 
associate of one of my oldest friends. Tell Kher to bring him here.” 
“Are you sure that’s safe?” said the Senior Loremaster doubtfully. “You’ve 
already summoned the leader of the Takuru, and now you want a total 
stranger and one of the most deadly predators in the world.” 
“I can’t hide away from everyone forever.” Amaurn shrugged—and winced. 
“The Ak’Zahar has been immobilized, so that’s all right. You can check out 
Kher, and if the newcomer attacks me, you have my permission to kill him. 
That goes for the leader of the Takuru, too.” 
“And what if the leader sends the killer instead? You’re putting a lot of trust 
in the belief that I’ll be faster than a Takur assassin,” Maskulu grumbled. 
Amaurn smiled. “I’m sure you can handle it. This wouldn’t be the first time 
I’ve trusted you with my life, and the way things are going, it probably 
won’t be the last. Why don’t you and Bailen go and bring him down here? 
Ask him about Grim’s little messengers, if you want to check out his 
background. No accursed shapeshifter would know about them.” 
“I wish I didn’t,” Maskulu said with feeling. “Ever since Grim sent them 
here, they’ve been nothing but a downright nuisance.” 

Amaurn still couldn’t talk about Grim without pain. He took a deep breath. 
“Well, that’ll be one advantage of having his assistant here. If this young 
man is genuine, you’ll be able to turn the care of the imps over to him.” 
“I’ll go and fetch him at once. Bailen, will you come with me, and bring a 
torch?” Maskulu chuckled grimly. “We don’t want to scare him too much at 
first, do we? We’ll leave it to our esteemed Archimandrite to do that.” 
Amaurn waved him away. “Get away with you, you idiot.” He turned back 
to Kyrre, the Dobarchu healer. “In the meantime, I suppose you had better 
get busy. Much as I would like to, we can’t put off dealing with this wound 
forever.” 
CHAPTER 23 
Homecoming 
Outside the inn, Kher paused, clearly listening to some private message in 
mind-speech. “The Archimandrite is on the opposite side of the valley right 
now, so we’re going to skirt around the settlement and ride over there,” he 
told the Summoner. “We’ll have to take your captive Ak’Zahar with us, and 
I don’t propose to carry him up that hill on my back.” 
Dark had no objections to riding. He was feeling so nervous that his knees 
probably wouldn’t hold him up if he tried to go on foot. 
Oh, how I wish you were here, Grim! We had planned this day to be so very 
different. It was to be your joyous return to the place you had missed for so 
long. And will it ever become my place now that you’re not here? Without 
your support, will these people accept me? And what will I do if they don’t? 
By that time they had reached the end of the village and crossed a swift little 
river on an old stone bridge. On the other side was a crumbling, ancient wall 
and a short flight of steps leading up to a gateway that had clearly been a 
tunnel once, though, judging by the moss and weathering on the ancient 
stones, it had lost its roof a long time ago. “That gateway leads to the 
settlement,” Kher said, “but there’s an easier route for horses if you follow 
the wall round to the left. Today, though, we’re going another way, up round 
the far side of the lake.” 
They left the inviting gateway and turned right, following a narrow road that 
ran along beside the river, passing an old mill. Gradually, the old walls 
crumbled away and dwindled into a much lower, newer boundary that had 
clearly been constructed from the same fallen stones. On the other side of it 
was a narrow belt of trees, and through them, Dark could catch tantalizing 
glimpses of mirror-bright water. “That’s the Lower Lake,” Kher told him. “If 

you look back over your shoulder, you can just catch a glimpse of the 
settlement on the lakeside, and see the Tower of Tidings above the trees.” 
Obediently, Dark looked, and saw the high, round tower that he had 
glimpsed earlier, and a number of lower, stone-built buildings clustering 
around its foot. “Why are we going away from the settlement?” he asked. “I 
told you, we’re supposed to meet Amaurn elsewhere.” 
“Yes, but you really didn’t tell me why.” There was a pause while Kher 
wrestled with Scall’s little mare, which he was leading along by its reins. For 
some reason, she seemed to want to head in the opposite direction from the 
one in which they were going. After a tussle, he got her following obediently 
again and returned to what he was saying. “The Archimandrite is meeting us 
at the home of Maskulu, one of the Senior Loremasters. Goodness knows 
why—it’s underground, and it’s cold, dark, damp, and damned 
uncomfortable. It’s certainly not the sort of place I would choose to receive a 
newcomer.” He shrugged. “Maybe he wants to keep you and your Ak’Zahar 
under wraps for a while, for some reason. Mind you, that’s unlikely, too. 
We’ve already gone through the village with the critter, so the entire 
settlement will know about it by now.” 
After a time, the trees ended, and there was nothing between them and the 
lake but a stretch of rough and marshy-looking ground, with clumps of tall 
reeds growing down near the water. The sounds of birdsong and the sigh of 
the breeze in the branches changed to the shriller whispering of wind 
through reed and sedge, the flap and splash and strident calls of ducks in the 
shallows, and the deep-throated rattle of frogs. 
They were forced to cross another bridge, as the river took a sharp bend to 
the left and ran down to the lake. The wall ended here, and once they were 
on the other side of the bridge, they left the road and turned toward the calm 
expanse of water. They had reached the head of the lake now, and took a 
curving route along its edge, picking their way with care across the soft 
ground. To his surprise, Dark saw that there was another lake just beyond 
the first, and he and the Loremaster were threading their way between them 
across a narrow neck of wetland and water meadow. 
There wasn’t another human soul in sight. Dark looked around the wild and 
lonely spot, and a shiver went through him that was not just cold and 
weariness. “Are you sure the Archimandrite said he’d meet us in this 
forsaken place?” 
Kher glanced back. “Not exactly here. We’ve a little way to go, round the 
head of the lake, then up the hillside.” He shrugged. “Don’t ask me why. I 
don’t know Amaurn, he’s only been here a couple of days, though I heard 
tell that he was a Loremaster in Gendival many years ago and had to run 
away after a dispute with Cergorn, who was Archimandrite here before 
him.” 
Dark nodded. “I know. Grim told me. Amaurn made an unsuccessful bid for 
the leadership back then, and Cergorn sentenced him to death. One of the 
other Loremasters, a woman I think, helped him to escape, and he’s been 

hiding out in Callisiora all these years, waiting for a chance to come back. 
All that time, he had a lot of secret supporters, like my mentor, in the 
Shadowleague.” 
The Loremaster’s eyebrows went up. “For an outsider, you’re certainly well 
informed. I didn’t...” 
His words were cut off by a loud bellow. The waters of the Lower Lake 
erupted in a ferment of boiling foam, and huge waves sloshed across the 
marshy banks and swirled around the feet of the panicked horses. With a 
scream, Scall’s mare broke her reins and ran, bolting back the way they had 
come and careering down the road toward the settlement—but the 
Summoner had no eyes for her. He bit back his own scream of terror as a 
ghastly head, with enormous jaws, weed-hung and dripping water, came 
rising out of the lake, climbing up and up toward the sky on a neck that 
seemed to go on forever. An immense, gleaming, dark green body broke 
through the surface of the water like an emerging island. 
“Oh, damn,” Kher muttered. “It’s the Afanc.” 
“Who has had the temerity to bring that abomination to our valley?” The 
mind-speech was so loud that it almost blew Dark’s head apart. Only his 
desperate desire to prove himself worthy of becoming a Loremaster 
prevented him from letting his horse have its head and bolting with it all the 
way back to Callisiora. Using all the power of his will, he somehow 
managed to keep control of his terror, his plunging mount, and Grim’s horse 
with the Ak’Zahar tied to its back. Kher was facing the monster with a frown 
on his face that might have been irritation, worry, or a bit of both. He 
addressed the monstrosity in mind-speech that Dark could also hear. “Senior 
Loremaster Bastiar, you have no right to detain us. We are summoned to the 
Archimandrite, and we are already late.” 
Dark was astounded. This—this monster was a Loremaster, too? Though 
Grim had said there were races other than human in the Shadowleague, he 
had never warned him about anything like this! 
Kher’s reply had obviously not pleased Bastiar. The creature’s eyes glittered 
coldly, and it swung its head down toward the two men, enveloping both in a 
cloud of fetid breath. “And did that renegade interloper ask you to introduce 
a deadly predator through the Curtain Walls? Answer me!” 
“I must answer to the Archimandrite first and foremost, and he told me to 
bring this stranger and the Ak’Zahar to him at once. He did not say that I 
could stop and chat along the way,” Kher replied coolly. “Word travels fast 
among the Shadowleague, and it is no secret that you are Amaurn’s enemy. 
When he wishes to share his thoughts and plans with you, no doubt he will 
do so.” 
“How dare you speak to a Senior Loremaster in that fashion!” Bastiar angled 
his huge head down to block the riders’ way. “You will go to the renegade 
when I have finished with you and not a moment sooner. I will have 
answers, Loremaster Kher.” He lowered his voice, and his eyes narrowed 
with a cunning gleam. “If you are going to see the Archimandrite, what are 

you doing up here at the head of the lake? Where is Amaurn that you do not 
seek him in the settlement?” The tremendous head swung around toward 
Dark. “You give me some answers, stranger!” 
The Summoner almost stopped breathing. Then, from the corner of his eye, 
he saw Kher watching the exchange closely, with an uneasy expression, and 
his thoughts began to race. If this monster was a Loremaster, and a senior 
one at that, it would hardly dare to hurt him physically; but that did not mean 
that he and his companion weren’t in a great deal of trouble. A lot would 
depend on his answer, and it would certainly be a test of both his loyalty to 
Grim’s old friend, the new Archimandrite, and his suitability to be one of the 
Shadowleague. 
“Well?” The monster rumbled. “Where is Amaurn and why has he 
summoned you?” The massive head swung down even closer. For a 
moment, Dark thought of feigning ignorance, and pretending he didn’t 
understand mind-speech, but he realized that, if he really wanted to join the 
Shadowleague, such a deception might well backfire. Instead, he hid his fear 
as best he could, looked up at the terrifying Loremaster, and shrugged. “Why 
ask me?” he said. “Kher only just brought me here. What would I know 
about this place?” 
Bastiar swung his head back to Kher. “And who is this outsider? Where did 
he come from and why did you bring him here?” 
The Loremaster was clearly taking a leaf out of Dark’s book. “Because the 
Archimandrite asked me to,” he said. 
The Afanc rumbled ominously in its throat, but before it could speak again, 
something changed. The serpentine neck lengthened, and the great head shot 
up into a listening position. If the Loremaster was receiving some sort of 
message in mind-speech, Dark certainly couldn’t hear anything, but 
something certainly had a profound effect. With a hiss of displeasure that 
almost split their eardrums, the monstrous Bastiar backed away from them 
and sank back onto the lake. “We will meet again,” he promised them in 
ominous tones, and disappeared. 
Gradually the horses became calmer, and the humans followed suit. Kher let 
out his breath in a long sigh, and Dark swallowed hard. “What do you think 
happened? What made it go away like that?” 
“While his attention was on you, I called on the Archimandrite for help,” 
Kher told him. “He sounded a bit pressed, but he said he’d have a word with 
Bastiar.” His eyebrows went up. “I’d have given a lot to hear what he said.” 
“Just as long as he wasn’t saying it to me,” Dark amended. “I wouldn’t want 
to get on the wrong side of a man who can scare a creature that size.” 
“Me neither,” Kher agreed. “Come on, let’s get out of here before the Afanc 
changes his mind and comes back for us.” 
Trying to stay as far away as possible from the shoreline, the two men 
skirted the head of the lake. Dark was not the only one who breathed a sigh 
of relief when they reached the other side of the valley and began to climb a 

rough track that crossed the rocky hillside at an angle. Though the steep 
slopes on this side of the vale were thickly wooded lower down, a twist of 
the track took them in the opposite direction, toward the other lake, and 
threaded its way around thickets of bramble and whin, and occasional 
clumps of holly and thorn. As they climbed, the slope became more craggy, 
until they were climbing with a low cliff on their left. Kher dismounted, 
signaling to Dark to do the same, and then pushed hard on the rock in an 
area that looked indistinguishable from the rest. A slab of the cliff face 
pivoted to reveal a narrow opening. “This is where we go,” the Loremaster 
said. “We’ll have to—” 
Suddenly he was interrupted by a voice that both young men heard within 
their minds. “Thank you, Loremaster Kher, for bringing Dark here. Before 
you rest, will you please take the horses down to the stables? You, Dark, will 
wait there a moment with your—captive. Someone will come to fetch you.” 
Kher looked at his companion and shrugged helplessly. “Sorry about that. It 
seems I’ve been dismissed. It’s a pity—I really wanted to get a look at the 
mysterious new Archimandrite.” He helped Dark untie the captive Ak’Zahar 
from the saddle of Grim’s white horse, and between them they lowered it to 
the ground. Though it had refused to eat or drink all the way here, and must 
surely be suffering the effects of such deprivation, it was still full of fight, 
straining at its bonds and snapping at the two men with its jagged fangs. So 
close to his meeting with the Archimandrite, Dark was beginning to have 
doubts. “Goodness only knows how they’ll be able to restrain that thing in 
order to study it,” he said. “I hope I’ve done the right thing in bringing it 
here.” 
“Well, it’s too late to worry about that now,” Kher said, dumping the last of 
the Summoner’s packs on the ground. “Besides, if they don’t want it, they 
can always just stick a knife in it. What’s the problem?” He clasped Dark’s 
hand. “Take care of yourself and don’t worry. Everything will be all right. 
The way you faced down the Afanc was magnificent, and if they don’t take 
you as a Loremaster, they must be insane.” Waving away Dark’s thanks for 
guiding him, he mounted and set off down the track, going back toward the 
settlement, and taking the two reiver horses with him. 
The Summoner felt very lonely, unwelcome, and vulnerable, standing by 
himself on the exposed hillside with all his worldly possessions in two small 
packs by his feet and no one to keep him company but a deadly predator 
that, by rights, he should not have brought with him at all. He looked into the 
tunnel mouth and shivered. Why would the Archimandrite want to see him 
in such an inimical place? Why had he not been permitted to go to the 
settlement? This beginning did not bode well for his future here. 
Then he heard the scrape and slither of movement in the lightless void 
beyond the portal. A strange, cool, greenish glow blossomed forth from the 
hand of a sturdy young man with light brown hair tied back in a long, neat 
tail. To Dark’s Summoner perceptions there seemed something odd about 
him, and as he approached, it became clear that his eyes were glazed and 
sightless. Yet he still walked forward with confidence, and when he 

addressed Dark, he seemed to know exactly where to look. How could that 
be? 
“You must be Dark,” the young man said. “I’m Bailen. We’ve come to take 
you to Amaurn.” He stepped back, lifting the hand that carried the pale, 
glimmering light source. As the shadows fell back, a long, gleaming shape, 
bristled and armored and with many clawed legs, emerged from the gloom. 
Its face was more hideous than all the monsters in the worst of Dark’s 
childhood nightmares. It made the terrifying Afanc look positively cute. The 
Summoner gasped, unable to prevent himself from taking a nervous step 
backward. Bailen smiled. “And this,” he said, “is Senior Loremaster 
Maskulu.” Getting hold of himself with difficulty, Dark stammered out a 
greeting in mind-speech. Privately, he hoped that Amaurn would be less 
terrifying. He’d had quite enough shocks for one day. Then, in his mind, he 
heard the gritty, clicking voice of Maskulu. “Less terrifying than me? I 
wouldn’t count on it, if I were you.” 
Toulac hadn’t realized how hard it would be to stay angry with Veldan. All 
the way back upriver, she stayed aloof and alone in the bows, ignoring her 
shipmates with great determination—but the memory of their conversation 
kept going around in her head, and after a while, she began to wonder if 
she’d been entirely in the right. 
Don’t be stupid. Of course you were! You know what a monster Blade 
is—imagine what will happen to the world once he’s managed to get his 
hands on the sort of power the Shadowleague has at its disposal. 
But Veldan said he had changed. 
What the bloody blazes does a girl like that know? She didn’t have to live in 
Callisiora when Blade was in power behind the scenes. I thought I had 
escaped him by coming here, and I won’t live under his rule again. How 
long will it be, before he starts acting as he did when he took over the 
Godswords? He got rid of the female warriors then—how soon before he 
does the same with the female Loremasters? And Veldan will be no 
exception. That treacherous snake will turn on her just as he turns on 
everyone. 
Her thoughts went round and round in endless debate, but in the end, the 
answer always seemed to be the same. She should forget about the glorious 
future she had been planning and just go. All along, it had seemed too good 
to be true. Of course there was always the other alternative: she could 
apologize to Veldan and give Blade a chance before she decided to leave. 
But Toulac’s pride wouldn’t let her admit that she might have been too hasty 
in her judgment, and so many years’ worth of experiencing human nature at 
its worst made her certain that she couldn’t possibly be wrong. 
Suddenly she heard a step behind her. Had Veldan come to admit that she 
was in the wrong? But a surreptitious glance over her shoulder showed her 

that the girl was amidships, talking to Kaz, and it was Elion who stood 
beside her in the bows. He hesitated before he spoke. “Zavahl’s going to stay 
here with us. I thought you might like to know.” 
Toulac shrugged. “He can do what he likes.” Her heart, however, had sunk at 
the news. If Zavahl, who had been so badly treated by Blade, was prepared 
to stay in Gendival and give the man another chance, didn’t that make her 
own behavior look both petty and cowardly? 
I don’t care. 
Even in the privacy of her own mind, it had a hollow ring. Toulac sighed. 
Why did this have to happen? Everything was going so well, then Blade had 
to show up and ruin everything. That man poisons whatever he touches. 
There was another long pause before Elion spoke again. “Please don’t be so 
hasty, Toulac. Veldan’s very upset to be losing you, you know. Are you sure 
you won’t reconsider? For her sake?” 
That was a low blow! Toulac gritted her teeth. “Sonny, I would do a lot of 
things for Veldan, but this is asking too much. I wish it could be otherwise, 
but it can’t.” 
“You stubborn old baggage!” This time, the voice was in mind-speech, and 
it belonged to the firedrake. 
“Leave me alone!” Toulac put her head in her hands, feeling as though she 
was being attacked from all sides. To her surprise, Elion intervened. “Come 
on, Kaz. That’s not very subtle, is it? Insults won’t help this situation any 
more than they did when we used to hurl them at one another.” He turned 
back to Toulac. “When we get back, why don’t you go to the inn, have 
something to eat and a good long rest? You never know, this situation might 
look different when you’ve had a chance to sleep on it.” With that, he left 
her, following the firedrake, who had gone to talk to Veldan. 
The three Loremasters went into a huddle in the stern and seemed to be 
having a very intense discussion about something. 
Are they talking about me? Or am I just being a suspicious old woman? 
Toulac felt more alone than ever. All the joy in her rescue and homecoming 
had been lost. It didn’t help that the closer she came to the Loremaster 
settlement, the more her doubts were growing. Was she stupid? Was she 
wrong? Was she throwing away her entire future because of prejudice and a 
stubborn refusal to admit that she might have been mistaken? 
When the wherry arrived at the trading post, its passengers and crew 
received the warmest of welcomes. A stocky man with silver hair and merry, 
twinkling eyes hailed them from the landing place, and a younger, darkhaired 
man, who bore a distinct resemblance to Meglyn, came hurrying out 
of the building. Toulac’s eyebrows went up as he extended a hand to help 
Veldan jump ashore and caught her up in a hug. It seemed clear that he was 
fond of her. 
She didn’t tell me about him! Not that it’s of any interest to me, of course. 

Then the older man was doing the same for her, extending his hand to her 
with a courtly bow and laughing all over his face. Despite her black mood, 
Toulac found it impossible not to smile in return. The two men were 
introduced as Skeryn and Ruthar, and they were very keen to spend some 
time listening to the tales of the rescuers and the rescued, but Elion, Veldan, 
and Kaz seemed to be in a tremendous hurry to get back. “We’ll do it 
another day, I promise,” Elion told them, “but right now, we want to get 
home.” 
“Amaurn will be anxious to speak to Zavahl, too,” Veldan said. 
Toulac did not miss the grimace of annoyance that crossed Ailie’s face—and 
the flicker of fear that crossed Zavahl’s. 
Maybe he’ll want to come with me after all? 
Then the veteran looked at Ailie, with her full, ripe figure and smiling face, 
and realized that, for a man who had lived his life so alone and unfulfilled, 
neither fear nor reason could contend with such a powerful inducement to 
stay. 
He’s beginning to find himself at last. Who am I to interfere? I remember 
how happy I was, when I thought I was going to be starting a new life. 
“Well, nobody’s making you go,” said a voice in her mind. 
Toulac turned to glare at the firedrake. He knew very well that she wouldn’t 
answer him aloud and bring everyone into the debate, and unless she could 
manage to broadcast her replies in mind-speech, she would be helpless to 
respond. 
She could ignore him, though. When Ruthar brought the horses around from 
the stables at the back of the trading post, she chose to ride one instead of 
getting on the firedrake’s back. Veldan made no comment, though Toulac 
caught the hurt expression on the girl’s face and again felt an uncomfortable 
twinge of guilt. She thought of Blade with increasing anger. It was all his 
fault—it must be. It was easier to blame him for this situation than to blame 
herself. 
As they rode off down the track by the river, the veteran found her 
enjoyment of being on horseback again marred by wistful memories of her 
warhorse, Mazal. Though the dark brown gelding that she rode was an 
adequate beast, well cared for and well schooled, he seemed very dull and 
tame in comparison to the grey stallion. Kaz, however, soon provided her 
with a distraction, by picking up their onesided conversation right where he 
had left off. 
“Why don’t you wait and talk to Amaurn, at least?” he said. “Personally, I 
would trust the son of a bitch about as far as I could spit him, but I think the 
Boss is right. For the time being, at any rate, he’s the best leader for the 
Shadowleague. Just talk to him, Toulac, for Veldan’s sake. When will you 
get another chance to confront him with what he did in Callisiora? He says 
he had his reasons. Why don’t you listen to them before you judge? If you 
don’t, you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering whether or not you made 

a mistake—or even worse, they’ll tamper with your memory when you leave 
Gendival, so that you won’t remember me and Veldan, and you’ll forget that 
you were even here.” 
Toulac gasped. This was something she hadn’t considered. How could she 
bear to have the memories of the last few days stripped away from her and 
return to being the bitter, unhappy, spent old woman eking out the last of her 
days in the sawmill? 
The firedrake turned his head back to look at her. “If it’s just Blade that’s the 
problem, you needn’t be worrying about him.” His tongue lolled out in a 
firedrake grin. “If he gives you any trouble, I’ll fry the bastard.” 
Toulac couldn’t help but smile. “Why, thank you, Kaz. I might just take you 
up on that.” 
She hadn’t noticed that she was using mind-speech until the firedrake’s head 
came up sharply and turned to her once more. “Toulac, you did it again! I 
heard that! That settles it. You can’t go now. You belong here, with the 
Shadowleague.” His eyes glittered. “And if I hear any more nonsense about 
going away and leaving us, I’ll fry you. I haven’t eaten a human for a while.” 
Toulac’s eyes grew wide. “You never!” 
Kaz glanced back and grinned again. “One of Blade’s guards, at your 
sawmill,” he told her. “So there.” 
“Well, I wouldn’t bother eating me,” Toulac retorted, trying her best not to 
be shocked—or at least, not to show it. “I’d be far too tough and stringy.” 
A wisp of smoke drifted out from between the firedrake’s jaws. “Not when 
you’d been cooked!‘ 
At that point, Toulac suddenly realized that this entire conversation had been 
conducted in mind-speech. Kaz had—deliberately, she suspected—distracted 
her from the fact that she’d been answering him quite naturally. 
I can do it! I could do it all the time. I only have problems sending my 
thoughts out when I try too hard, but I can work on that. Can I really leave 
now? Can I just return to Callisiora, and turn my back on Veldan, and mindspeech, 
and all the adventures I would have with the Shadowleague? How 
can I let that accursed Blade take all of this away from me? Why should I? 
But I told Veldan in no uncertain terms that I won’t stay where Blade is. 
How can I back down now without looking stupid and pathetic? 
Toulac, still wavering, changed her mind back and forth several times before 
the end of the ride, and Kaz, having made his point, left her alone to do so. 
He must have been talking to Veldan, however, because every now and then 
she was sure she saw the girl glancing back at her surreptitiously. 
After a while, they reached the lane that led off to the neat stables of the 
Shadowleague, with a number of horses, who made Toulac think sadly of 
Mazal, grazing peacefully in the fields round about. Ailie was plainly 
anxious to be getting back to the inn—preferably with Zavahl—and Veldan 
offered to save them time by taking their horses back to Harral. “I’ll take the 

others, too, if you like,” she said. “On Kaz, I’ll get back just as quickly as 
the rest of you.” Elion accepted her offer with alacrity but said that he would 
stay with the firedrake. Toulac wondered why he seemed so reluctant to go 
into the stables. 
In the meantime, the veteran had decided that her own best course was to 
postpone her decision. When they dismounted, she went to Veldan. “All 
right,” she said. “I’ll do what you want. I won’t leave tonight, after all. I’ll 
wait until tomorrow to decide what I want to do, once I’ve had a chance to 
talk to that miserable, flint-hearted son of a bitch. But I’m staying at the inn, 
mind you,” she added, determined to be independent to the last. She didn’t 
want Veldan to spend the whole night persuading her to stay. “Will that suit 
you, girlie?” 
Veldan smiled. “It’ll suit me very well, Toulac, and I think it’ll suit you, too. 
I told Cergorn, I told Amaurn, and I’m telling you—you were born to be 
here.” 
“In that case, the fates left it a bit bloody late to bring me here,” the veteran 
grumbled, but she found it impossible to keep the grin from her face. 
“In that case, you’d better stop wasting time, hadn’t you?” Looking smug at 
having managed to get the last word for once, Veldan set off up the lane, 
almost being towed along by the horses, who scented their stable. 
Toulac knew just how the animals felt, and probably with better cause. The 
previous couple of nights, and the day between, had tired her out. She 
couldn’t wait to get back to the comfortable inn and put her feet up at last. 
As the little group walked back up to the village, however, she began to wish 
she had stayed with Veldan after all. Elion had stayed behind with Kaz, and 
with both him and Veldan gone, the closeness of the other two definitely 
made her feel superfluous. Clearly, they couldn’t wait to be alone—and that 
was fine with her. 
When they reached the inn, she left the two would-be lovers as quickly as 
possible. While they looked in the bar for Olsam, she searched out the 
kitchen, and took some bread, cheese, a jug of milk, and half a meat pie that 
happened to be lying around unattended. Clutching her booty, she went 
straight upstairs. Hearing voices, and the sounds of scraping and hammering 
from Zavahl’s room, she peeped in on her way past and saw the carpenters 
and masons at work on the damage that the flying drones had caused. She 
shuddered briefly at the memory of the horrible creatures—then grinned 
evilly to herself. 
Let’s hope that Ailie’s bedroom is nice and private and comfortable, because 
those two are going to need it. They’ll have a bit of a problem frolicking 
around in here, right now. 
Feeling a little smug, because Zavahl’s chamber had been wrecked while 
hers had been spared, she went straight on to her room, lured on by the siren 
call of her lovely, soft bed. It came as a nasty surprise, therefore, to find that 
there was already someone in it: a gangling adolescent boy who, by the look 
of his smeared face, had cried himself to sleep. Though she was sure she 

didn’t know him, there was a vaguely familiar cast to his features that 
reminded her of someone she knew. 
Toulac dumped her food on the table and planted her fists on her hips. 
“Well, of all the nerve! And who the bloody blazes are you, might I ask?” 
The boy opened his eyes, looked up at her, and blinked. “I’m Scall,” he said. 
“Who are you?” 
CHAPTER 24 
The Bargain 
Dark had never known anything like Maskulu’s underground lair. The black 
tunnels seemed all the more constricting after the open skies and far horizons 
of his moorland home, and he felt enclosed and trapped beneath the weight 
of earth and stone that surrounded him. With his heart beating fast, he 
walked beside the blind Loremaster, gingerly holding the luminous eggshaped 
object that Bailen had given to him, and which, apparently, was 
called a glim. At any other time, the Summoner would have been fascinated 
by the glowing object, but today his thoughts were firmly fixed elsewhere. 
Bailen carried the extra pack that had belonged to Grim, while Maskulu 
brought the captive Ak’Zahar by the simple expedient of hooking a claw into 
the ropes with which it was bound and dragging it along. If he hadn’t 
witnessed, at firsthand, the pitiless ferocity of the creature, Dark might 
almost have felt sorry for it as its narrow head banged repeatedly against the 
rough floor of the tunnel. As it was, however, he was far too worried about 
his own fate to spare much concern for something that had come so close to 
killing him. 
They walked through the twisting, branching passageways for what felt like 
a long time, though the Summoner suspected that his discomfort at being 
beneath the ground, combined with his trepidation at his coming interview 
with the Archimandrite, was causing the moments to seem about five times 
as long as they normally did. It came as a relief when the frightful-looking 
Senior Loremaster began to ask him, in great detail, about his capture of the 
Ak’Zahar. Telling the story of how he had come to be there, and explaining 
why he was accompanied by a predator that was anathema to the 
Shadowleague, helped him get his thoughts organized before he met 
Amaurn, and also helped to take his mind off the ordeal to come. 
Dark had reached the point in his tale where they had arrived at the village 
and left Scall at the inn, but had not yet reached the part where he and Kher 
had met the Afanc of the lake, when Maskulu interrupted him. “We have 

arrived. Keep your distance from the Archimandrite, and make no sudden 
moves toward him. Your life depends on that.” He squeezed through a 
roughly arched entrance, still dragging the Ak’Zahar behind him, and led the 
way into a chamber that, like the tunnels, had been hewn out of the solid 
rock. All at once, Dark felt relieved that, no matter what the result might be, 
his ordeal would soon be over. He straightened his spine and followed 
Maskulu into the chamber, with Bailen bringing up the rear. 
The appearance of the formidable Archimandrite was pretty much as he’d 
anticipated. Cropped grey hair, cold grey eyes, and a face that looked as 
though it had been hewn out of granite. What he had not expected, however, 
was to see this daunting figure lying prone on a quilt on the floor, being 
tended by a creature who looked like a very large, upright otter with paws 
like clever little hands, and a furry, round face. 
Despite the muted lighting that came from the glims, Dark’s eyes, 
accustomed to working in the dimly lit homes of the reivers, were still very 
keen. He could see that Amaurn’s clothes were bloody and there was an 
open gash on his side. The otterlike creature, presumably another 
Loremaster, was doing something with a short, narrow tube that gave forth a 
slender beam of very bright light. Judging from his grey pallor, his clenched 
jaw, and the sheen of sweat on his face, the procedure seemed to be causing 
Amaurn a good deal of pain. Curious, the Summoner took a step closer, only 
to be halted by a warning rattle from Maskulu. 
Amaurn looked up. He ought to have seemed less intimidating when he was 
lying on his back, in pain, but Dark, looking at that face, wasn’t fooled for a 
moment. 
He should have been the one called Grim, and not my master. 
Suddenly, Dark understood why his mentor had followed this man for so 
many years. If you tied him up in a sack, weighted it with rock, and dropped 
him in the lake, he’d still be a force to be reckoned with. 
The flint-grey eyes flashed. “Thank you for that assessment,” Amaurn said 
dryly. “I trust that you won’t feel tempted to try it out.” 
Embarrassment and anger flooded Dark’s face with heat as he realized that, 
in the stress of the moment, he had been forgetting to shield his private 
thoughts, and Amaurn had casually gone in and picked them from his mind. 
For a moment, he found himself wishing desperately for his mask of white 
bone, which could hide the expression—and the blushes—on his face. At 
some deep level, however, even the memory of the mask was enough to give 
him back the authority he had possessed as a Summoner. “I may have been 
unguarded,” he said sharply, “but what gave you the right to pry?” 
His brown eyes, hot with anger, met the Archimandrite’s cool, grey gaze. 
Neither man would look away, and the duel of wills might have continued 
interminably, if some action of the furry little Loremaster who was tending 
Amaurn had not caused him to flinch in pain, breaking the deadlock. 
When their eyes met again, his expression was a little less hard and cold. “I 

was intruding on your privacy because I thought it necessary,” he said to 
Dark. “As you can see, we are not meeting under the best of circumstances. 
What I’m about to tell you is not yet common knowledge among the 
Shadowleague, so I’ll require you to keep your mouth shut and your 
thoughts under control, young man. Earlier today, I was attacked by an 
assassin and barely got away with my life. Unfortunately, the killer also 
escaped. He is one of the Takuru—a shapeshifter who can take any form he 
pleases— even that of my oldest friend’s valued companion and assistant. So 
you can see why I must be very careful until my attacker is caught. That is 
why Kyrre is treating my wounds here in Maskulu’s home instead of the 
settlement. We don’t want word of my vulnerability getting around the 
Shadowleague in case it gives similar ideas to anyone else.” He gave a 
grimace that might have been more pain, or might have been a wry attempt 
at a smile. “So I don’t apologize for prying into your thoughts. I know now 
that you are who you say you are, and not some impostor.” 
His expression and voice became more gentle. “I am so very sorry about 
poor Grim. He was one of my best and oldest friends. He had looked 
forward for such a long time to returning to Gendival, and now he never 
will.” Amaurn looked away for a moment, before turning back to Dark with 
a smile that was genuine, if strained. “But his assistant is doubly welcome. I 
know he thought very highly of you and your abilities, Dark, and if you wish 
to stay here, I can use every loyal follower I can get...” 
Another spasm crossed his face. “Will you put that bloody thing down, 
Kyrre! How in perdition am I supposed to have a conversation while you’re 
searing my flesh off with that damned contraption?” 
“Suit yourself, my Lord Archimandrite.” The mind-speech of the healer had 
a distinctly feminine tone. “But you know that the longer I put off using the 
sealer, the more difficult the wound will be to repair—especially if you keep 
moving about and trying to sit up as you are doing. I did warn you that there 
would be a good deal of pain, but you wouldn’t let me put you to sleep.” 
Dark wrestled with his own diffidence for a moment, wondering if he dared 
speak. But he had to prove himself worthy of becoming a Loremaster, and if, 
at the same time, he could help his mentor’s oldest friend, then he owed that 
much to Grim. He cleared his throat and spoke. “Sir, maybe I can help you 
with that wound.” 
“You can help?” Amaurn, clearly still in a good deal of pain, glared at him in 
some irritation. “I’m sure that Grim must have explained to you the history 
and background of the Shadowleague?” 
“Yes, he did, but...” 
“In that case, you must be aware that what we have here is medical 
equipment from a race whose knowledge and power was far superior to our 
own. Now what—no offense intended — can a wet-behind-the-ears shaman 
from a race of backward barbarians do to rival such a device as this?” 
Dark gritted his teeth. “Well, I can certainly put a stop to the pain without 
knocking you unconscious. Grim has been working for years on ways to 

extend the powers of mind-speech further, so that we can use our minds to 
affect the physiology of ourselves and others. We couldn’t do much for the 
reivers—shamans we may be, but the backward barbarians aren’t ready for 
what they would see as witchcraft. According to Grim, Cergorn’s restrictions 
forbade what we were doing, so we had no idea how far we could take our 
methods. But if you’d rather rely on the half-understood relics of a race long 
gone to dust, then be my guest. It’s your pain. You keep it if you’re so 
attached to it.” 
Amaurn’s mouth opened, then closed again. Clearly he hadn’t expected such 
a temeritous response from this newcomer. He rallied well, however. “What, 
exactly, would you want to do with these new techniques of yours? And how 
do you know they’ll work?” 
Dark smiled. “Now I can pick the thoughts from your head, Archimandrite. 
You’re thinking that if Grim invented these methods, they must be all 
right—but though you’re certain he could help you, you’re not at all sure 
that I won’t muck things up and damage you in some way.” He shrugged. 
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, there. In the end, only you can decide whether 
you trust me, or not.” 
The Archimandrite’s eyes grew hard. “Are you trying to say that I’m 
afraid?” 
“I’m saying that I understand your doubts,” Dark replied. “After your 
experience today with the assassin, you have every right to be cautious. I’ve 
come out of nowhere making some outrageous claims, you haven’t known 
me an hour, but I’m asking you to trust me.” He smiled wryly. “If I were in 
your shoes, I doubt that I would trust me.” 
“But you’re willing to stand by your claims, nonetheless?” 
Dark nodded. “I can take the pain away while your healer is using her 
device, and it’s possible that I can help you fight off infection and speed up 
the healing process to a certain extent. I may not be as experienced as Grim 
but, as his friend, you must know that he wasn’t the sort of man who’d keep 
secrets for secrecy’s sake. He taught me everything he knew about this sort 
of healing—at least, he taught me the theory,” he added truthfully. “Don’t 
forget that he didn’t have much chance to put his theories into practice, 
either.” 
There was a moment’s silence before Amaurn spoke again. “I appreciate 
your honesty, and I think that your apprenticeship with Grim left more of a 
mark on you than you realize. I can see a lot of him in you,” he said. “Very 
well, Dark, you’ve convinced me. Let’s give it a try.” 
“Amaurn, no! This is purest folly.” 
“Archimandrite, there is no justification for taking this sort of risk.” 
Both Maskulu and Kyrre had spoken at once, but Amaurn waved away their 
protests. “Let him try,” he said, and turned back to Dark. “Deal with the pain 
first,” he said. “If that works, then you’re at liberty to try anything else you 
feel appropriate.” 

Dark swallowed hard, aware of the responsibility that the Archimandrite was 
placing on him. Then, unbidden, the face of the young boy whose life he had 
helped to end came into his mind, and with it, understanding, and 
acceptance. Though he’d had no chance to save the child, the lessons he had 
learned that day, and the experience he had gained, would help him now. In 
his mind, he heard Grim’s voice: “I have every faith in you.” 
And he knew that he had every faith in himself. “Right,” he said, stepping 
forward. “Let’s get started.” 
The Summoner approached Amaurn cautiously, aware of the watchful 
Maskulu’s disapproving glare. He knelt, and was about to place his hand 
gently on the Archimandrite’s head when he noticed the healer Kyrre 
standing beside him, waiting to continue her own work. Dark could feel her 
interest, her doubts, and her hope. “Do you mind if I attune my thoughts to 
yours?” she asked him. “I won’t intrude, but I would like to see just what 
you’re doing. New methods of healing are important to us all.” 
“You’re very welcome to observe,” Dark told her. “I’m interested in your 
device, too. Maybe we’ll have a chance to discuss them both later. It would 
be good to talk with a more experienced healer.” 
“I would like that,” Kyrre said—and he knew that he was on his way to 
making a new friend. 
Gently, Dark laid his fingers on the Archimandrite’s forehead and probed 
with his thoughts into Amaurn’s mind—at least, that was what he planned to 
do. Instead, he came up against a blank grey wall, firm and obdurate, and as 
impenetrable as granite. Damn! 
Helping the reivers with this method was one thing, but working on telepaths 
who were trained in mind control was clearly going to carry a whole new set 
of complications. 
But maybe there’ll be benefits, too. It will be helpful if the patient can 
actually be taught to assist the healer. But that was a thought for later. “Sir,” 
he said patiently, 
“you’re shielding. You’re going to have to let me in, or I won’t be able to do 
anything at all.” 
Amaurn glared at him. “What do you mean? I am letting you in.” 
“No, I’m afraid you aren’t.” 
“Oh.” Amaurn looked slightly abashed. “Old habits die hard, I’m afraid. Try 
again, Dark, and I’ll do my best to be more accommodating.” 
Once more, the Summoner touched Amaurn’s forehead and let his thoughts 
sink into the other’s mind. This time, though the wall was still there, there 
was a narrow chink in it through which he could pass. Clearly, the 
Archimandrite wasn’t a man who believed in taking chances. Just as he had 
done with the dying reiver child, Dark located the centers that registered pain 
and blocked the impulses between the nerves in Amaurn’s side and the 
receptors in his brain. He nodded to Kyrre, and spoke aloud in stilted tones, 

because he was keeping all his concentration focused on Amaurn. “You can 
carry on now, and seal the wound properly. He won’t feel a thing.” 
I hope. 
Dark was just as interested in Kyrre’s sealer as she had been in his mental 
techniques. He watched with fascination as the searing beam from the 
narrow tube fused the layers of injured muscle, and finally the flesh itself, 
leaving a dark brown scar behind. Amaurn lay quietly and let them get on 
with their ministrations. His eyes were wary, but it was clear that he was in 
no discomfort. 
“What in perdition are you doing?” 
The voice was feminine, but Dark, fighting to keep his concentration, was 
too preoccupied to look up and see who had spoken. He saw Amaurn’s face 
light up, however, in a way that made him look like an entirely different 
human being. “Veldan!” the Archimandrite said. “I’m glad you’re back. And 
Kazairl and Elion, too.” 
Someone knelt beside him, but Dark still did not dare take his eyes off 
Amaurn. The girl was saying something more, and he felt his concentration 
beginning to slip. “Will you all please shut up?” he said through clenched 
teeth. “Just for a few more minutes?” 
No one said anything further, but he was so closely linked to Amaurn’s mind 
that he was aware, at the edge of his attention, that a tightly shielded 
conversation was taking place in mind-speech between the Archimandrite 
and the girl. He could feel her eyes on him, and knew that Amaurn must be 
telling her all about him. Dark would have given a lot to know what they 
were saying, but told himself to mind his own concerns. He wished that 
Kyrre would hurry up and finish. While she was actually working on the 
wound and giving Amaurn so much pain, it wasn’t easy to maintain his 
block on the nerve centers, and so much concentration was giving him a 
headache. Besides, he was very curious about Blade’s new visitors. 
At last it was done, and he only needed to leave a mild block in place to dull 
any residual pain from the healing. He exited with relief from Amaurn’s 
mind and stretched his kinked spine. As he straightened, he met a pair of 
huge, grey eyes in an exquisite face. He didn’t realize that he was staring 
until she slapped him. It was so fast he didn’t even see it coming, and it 
almost knocked his head off his shoulders. It was only then that he gave any 
thought to the scar down the side of her face, and realized that she must have 
thought he was staring at that. 
This wasn’t going to be easy to get out of. If he denied looking at her 
disfigurement, it would only prove that he had been looking at it. And the 
longer he delayed, the worse trouble he’d be in. Dark’s mind raced. “I’m 
sorry I was staring,” he said. “It was very rude of me. But has no one ever 
told you that you have the most amazing eyes?” 
The amazing eyes narrowed suspiciously—but what could she say? If she 
accused him of staring at her scar, then she would be drawing attention to it. 

Suddenly, on a very private strand of thought, he heard a snicker. “Heh, heh. 
That’s confounded her. Nice one, stranger. I could get to like you.” 
The Summoner looked past the girl to see a large, dragonlike creature 
standing with a bearded, dark-haired man—and it definitely wasn’t the 
human who had spoken. 
In the meantime, the girl seemed to have gathered her wits. “In that case, I 
owe you an apology,” she said stiffly. He could tell from her tone that she 
didn’t believe him, but she was trying to put the best face she could on the 
entire matter. 
The Summoner had been peripherally aware that, during the entire exchange, 
Amaurn had been looking very closely from one to the other. Now, at last, 
he spoke. “Well-done, Dark. That was very impressive. I didn’t feel a thing. 
As I said before, you are truly Grim’s successor. He would be very proud of 
you, and you certainly belong in the Shadowleague.” He turned to the girl. 
“Veldan, would you do me a favor? Dark is new to us. Would you show him 
around and generally explain things to him?” 
“Why me?” the girl said bluntly. “Wouldn’t Elion be a better choice?” 
“No, I don’t think so,” the Archimandrite said mildly. “What do you think, 
Dark? Would you like Veldan to introduce you to the settlement of 
Gendival?” 
“I would like it very much,” the Summoner said. 
Amaurn smiled to himself. He had seen the way Dark was looking at the 
girl, and he had a strong feeling that her scar genuinely had been the last 
thing on his mind. 
“This should be an eye opener for Veldan. She’s so convinced that everyone 
is looking at that damned scar of hers that she’s losing out on the best parts 
of her life.” The words had come, in very private mind-speech, from Kazairl. 
The Archimandrite exchanged a conspiratorial look with the firedrake. “My 
thoughts exactly,” he said. “I don’t want to see her hiding behind her work 
as a Loremaster—she deserves more than that. Dark will be good for her.” 
The firedrake’s tongue lolled out in a firedrake grin. “You know,” he said, 
“for an evil despot, you’re not half-bad, sometimes.” 
Trying not to smirk, Amaurn turned back to Dark. “That’s settled, then,” he 
said. “Veldan will take care of you. Now, I had better introduce you 
properly. Dark, this is Loremaster Veldan, and her companions, Loremasters 
Elion and Kazairl. Kazairl is the one with the teeth and the tail. He’s a 
firedrake and Veldan’s partner.” He gestured to the Summoner. “And this is 
Dark, who was a reiver Summoner and the assistant of a very old friend of 
mine. He’s a new and very welcome addition to the Shadowleague. And 
speaking of new additions, how are the Dobarchu refugees faring, Veldan?” 

The Loremaster tore her attention away from Dark. “We sent them off to the 
infirmary for the time being. We were thinking about settling them in one of 
the buildings down near the lakeshore.” 
“They send their thanks to you,” Kyrre put in. “I’ve just been talking to 
Mrainil. I will go down and see them as soon as I’ve finished here.” 
At that moment, Maskulu interrupted. “The shapeshifter leader approaches. 
Shall I go and bring her down here?” 
“Please, Maskulu, if you would.” Amaurn turned to Dark and Veldan. 
“Would you two help me up? I can’t face the Takuru leader lying down like 
this.” 
Veldan looked at Kyrre. “It’s not what I’d advise,” the Dobarchu said, “but 
you can depend on it that he’ll get up anyway, so you might as well assist 
him. I don’t want to put any more strain on that wound than we can help.” 
Helped by Dark and Veldan, Amaurn struggled to his feet, swearing under 
his breath as pain stabbed through his side. “I thought you were supposed to 
be blocking this,” he complained to the Summoner. 
Dark looked unrepentant. “If I do, you won’t remember to take care of 
yourself and rest. If you start moving around too much, you’ll undo all of 
Kyrre’s good work.” 
The Archimandrite glared at him, and Veldan stifled a chuckle. Kaz, in the 
meantime, had moved up with the others, and now took up station at 
Amaurn’s side as an additional—and very menacing—bodyguard. Elion, 
too, closed the distance between them. Though he leaned against the cavern 
wall in the attitude of a casual observer, his hand hovered close to the hilt of 
his sword. Amaurn was grateful for their support. Only now, was he 
beginning to realize how lonely those bitter years in Callisiora had been. 
At that moment, the Takuru leader entered, with the Senior Loremaster, 
bristling with disapproval, looming threateningly at her side. She had taken 
the guise of a silver-haired woman, robed in white, and tall and regal in 
bearing. Halfway across the floor, she was halted by a warning rumble from 
Maskulu. Stopping immediately, she inclined her head to Amaurn. “I am 
Kalevala, leader of the Takuru.” She spoke pleasantly, but her eyes were 
wary. “I am pleased to greet the new Archimandrite. How may my people be 
of service?” 
Amaurn gave her a long, level look. “The question is, how can the new 
Archimandrite be of service to your people?” 
Even though she was wearing a form different from her own, she could not 
hide her astonishment. “What do you mean?” 
“Before we talk about that,” Amaurn said, “please feel free to take your true 
form. I’m sure you would feel much more at ease.” 
Again, he had caught her off-balance. “But... Are you sure?” she floundered. 
“I had thought to set you at your ease by taking this semblance. Frankly, 
many other races find our true forms repulsive.” 

“That sort of prejudice is exactly what I’m trying to change,” Amaurn said. 
“Please change shape, Kalevala. We are all friends here.” 
“Very well.” The Takur leader blurred and twisted as she morphed into her 
shadowy, ever-changing, many-limbed form, with the cold, white glittering 
eyes somewhere in the center. Beside him, Amaurn heard the sharp hiss of 
Dark’s intaken breath but, to give the young man credit, not a trace of shock 
or revulsion showed on his face. 
He’ll do very well. 
“Now that we’re comfortable,” Amaurn said to Kalevala, “I wish to discuss 
the position of the Takuru within the Shadowleague.” 
“We have no position in the Shadowleague,” the shapeshifter hissed. “We 
are outcasts, pariahs, tolerated only because we are occasionally useful.” 
The Archimandrite nodded. “Ah, yes,” he said smoothly. “Cergorn kept you 
as his spies, did he not? He graciously let you live in the most inhospitable 
area around the two lakes, and he would never allow you to become 
Loremasters. And with such token gestures he bought your loyalty, telling 
you that you could expect no better. Well, I intend to change all that—with 
your approval, of course. You certainly deserve a better life here than you’ve 
been having under Cergorn’s rule. And I’m going to see that you get it.” 
For an instant, there was stunned silence in the chamber. Amaurn could see 
that Maskulu was about to launch into a furious protest and gestured 
urgently for the Senior Loremaster to be quiet. Kaz was growling deep in his 
throat, Veldan was staring at him wide-eyed, and Elion’s mouth was hanging 
open. 
“If the reaction of your colleagues is anything to go by, you may experience 
more than a little opposition to your plan.” There was an edge of bitterness 
in the Takur’s voice. 
Amaurn shrugged, trying not to wince as pain stabbed once again through 
his side. “They’ll come round to the idea when I’ve explained a few things 
to them.” Suddenly, there was steel in his voice. “I’ll see to that. But really, 
all this fuss about shapeshifters is most unnecessary, and the Shadowleague 
ought to know better. I believe that there’s a simple solution to the problem. 
Apart from your somewhat—unconventional—appearance, most people fear 
and suspect the Takuru because you can conceal yourselves in their very 
midst. Meanwhile you, for the most part, conceal yourselves because you 
know you are unwelcome and reviled. And while you are living apart, as you 
do, people will always distrust you. Your people originally come from the 
Forest of Rakha, do you not?” 
“I—well, yes.” Kalevala was obviously confused by this sudden change of 
tack. 
Amaurn smiled. “Then you must feel desperately uncomfortable and 
exposed up on that bleak, rocky stretch of hillside above the Upper Lake that 
Cergorn was generous enough to allot you.” 
“You are quite correct. My people are miserable there.” 

“If you are forest dwellers, would I be right in assuming that you are mainly 
arboreal by nature?” 
The Takur’s amorphous, shifting forms blurred even faster. “Clearly you 
have been doing some research, Archimandrite. I am assuming that you 
already know the answer to that question. What is your point?” 
“I am inviting the Takuru to come and make their homes with the rest of us, 
Kalevala. As far as I know, you are the only truly arboreal species within the 
Shadowleague, and the slopes above the settlement are covered in oak 
woods. You wouldn’t need to compete with the rest of us for space to build 
your homes. All the treetops will be yours.” He paused. “Furthermore, I 
would like you to submit any candidates from among you who wish to train 
as Loremasters, and take their proper places among us.” 
The Takur leader sank to the ground, clearly overcome. In the dark, shifting 
mass of her body, the clustered eyes were glowing. She soon recovered 
herself, however. “Your offer is generous beyond belief, Amaurn. But what 
is it that you want from us in return?” 
“I want the Takuru to use their true shapes within the settlement and the 
surrounding area,” he said. “People suspect you just now because they don’t 
know where you might be lurking in concealment. I want to remove that fear 
by removing your disguises—and the need for them. You say that people are 
revolted by you, but there are many other creatures in the Shadowleague 
who are also terrifying in appearance. Maskulu is an excellent case in point. 
And what of the Afanc? And the Alvai? People don’t bother about them 
because they’re so familiar and, if they saw you around all the time, people 
would soon get used to the way you look.” 
“Is that all?” Kalevala asked suspiciously. 
“Not quite. I’m sure you’re very well aware that Syvilda sent a Takur 
assassin against me.” 
“Yes,” she admitted. “Though I’m sure you are well aware that I did not 
sanction Vifang’s actions.” 
“Indeed. And that’s why we’re having this conversation now. I want to make 
one exception to the Takuru taking on other shapes within the settlement. By 
sending that assassin against me, Syvilda has sealed the fate of herself and 
Cergorn. As soon as he is sufficiently recovered to travel, they both will 
have their memories wiped of any vestige of the Shadowleague, and they 
will be sent back to the islands of their people. In the meantime, I want some 
of your people to shadow them constantly, without their knowing, to make 
sure that they don’t plot anything else against me.” 
“You’ll exile them?” Kalevala sounded surprised. “Is that all? I thought for 
sure that you’d execute Syvilda, at least, when you found out.” 
Amaurn shook his head. “Cergorn was the one who was keen on 
executions—as I have reason to remember all too well. I would rather not 
emulate his mistakes, but I’m not exactly acting out of the goodness of my 
heart. If I execute the former Archimandrite and his lifemate, then I’ll 

permanently destroy any chance I might have of winning over their 
supporters. A seeming act of generosity, however, might just make some 
people think twice. And if I wipe Cergorn’s and Syvilda’s minds, at least I 
won’t have to be looking over my shoulder every minute.” 
The Takur’s eyes glittered. “So you want us to act as your spies? As we did 
for Cergorn? Despite all your fine talk, you only want to use us as he did!” 
“I don’t intend to make a habit of it. This is a special case, however. And if 
you or your people feel any conflict of loyalties about this, you should be 
aware that you’ll be saving the lives of Cergorn and Syvilda by preventing 
them from making any further moves against me. Because if they try 
anything else, I will execute them.” 
The shapeshifter leader considered—but only for a moment. “Very well,” 
she said “On behalf of my people, I accept your terms, and...” 
“Just a moment,” Amaurn said. “There’s just one more small condition. I 
want the head of the assassin who attacked me today.” 
Kalevala sighed. “I thought as much. You do realize that if you do this, 
particularly if you spare the life of Syvilda, who commissioned the 
assassination in the first place, you will make further enemies among the 
Takuru? My people will be outraged at such injustice, and I’m sure you 
don’t want to be worrying about any shapeshifters with grudges at this 
point.” 
Amaurn scowled. “He damn nearly killed me. Are you saying I should just 
overlook that?” 
“I did not say so,” Kalevala replied. “As a mark of gratitude for your 
generosity today, I will take care of your assassin. Vifang will never trouble 
you again, Amaurn. You have my word on it.” 
“Thank you, Kalevala. I appreciate your help in this matter more than I can 
say.” The Archimandrite inclined his head to her in a gesture of respect. “I 
hope that you’ll let me have the night to rest my injuries before I break this 
happy news to the rest of the Shadowleague? I won’t deny that getting them 
to accept these changes is going to take some fast talking on my part. I’ll call 
a meeting in the morning if you will wait until then to tell your people what 
we’re planning.” 
“That seems reasonable.” For the first time, there was humor in the 
shapeshifter’s tones. “I suspect that I will have an easier time of it than you, 
Archimandrite. I wish you luck.” 
Amaurn smiled thinly. “I’ll deal with any objectors, don’t worry. Between 
us, we’ll make this work, and I look forward to all sorts of benefits for both 
sides once the Takuru have been integrated fully into the Shadowleague.” 
“Indeed. And with such a good beginning from a new leader, I think we can 
all look to the future with renewed confidence.” 
When Kalevala had gone, Veldan let out her breath in a long sigh. “Well!” 
she said. “Now there’s something you don’t see every day. After your reign, 

Amaurn, the Shadowleague will never be the same again.” 
“It was certainly an inspired method of getting rid of your assassin,” 
Maskulu said doubtfully, “but how are you going to convince the 
Shadowleague that it’s a good idea to have the Takuru living among them?” 
“Oh, I’ll just point out to them the basic fairness of my plan, and its longterm 
advantages to the Shadowleague as a whole,” Amaurn said airily. “And 
if that fails, I’ll remind them in no uncertain terms that I’m not asking them 
if this new arrangement should exist. I’m telling them that it will” 
CHAPTER 25 
Horse Sense 
In the meantime, back at the inn, Toulac was regarding the interloper 
balefully. “I’m the person whose bed you’re sleeping in.” 
“But I’m not—I mean it’s not,” the boy protested. 
“What?” 
“It’s not your bed. It’s mine.” The boy sat looking at her warily. “That 
man—the innkeeper—put me in this room and told me I had to stay here.” 
His voice took on a note of complaint. “He said he would bring me 
something to eat, but he never did. And I’m starving.” 
By now, Toulac had recognized the accent. “You’re from Tiarond, aren’t 
you?” 
The boy nodded, looking so utterly wretched that Toulac felt sorry for him. 
“What did you say your name was, again?” she asked. 
“Scall.” 
“And what in the name of all that’s holy are you doing herd” 
“It wasn’t my fault!” he blurted. “I didn’t want to come here. He made me!” 
“Who made you?” 
“The Summoner... Dark. He put me on my horse and did something to me so 
I couldn’t move. It was horrible!” 
Toulac interrupted quickly, heading off what looked ominously like tears. 
He was an adolescent boy—if he wept in front of her now, he’d be so 
embarrassed that she wouldn’t get another word out of him. “Whoa, back up 
there. Summoners belong with the reivers. I thought you came from 
Tiarond.” 
“I did.” 

“Then how did you escape?” 
“It’s a long story,” Scall said. “It started when my aunt asked me to take the 
trader’s horses up to Mistress Toulac at the sawmill...” 
“Now just hold on a minute, sonny. I’m Toulac from the sawmill.” 
His eyes grew wide. “You are? But how did you get here?” 
“I am—and I’m also the one who is asking the questions right now. You’ll 
get your turn later, if you’re lucky. Why is it that I never saw a sign of you, 
or any horses? And who the bloody blazes is your aunt?” 
“Smithmaster Agella. I’m—at least I was—her apprentice.” 
Toulac smacked a hand against her forehead. “Agella! That’s it! I knew I 
recognized your face.” All at once, she realized that Scall’s story really was 
going to be a long one. With a last, regretful look at her comfortable bed, she 
crossed the room and built up the fire with an armful of logs, then patted one 
of the chairs beside the table. “Come on. You said you were hungry, didn’t 
you?” 
Scall didn’t need telling twice. He bounded out of bed and fell on the food 
like a starving wolf. Toulac pulled out a chair of her own, then grabbed her 
share of the meat pie before he could scoff the lot. “All right,” she said. 
“Let’s have your story. Start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out.” 
Scall’s tale held a number of surprises for Toulac, one of them being that he 
had met Elion. An amazing number of things had been happening on the 
mountain during her last couple of days in Callisiora, but the events that had 
happened to Scall since he left Tiarond with his companions were equally 
astonishing. 
Worst of all was the news that the winged marauders had left Tiarond and 
were spreading through the country. Almost as bad, however, were the 
tidings of Grim’s death. In her younger days, she had made a good living as 
a mercenary fighting for various factions of reivers against the others, and 
she had known Grim when he, too, had been young and vigorous—very 
vigorous, as she recalled. It had been years since she had seen him, but his 
loss hit her hard, nonetheless. Another of her old friends had gone on and 
left her, and the world was a poorer place for his passing. It was strange, she 
reflected, how such news had a way of changing one’s perspective. The loss 
of an old friend had suddenly brought home to her the value of her new ones. 
And I can’t leave them. How could I? 
She realized that her mind had wandered from Scall’s tale somewhere in the 
midst of his kidnapping, but a rising note of protest and outrage brought her 
attention back to him. He was talking about his arrival in the Gendival 
settlement and the loss of his beloved horse, which had been a gift from 
Elion. 
And they wouldn’t know that here, of course—or maybe the beast wasn’t 
really Elton’s to give away. 
Toulac the horsewoman could understand Scall’s misery. He had lost his 

home, his family, and his companions. Losing the little chestnut mare might 
not have seemed so dreadful in comparison to all the other terrible things 
that had happened to him in recent days, but clearly she had been a 
tremendous comfort to him, and now she had been taken away. 
Poor little bugger. It’s just not fair. And I’m not going to stand by and let it 
happen! 
“Listen,” she told Scall. “I’ve a friend who has a lot of influence with the 
man who’s running this place. I can’t make any promises, you understand, 
but I’ll have a word with her when I see her in the morning and get her to 
talk to the Archimandrite.” She smiled at him. “I reckon there’s a good 
chance of us getting your little Firefly back for you.” 
If only there was someone who could get Mazal back for me. 
The boy’s face lit up at her words. “Really? You mean it? This is 
wonderful—I can’t believe it. Thank goodness you were here.” 
Toulac noted that he was far too excited about his chestnut mare to give any 
further thought to how, or why she had come to be here. If she could do 
something about getting his precious horse back for him, that was all that 
mattered. Inevitably, her thoughts slipped back to Mazal. She could 
understand what Scall was going through. When she looked up again, she 
noted with dismay that his face had fallen once more. “Now what?” 
“How do I know they’re looking after her properly? What if she’s unhappy? 
What if she’s scared?” 
“Scall, that’s hardly likely,” the veteran pointed out. “If she came from here 
originally, then she’ll be in her own stable, among familiar people. She’ll be 
quite happy tonight.” 
“But what if she misses me? I always visit her in the evening. Tormon says 
that routine is very important to a horse.” 
Oh, blast Tormon to perdition! 
Toulac sighed. “Scall, if I take you to see your mare, and you assure yourself 
that she’s all right, will you shut up?” 
“Oh, Mistress Toulac, if you take me to see her, I’ll do anything you say.” 
“In that case, never, ever call me Mistress Toulac again, do you understand? 
Just plain Toulac will do. Now let’s get going—and Scall, you’ve got to 
keep quiet. Olsam will be shorthanded tonight, and Ailie is very preoccupied 
at present. If we can sneak out of here, then perhaps we might get back 
before anyone even notices we’ve gone.” 
Toulac lurked on the landing, peering through the banisters until the coast 
was clear. Then she beckoned to Scall to follow her, and they slipped out of 
the inn door with no one any the wiser. Dusk had fallen, and the villagers 
had all gone home for their evening meal. No one noticed the two fugitives 
as they crept along the deserted street. Once they were safely beyond the 
village, they hurried down the shadowy track by the river. Toulac was glad 
she had come that way earlier and discovered the whereabouts of the stables. 

She was even more glad that the path was illuminated by nets filled with 
glims that were suspended from the boughs of trees. 
When they reached the stables, the veteran pulled them down to lurk behind 
a hedge while she surveyed the place. Lamps still burned in the buildings, 
and folk were still moving to and fro as they settled the horses for the night. 
“We’ll have to wait for a while until everything’s quiet,” Toulac whispered. 
Time passed. Gradually, the stars came out overhead, and the lights in the 
stables began to go off, one by one. The evening held the chill of autumn, 
and the grass was soaked with dew. Toulac could feel Scall shivering beside 
her—in fact, sometimes, she could almost hear his teeth chattering—but he 
never once complained. Briefly, she toyed with the idea of letting him have 
her disreputable, fleece-lined coat, but common sense made her harden her 
heart. He was a damn sight younger than she was, he didn’t get rheumatism, 
and if anybody should catch a chill from their escapade, it would be better 
all round if it were he, because he had more resilience to fight off illness. 
Suddenly, a hideous shriek ripped through the darkness, as though someone 
were being tortured beyond all endurance. Scall jumped violently and clung 
to Toulac, panting and shivering in terror. “What... What... ?” His voice was 
a strangled squeak. 
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s only a barn owl—a big, white bird.” 
“Was something killing it?” 
She was glad that the darkness hid her smile. She had forgotten that Scall 
was a city boy, born and bred. “No, they always sound like that. Gives you 
quite a turn, coming out of the darkness, doesn’t it? Don’t get shocked if you 
see one— they fly absolutely silently, and they have huge, dark eyes that 
make them look like ghosts.” 
“I’m glad you warned me,” Scall whispered. “I hope Firefly is pleased to see 
me, after all this.” 
“She will be—don’t worry.” 
Finally, all was quiet, and Toulac judged that it was safe to go ahead. In the 
darkness, she poked Scall. “You remember our backup plan, if everything 
goes wrong? Don’t forget what I told you about being ready to run at a 
moment’s notice. If anyone comes, I’ll distract them, because I can get away 
with being out here, but you can’t. Go straight back to the inn, and don’t let 
anyone see you going inside. If they’ve found out that we were missing, and 
there’s any trouble, get Ailie and explain the whole thing to her. She’ll take 
care of you until I get back. All right?” 
“All right.” Scall sounded tense and excited. “Come on, then. And for pity’s 
sake, be quiet.” They moved silently around the perimeter of the field, with 
Toulac keeping low, and Scall copying her clumsily. As she went on, it 
occurred to the veteran that she could probably have done the whole thing 
legitimately by contacting Veldan and Elion in mind-speech, explaining the 
situation, and getting her to arrange permission for the boy to visit his horse. 
So why hadn’t she? 

Partly because she didn’t want to get into another conversation with the 
Loremasters tonight about whether she should stay or go, and partly because 
she was determined to show them—and Blade—that she was independent, 
and they couldn’t tell her what to do. The main reason, however, if she were 
being honest with herself, was because sneaking around after nightfall was 
so much fun. You daft old besom. Will you never grow up? 
Not if I can help it! 
When they reached the stable block and crept through the gate into the yard, 
a solitary light was burning in the tack room. A lone figure could be seen 
through the window, sitting at a table writing something, against the 
backdrop of a wall covered in pegs for saddles, bridles, and other bits of 
paraphernalia. Toulac approved of the way the place was run. There should 
always be someone around at night, in case one of the horses was taken ill or 
there was some other emergency. Of course, it didn’t make things any easier 
for people who were trying to sneak in, but she could cope with that. She 
was pleasantly surprised that there were no dogs around, but she knew that 
some horses didn’t like them. Mazal, for instance, couldn’t stand to have 
them anywhere near him, and had disposed of one or two in his time when 
they came within reach of his hooves. He had been bitten by a large dog 
when he was a foal, and had apparently been taking his revenge ever since. 
Scall gave her a dig with his elbow, and she realized, with some chagrin, that 
she had been letting her mind wander. Beckoning to him to follow, she slid 
around the yard, hugging the walls, until they reached the main door of the 
stables. Opening it only as far as she needed, she pushed the boy through, 
and hurried after him into the warm, horse-scented gloom. Only a little light 
came filtering through the windows, disguising the colors of the horses but, 
as they crept down the row of generous loose-boxes, Scall had no trouble 
recognizing his mare. She nickered happily as he went to her, and Toulac 
caught her breath in alarm. “Shush!” she said softly. “Keep her quiet, Scall.” 
The results were not what she had expected. As she spoke, absolute 
pandemonium broke out in the box at the far end of the row. There came a 
series of splintering crashes as a horse tried to kick its way through the door, 
and a loud, joyous whinnying that Toulac would have recognized anywhere. 
It couldn’t be possible, but... Her heart leapt. “Mazal,” she cried. “Oh, 
Mazal!” Then she was in the box, tears running down her face, her arms 
round the stallion’s neck as he nuzzled into her shoulder. 
The stable door slammed open, to reveal a stocky, square-jawed man 
carrying a pitchfork in one hand and a lantern. The sound of running feet in 
the yard outside revealed that he was not alone. “What the bloody blazes ... 
?” he gasped. “What are you doing with that horse?” 
“What are you doing with my horse?” 
Both of them spoke together. “So he’s yours,” the stableman said. “I can see 
that he is. You’re the first person who’s been able to get anywhere near him 
since he was brought in. I had to lock the dogs away, and he bit two of the 
grooms and kicked another one into the middle of next month. You don’t 

know how glad I am to see you. I had planned to run him with some of the 
mares, but it seemed as if he was going to be impossible to handle. You’ll be 
glad to see him safe, I reckon, a glorious beast like that. Er...” He hesitated. 
“Would you mind if I did run him with my mares? I bet his foals would be 
something to see, and it would be nice for you if his line was to go on.” 
“Of course I don’t mind,” Toulac said. “I’m sure the arrangement would suit 
everybody—especially Mazal. As long as I can have my pick of the foals, of 
course.” 
The stableman chuckled ruefully. “I thought you might say that. Still, it’s 
only fair.” From one horseman to another, they exchanged a conspiratorial 
smile, and the man held out his hand. “I’m Harral. These are my stables.” 
“I’m Toulac. It’s good to meet you.” 
A noise from the doorway made them both turn, and Toulac found herself 
the focus of a number of curious stares from the grooms who were gathered 
there. “It’s all right,” Harral said. “Nothing to worry about. You can all go 
back to bed.” She noticed that they all obeyed him without question. 
Harral smiled at her. “Now, where were we? Toulac, did you say your name 
was? Ah, yes. Now I remember. That was the name I was told. But who are 
you? You’re not one of the Loremasters, and I don’t recall seeing you in the 
village.” 
“I only just got here,” Toulac admitted. “I came from Callisiora with 
Loremaster Veldan. She said I had some talents that the Shadowleague could 
use.” 
“Did she, now?” The man’s bushy eyebrows went up. “That would be just 
like Loremaster Veldan, all right. It’s a good thing for you there’s been a 
change of Archimandrite, though, or my guess is that you’d both have been 
in trouble. Cergorn didn’t approve of bringing strangers here. You might be 
all right with Amaurn, though. He’s a lot more easygoing.” 
Toulac’s eyes opened wide. “He is? Are you sure we’re thinking about the 
same Amaurn? The one who just came from Callisiora?” 
“That’s him, all right. You don’t sound as if you like him much.” 
“I’ve never had much cause to.” 
“Really?” The bushy eyebrows lifted once more. “I’m surprised at that, 
considering he brought your horse back for you, and all.” 
The veteran gasped. “He did what?” 
“Didn’t you know?” 
“He brought Mazal here?” She couldn’t seem to take it in. 
“Rode it all the way himself—and I must say that he never had any 
problems.” He smiled. “Now that fellow’s a horseman, if ever I saw one. To 
the very bone.” 
Rage flooded through Toulac. “He stole Mazal? I don’t believe this! That 
son of a bitch has stolen my horse! Of all the bloody nerve! I told Veldan he 

was an unscrupulous, treacherous snake...” 
“No, no. Hold on a minute!” Harral had to shout to be heard. “Didn’t you 
hear me tell you? He brought it back for you.” 
Toulac’s tirade stopped abruptly. “For me? Don’t be daft! As if that nasty 
bugger would do anything for anyone but himself.” 
Harral put a hand on her shoulder, keeping a wary eye on Mazal as he did so. 
“Now, just calm down, and listen to me. I reckon you’ve got the wrong idea 
about our new Archimandrite. He struck me as a real gentleman. He brought 
the horse to me himself, early this morning, and told me to keep it for you. 
He gave me your name, and described you, and everything. Said your 
warhorse was a superb animal, and you’d be glad to have him back. He said 
to tell you thanks for the loan, and if you bred any foals from him, could he 
have one?” He chuckled. “With everybody wanting foals the way they do, I 
reckon that stallion of yours is going to be a busy lad. Still, I dare say he 
won’t object. I wouldn’t, if I were in his shoes.” 
“Blade—I mean Amaurn—brought Mazal all the way back here for roe?” 
Toulac was undergoing some difficult readjustments to her thinking. 
The stableman shrugged. “That’s what he said. Are you feeling all right?” 
“Yes, I’m fine.” With an effort, Toulac gathered her wits about her. As she 
realized that Mazal had truly come back to her, a huge, daft grin spread 
across her face. “I can’t believe this,” she said. “I thought I would never see 
him again.” 
“I know exactly how you feel.” Harral was smiling too. “You’re not the only 
one who got a precious horse back today—only mine was a mare. It was 
pretty much the same thing, though. Some gormless Loremaster had gone 
and lost her, and I had despaired of ever seeing her again.” 
Over his shoulder, Toulac saw Scall standing with his arms around Firefly’s 
neck. His expression was stricken, but his eyes were beseeching her to help. 
“Oh,” she said. “The little chestnut mare.” 
“How did you know about her?” the stableman asked in surprise. “And hey, 
who’s that boy there with her? You, lad! What do you think you’re doing 
with my horse?” 
“Harral,” Toulac said, “I can explain. But I need to have a private word with 
you. Urgently.” Putting an arm through his, she steered him out of the stable 
toward the tack room. 
As she passed Scall, she gave him a ferocious glare. “Stay there!” she hissed. 
She only hoped he would obey her. If he tried to run off with the mare—and 
she could understand why he would be tempted—they both would be in 
trouble, and there would be no salvaging the situation. 
All the way across the yard, Harral was trying to hang back. “But what about 
that boy?” he demanded. 
Toulac hurried him into the lamplit tack room. “Scall won’t hurt your 
precious mare,” she told him. “In fact, who do you think has been taking 

such excellent care of her while she’s been away?” 
“What? That young lad?” 
“Yes. And that’s what I need to talk to you about.” She sat down at the table. 
“You wouldn’t happen to have a drink handy, would you?” 
“I don’t hold with drinking around my horses,” Harral said sternly. “But 
there’s tea on the stove, if you’d like some.” 
“That’ll do just fine.” She yawned mightily. “It would be better, in fact. I’m 
desperate for a good night’s sleep. These last couple of days have been 
beyond belief.” 
Harral grinned as he put the thick, black tea down in front of her and sat 
down with his own cup. “Sounds like foaling time,” he said. “This should 
perk you up a bit. Now, tell me about this young lad, and what he has to do 
with my mare.” 
Toulac told him the story as she had heard it from the boy. “So you see,” she 
summed up, “Elion actually gave the animal to Scall and told him he could 
keep it. The poor lad thinks it’s his now, and if he hadn’t been brought here 
against his will, then you would probably never have known what had 
become of it. He’s already lost his home, and probably his family in the fall 
of Tiarond. Please don’t take his precious horse away from him as well.” 
Harral shook his head. “That’s all very well, Toulac, and I’m not saying I 
don’t sympathize with the lad, but the mare wasn’t Elion’s to give away. 
She’s one of the best I ever bred, and she’s the joy of my heart. I saw you 
with your warhorse—you know what I mean. I couldn’t believe my eyes 
when she came pelting back into my yard, all on her own, after that idiot 
Kher had gone and let her get scared by the Afanc. It was like a miracle.” 
He sighed. “What can I do? I’m sorry for the boy, but Kher told me what’s 
going on in Callisiora just now. There’s no way I’m letting him, or anyone 
else, take her back there to be eaten by those accursed Ak’Zahar. She’s 
staying here, where she’s safe.” 
“Well, I can understand that,” Toulac admitted. “But it’ll break Scall’s heart 
to lose her.” She thought for a moment. “Look, isn’t there some way the two 
of you could compromise? I mean, what do you want out of this whole 
affair? You want the mare safe with you, and you want her bloodline—her 
foals. Why don’t you let Scall stay here with her? He has a way with horses, 
and you must admit, he looked after her beautifully under some very 
difficult conditions. Surely you could find him work in your yard? Let him 
keep the mare on condition that she stays in Gendival, and work something 
out between you over her foals? You’d be getting a damn good worker, and 
let’s face it, there’s no future for the lad back in Callisiora. Don’t you think 
he deserves a chance?” 
Harral thought for a moment. “It might work,” he said. “I’m loath to let 
anybody else call that mare his own, but you’re right—it would be hard on 
the boy to lose her after that imbecile Elion actually gave her to him.” 
Toulac smiled. “Thank you, Harral. You’re a good man. You deserve all the 

foals that Mazal can get for you.” 
He grinned back at her. “Why do you think I’ve been so accommodating 
over this? I’ve got to stay on the right side of you, haven’t I?” 
“Come on,” said Toulac. “Let’s go and break the news to Scall. I can’t wait 
to see his face.” 
They were so pleased with their neat little plan that neither of them was 
prepared for the boy’s reaction. When they told him of Harral’s generous 
offer, his face became a mask of horror. “Stay here?” he gasped. “But I 
can’t!” 
Toulac suddenly remembered why she’d never had any children. “Myrial in 
a cesspit! Why the bloody blue blazes not?” she snapped. “What’s the matter 
with you, you stupid boy? You can’t possibly want to go back to Callisiora.” 
Why not? That’s exactly what you were planning. 
Toulac told her inner voice to shut up and took a different tack with Scall. 
“Come on,” she wheedled. “This would be a fine, safe place for you. You’d 
have your mare, and you could build yourself a decent future here.” 
Scall put his arms around the mare’s neck, his face twisted in anguish. “But 
what about my friends?” he said. “What about Tormon and Rochalla? I can’t 
just abandon them—especially now that the winged fiends have reached the 
reiver lands.” 
“Son,” Harral said gently, “your loyalty does you great credit, but maybe 
you shouldn’t be so hasty. After all, what difference could you make? You 
can’t fight the Ak’Zahar...” 
“I fought the one that Kher and the Summoner brought in,” the boy replied 
with great spirit. “If it weren’t for me, Dark would be dead now.” 
“Well, that’s as may be,” Harral said. “But you can’t fight them all, and what 
it comes down to is a choice. If you want to stay here, there’s a place for 
you, and welcome. If you choose to go back to Callisiora, you’re welcome to 
do that too, as long as the Archimandrite says you can. But if you do go 
back, you’ll go without the mare. I’m not letting her go away from here 
again, and that’s final. And if you want my opinion, you’d be insane to go 
back to a land that’s overrun with some of the most vicious creatures known 
to the Shadowleague. I’m sorry, lad, but you’ll have to decide. There’s a 
future for you here. There’s none in Callisiora. I’m sure your friends—if 
they really are your friends—would tell you the same thing.” 
“But...” Scall fell silent. Toulac felt sorry for him. She could understand 
what he was going through, since she was in a similar situation herself. She 
patted him on the shoulder. “You think about it, sonny. Don’t rush into 
anything— it’s a big decision. But think very carefully. You’ll never get a 
chance like this again.” And neither will I. 
CHAPTER 26 

An Unexpected Question 
The quarters of the chieftain’s son were a lot more luxurious than the rooms 
allotted to Seriema and her companions, and she frankly admitted to herself 
that she was enjoying the pampering. Cetain, trying to make amends for his 
father’s earlier behavior, had invited her to dine with him and, guilty as she 
had felt about abandoning Tormon and Rochalla when they were so worried 
about Scall, she had decided that there was nothing additional she could 
contribute and that the two who had been closest to the boy were better off 
keeping one another company. She would be better off with Cetain—and, if 
she needed to salve her conscience, she could always talk to the chieftain’s 
son about riding out with another search party in the morning. 
Seriema soon decided that she’d made the right decision. Cetain had been 
most welcoming. He had given her mulled wine to drink, which was 
especially good after her long, cold ride earlier that day. Furthermore, she 
knew that she could look forward to a far better supper than the scraps that 
Rochalla had been able to scrounge from the reiver kitchens. Soon the two of 
them were seated in deep, comfortable chairs on either side of a roaring 
blaze, talking, thinking, and soaking up the warmth, and Seriema would 
never have believed that she could feel so at home and so comfortable in the 
company of a man—especially one she had known for such a short time. 
There was a definite masculine ambience about the chamber, which was 
cosy but uncluttered. A table beneath the window was covered in a neat and 
businesslike array of leather-bound books, parchment scrolls, and paper 
written over in a dashing, sprawling hand. “What are you studying?” 
Seriema asked, secretly impressed by the universal signs of scholarship. 
Warrior he might be, but clearly this was no thick-skulled barbarian. 
“I’m trying to find out a little more about the history of this land of ours, and 
the part the reivers have played in it,” Cetain told her. “It was Grim who got 
me into it—he taught me to read, and write, and study, and a whole lot more 
besides.” 
When he spoke of the Summoner, his expression became still and 
preoccupied, and Seriema, recognizing pain when she saw it, reached out 
and touched his arm. “It must have been a dreadful shock for you, to come 
back to the news that he’d been killed.” 
“It was. I still can barely take it in. He was one of the best, and kindest men 
I’ve ever known—though I had to make him a solemn promise not to spread 
that around. I was lucky that he spotted the one child from Arcan’s brood 
with an inquiring mind and took me under his wing—though my parents 
were never very keen on the whole business. Until Grim took Dark as an 
apprentice, I think my father worried that he might select me. He would 

never admit it, but his relationship with the Summoners still has that edge of 
superstition, the same as everyone else. I know most folk were afraid of 
Grim, but that stemmed from ignorance, mostly, and tradition. You know, 
mothers warning their children that if they were bad the Summoner would 
come and get them.” He smiled wryly. “Of course, my mother never had to 
do that. The threat of telling our father was always enough to scare us into 
obedience.” 
“Yet clearly Arcan liked Grim,” Seriema said. “Though he was trying to 
conceal it, he was very upset about his death.” 
“I’m sorry about the way my father acted toward you,” Cetain said. “I think 
it comes of the clans all being so tightly knit, each one against all the rest. 
When something bad happens, his instinct is to close ranks against 
outsiders.” 
She sighed. “I know. I got the distinct feeling we weren’t welcome here 
anymore.” 
“As far as I’m concerned, you are.” Cetain smiled, and gave her a very direct 
look. 
Seriema, though far from displeased, wasn’t used to having a man regard her 
in that way. Awkward and embarrassed, she scrambled to her feet. “I just 
remembered. There’s something I have to tell Tormon ...” 
“Not so fast, lass.” Cetain leapt up and put his arms around her. “Whatever it 
is, you can tell him later.” Then, giving her no chance to escape, he kissed 
her. 
Seriema froze in his arms. “Why did you do that?” she said suspiciously. 
“There are lots of younger, prettier girls in the fortress. Why choose me?” 
Cetain showed no sign of letting her go. “Because I want to kiss you every 
time I see you, but I can never seem to get you alone. Because the girls in 
this fortress are fine lasses, to be sure; but none of them can hold a candle to 
you, with your strong, proud spirit. Because I want to wed you, if you’ll 
have me.” He took a deep breath. “I want you to be quite certain that, though 
I’m moving very quickly here, and I’ve probably taken you by surprise, I’m 
absolutely serious.” He leaned down and kissed her again, then gave her a 
wicked smile. “And because I’ve been longing to get you into my bed ever 
since I first set eyes on you.” 
“What?” It was hardly the most graceful of responses, but Seriema was 
reeling with shock. She absolutely couldn’t believe what she had heard. 
“That’s not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.” Cetain spoke in injured 
tones. “Which word are you having the most trouble with? ‘Bed,’ or ‘wed’? 
Or is it both? Is the merchant queen of Tiarond too grand for the younger 
son of a brigand chieftain?” 
“What?” She couldn’t seem to get beyond that word. “I’m not, I mean, I 
don’t, I... Oh, blast you, Cetain! Stop playing games with me! You’ve had 
your little joke at the expense of a plain old maid, but it’s gone far enough.” 
Her vision shimmered with tears. Cursing herself for a fool, she tore herself 

out of his grasp, dragged a sleeve across her face, and made a dash toward 
the door. 
Somehow, he got there before her, and captured her in his arms again. 
“Whoa! Just hold on there, you daft woman.” He held her tightly, so that she 
had no choice but to look at him. “Now, I don’t know whether it’s true about 
you being a maid—though I plan to find out before very much longer...” 
Again, there was that white flash of a grin. “But don’t you ever let me hear 
you describing yourself as plain and old again. Do you hear me?” 
“Well, I’m older than you,” Seriema muttered. “Not by much, you’re not.” 
Leaning down, he kissed her forehead. “You know what I think, lass? Those 
years of shouldering all your responsibilities as the head of a mercantile 
empire have made you feel old, long before your time. You did a truly 
remarkable job, and all the more so because you had to manage all alone, 
with no one to help you, or take care of you when you were tired, or sad, or 
at your wits’ end. I think you must have been very much alone for most of 
your life—but all that’s over now. If you stay with me, I’ll make damn sure 
that you’re never lonely again.” Seriema shook her head. “But why?” 
“Aaagh!” Letting go of her, Cetain waved his arms in frustration. “Because I 
love you, you irritating woman! I fell in love with you the very first day I 
saw you. There—I’ve said it What more do you want? Do I have to spell it 
out for you? Do I have to write it on the wall in blood?” 
“But...” 
“Oh, I’ve had enough of this.” Before she knew what was happening, he had 
swept her up in his arms, carried her across the room, and dumped her 
unceremoniously on the bed. “Right,” he said. “You won’t believe me when 
I tell you, so I’m going to show you. And what’s more, I’m going to keep on 
showing you until you do believe me—supposing we have to stay here for a 
month.” 
It didn’t take a month. Sometime during the next couple of hours, Seriema’s 
skepticism melted away in the face of Cetain’s determination. He didn’t 
push her or force her— but he wouldn’t let her get off the bed either. He lay 
beside her, holding her, talking to her, and kissing her, until she began to 
relax and respond to him. Though Seriema felt awkward, uncomfortable, and 
shy, he was patient and gentle. Eventually she came to trust him, and said 
goodbye to the old maid of Tiarond forever. 
Seriema awakened to find the grey light of early morning glinting through 
the cracks in the shutters. When she realized where she was, her eyes flew 
open in a mingling of amazement, delight, and dismay. How on earth could 
she have behaved in such a wanton fashion? And why hadn’t she thought of 
it years ago? 
Because the right man never came along, that’s why. 
But what if he wasn’t the right man? What if he hadn’t really meant what 

he’d said last night? She rolled over, to find an empty bed. 
Damn him—I knew it! 
She wanted to cry, but beneath it all was the empty satisfaction of having 
been right. Everything was back to normal. The only person she could really 
trust was herself. Then, just at that moment, the door swung inward, 
shouldered open by a half-dressed Cetain, who sidled in bearing a perilously 
tilting tray. He looked across at her and smiled.“! thought you might be 
hungry,” he said. “I seem to have worked up a tremendous appetite myself.” 
Though Seriema felt herself going very red, she couldn’t help bursting into 
an enormous grin. She felt ridiculously happy to see him. Not even the 
inevitable porridge, oatcakes, and cheese could put a damper on her spirits, 
and she didn’t crave her morning cup of tea as much as she normally did. It 
seemed, however, that she was not to get her breakfast yet. Cetain put the 
tray down on the table, and came to lie beside her on the bed, putting a 
possessive arm across her body and easing himself up on one elbow so he 
could look down into her eyes. “Well?” he asked her. “Have you slept on it? 
And what’s the answer?” 
She blinked at him. “Slept on what?” 
He sighed. “My question, of course. The one from last night, that you so 
conveniently dodged. Have you made up you mind yet? Will you be my 
lifemate?” 
Seriema gasped. “You mean, you meant it?” 
He smacked his palm against his forehead. “May the gods of heath and tarn 
preserve us! Of course I meant it.” 
“You did?” 
He drew back and glared at her. “You’re really pushing your luck, lass.” 
“Yes,” Seriema whispered, hardly able to get the word out around the lump 
in her throat. “I would love to be your lifemate. So get out of that, if you 
can.” 
Cetain let out an enormous whoop and crushed her in a hug that made her 
ribs creak. “I never want to get out of it for as long as I live.” He kissed her 
soundly. “Truly, I thought you never would say yes.” 
Seriema laughed and used a corner of the blanket to wipe tears of happiness 
from her eyes. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “When Tiarond fell, I thought 
I’d lost everything. I didn’t realize then what a fortune was waiting for me, 
just around the corner.” 
“There, now, lass—you’ll have me blushing in a moment. Do you want 
some breakfast?” 
“I’m absolutely starving,” she admitted. “Even cold porridge is starting to 
look pretty good right now.” 
Cetain tucked the blanket around her shoulders. “I’ll put some more wood 
on the fire, before you freeze.” 

They didn’t linger over breakfast—it wasn’t the most delicious meal in the 
world, and the room really was too cold for sitting around in a state of 
undress. When they had finished, Cetain took her hand. “Well, lass? Shall 
we go and break the good news to my mother and father?” 
“Let’s hope I won’t come as a terrible disappointment to them,” Seriema 
said doubtfully. Suddenly, she felt terribly nervous. 
“You won’t.” Cetain looked sheepish. “I, er ... I already took the liberty of 
mentioning my plans to my family. When I was talking to my father 
yesterday, I had already made up my mind to ask you and I was thinking 
about it so much that it—it just came out. So they knew, you see, what I was 
going to do.” 
Seriema gaped at him. “You already told them? What if I’d said no?” 
“Well, in that case, I would need all the sympathy I could get.” 
“And they didn’t mind?” 
He shrugged. “Well, there was a bit of grumbling at first about our reiver 
girls not being good enough—you know the sort of thing. So I reminded 
them that if I hadn’t fixed on one of our own lasses by now, it wasn’t likely 
that I would, so my only option would be to look to another clan. You’d be 
astonished at how fast they changed their minds at that point. My father said 
that, as far as he was concerned, you had already proved yourself to be one 
of us when you rode out with me and my men, and my mother decided that 
you still were the heir to a great fortune, if Tiarond should somehow be 
resurrected, and that would all be to the benefit of the clan.” 
“Huh,” Seriema snorted. “I hope she’s not holding her breath. But as long as 
they’re both happy, they can think what they like.” 
Cetain smiled and let out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you don’t mind,” he said. 
“Shall we go and tell them now?” 
“Wait,” Seriema protested. “At least let me wash, first.” 
“Of course.” He kissed her again. “Who would have believed that you’d 
really be a maid? Well, it’s said that the men of Tiarond have too much 
between their ears, and naught between their legs! Though personally, I’d 
have said that they had naught between their ears either, to have let you pass 
them by. I really am most uncommonly pleased with myself, to have come 
by such a treasure.” 
Such was Seriema’s awkwardness with men that she still was unsure 
whether he wasn’t having some dreadful joke at her expense. Nor was she 
used to discussing such intimate matters. Her face flaming, she fled behind 
the curtain to the area where he kept ewer and basin. Looking at herself in 
the polished silver mirror propped on a shelf, she still couldn’t believe that 
he could have chosen her. Her face was the same, plain, old maid’s face—or 
was it? She had to admit that the last few days had wrought some changes. 
All the riding in the fresh air had given her sallow cheeks some color, and 
her recent antics had brought brightness to her eyes and a glow to her entire 
demeanor that had never been there before. For once, she didn’t have a 

headache from poring over reports, inventories, and balance sheets, and her 
thick, dark brows weren’t all screwed up together. Her new habit of wearing 
her hair loose and unconfined had softened her heavy jaw, and was a better 
frame for the strong bone structure of her face. Happiness had somehow 
softened and relaxed her, and though she would never look pretty, she had 
certainly been transformed. 
Amazing. Everything’s still there, just as it ever was—but somehow, it all 
looks totally different. 
She began to wash herself, with much brisk splashing, in cold water. After a 
moment, a hand appeared around the edge of the curtain, holding a gently 
steaming kettle. “We wouldn’t want anything to freeze, now, would we?” 
said a cajoling voice. In spite of her blushes, Seriema burst out laughing. 
She had just finished dressing when there was a knock on the door. She 
recognized him as Lewic, Cetain’s older brother—so far the only one whom 
she had met. One of them, the next youngest to Cetain, had been killed the 
previous year when another clan had raided their cattle. Two of them, she 
knew, were not yet out of childhood, and the others were at various stages of 
adolescence, the oldest of the three being about the same age as Scall. 
Seriema hoped she’d get them sorted out eventually. 
Lewic, bearded and more burly than his brother, but with the same dark red 
hair, smiled at her. “Well?” he demanded of his brother. “Did she say yes?” 
Cetain put his arm around her shoulders. “She certainly did.” 
The bearded warrior let out a loud whoop, and hugged his brother, then 
Seriema. “Well-done, lass, and welcome to the family.” He winked at her. 
“And I owe you my thanks. The stakes were running high last night. I’ve just 
won myself a damn good sword from Attan, because you said yes.” 
Cetain, who had desperately been trying to hush his brother, groaned and 
buried his face in his hands. Seriema turned on him in a flash of anger. “Did 
you tell the whole bloody fortress about this?” 
He backed away from her. “Seriema, I didn’t. I swear!” He glared at his 
older brother. “I can guess who did, though.” 
Lewic only grinned, but she was too happy that morning to stay angry at 
him. “I just hope it was a damn good sword,” she said sweetly, “since you’re 
no doubt planning to give it to Cetain as a wedding present.” 
Cetain roared with laughter at his brother’s chagrin, and Lewic shook his 
head. “The reivers have always been known as a parcel of rogues,” he said. 
“I can see that you’ll fit in just fine.” 
“So what brings you here so early in the day?” Cetain asked. “Were you 
really so desperate to collect on your wager?” 
Lewic sobered. “I wish that was all,” he said. “I finally persuaded our father 
that Seriema would be on our side, and he, with his usual thoughtfulness and 
sensitivity, demanded that I bring the knife to her straight away, to see if she 
could identify it.” 

“What, now?” Cetain scowled. “Lewic, you can’t be serious!” 
His brother shrugged. “It wasn’t my idea. I’m sorry, both of you, for spoiling 
what should be such a happy time.” 
“It’s all right,” Seriema said quickly. “Grim’s murder was a dreadful thing, 
and I’m willing to help if I can. But why is Arcan so sure that the murder 
had something to do with us?” 
“Not you,” Cetain corrected her quickly. “You weren’t even there at the 
time. You were out on the moor with me.” 
Seriema waved that distinction aside. “Well, my friends, then.” 
“Did Tormon not tell you about the knife?” Lewic asked in some surprise. 
“Knife? No, he didn’t mention one, but Rochalla and Annas came back and 
interrupted us before we’d finished talking. What knife?” 
“It was found by Grim’s body, covered in blood. It’s not a reiver knife, 
Seriema. I’m sorry, but it came from Tiarond.” Lewic put a hand into the 
deep pocket of his jerkin. “I have it here.” He pulled out a cloth-wrapped 
bundle, handling it with some distaste, and handed it to her. With a similar 
feeling of revulsion, she took it from him and unwrapped it carefully. 
At the sight of the weapon, a chill went through Seriema. The haft and blade 
were encrusted in dried blood, but she would have recognized it anywhere. 
She had seen it in its owner’s hands on several occasions during the journey 
from Tiarond. The gruesome find trembled in her hands, and she looked at 
Cetain with eyes that were wide with dismay. “This belongs to Presvel,” she 
said softly. 
Quickly, Cetain took the knife from her, wrapping it in its doth again, for 
which Seriema was extremely grateful. She was glad to get the horrible thing 
out of her sight. Lewic poured her a cup of wine from the flagon on the 
table, and she took a swallow. “You’re absolutely sure?” he asked. 
She nodded. “He picked it up when we left Tiarond. It’s a Godsword knife. I 
have one, too. We armed ourselves from the Godsword guardhouse just 
before we left the plateau.” 
“But doesn’t that mean that you all have one?” Cetain asked with a frown. 
“And aren’t the Godsword weapons standard-issue?” 
Seriema shook her head. “Tormon didn’t take one at all. He already had a 
knife of his own. The rest of us did, but Presvel was a bit smug, because he 
had found an officer’s knife, while the rest of us had ordinary ones. It had 
silver banding round the handle—just like the one you have there. I 
happened to be with him when he found it, and he offered it to me—that’s 
how I know about it. I don’t think anyone else was around just then.” She 
sighed and took another sip of wine. “He seemed so pleased with it, I told 
him to keep it for himself.” 
“It’s just as well that you did,” Lewic said softly. “At least we can identify 
the murderer now.” 
“But how could it be Presvel?” Seriema cried. “He’s just a clerk, for 

Myrial’s sake! I was just saying to Tormon last night that he hardly knows 
one end of a knife from the other. In all his life he’s never done anything 
more violent than swat a fly! How did he come to this?” 
Cetain shook his head. “Who can say?” 
Seriema got up and began to pace. “If only I had spoken to him sooner. 
Maybe there would have been some way to head this off. I noticed—we all 
did—that he’d started to behave a bit strangely since we were forced to leave 
the city. He’s been spending a lot of time alone, and he has some kind of 
infatuation with Rochalla, though I don’t think she reciprocates—” She 
stopped, and frowned. “In fact, I think they must have known one another 
before all this happened, because it was Presvel who brought her into my 
house to take care of Annas when we thought she was an orphan.” 
She began to walk back and forth again. “You know, Grim’s murder might 
well have been a dreadful accident. Because of Presvel’s obsession, I think 
he had grudges against both the other men in our party...” 
“Scall?” Lewic’s eyebrows went up. “You call that youngster a man?” 
“He’s old enough,” Seriema said wryly, “and I happen to know that he and 
Rochalla have been seeing a bit of each other since we got here.” 
“Ah. That might explain a lot.” 
“It may have been that he was trying to kill Tormon or Scall, but somehow 
Grim got in the way,” she suggested. 
“But there can still be no excuse for him, lass,” Cetain said quietly. “Even if 
what you suggest is true, and it may well be, the intent to kill was still there. 
Whatever the true circumstances were surrounding Grim’s murder, they still 
point to Presvel being a very desperate and dangerous man.” 
Seriema stopped pacing and bit her lip. “There’s no help for it, is there? 
We’re going to have to go to Arcan with this information.” She paused, then 
spoke again in a very small voice. “What will they do with him?” 
Cetain put his arms around her, and held her close. “They’ll hang him. I’m 
sorry, lass.” 
The news was very hard to take. For years, Presvel had been her assistant, 
her shadow, her confidant, and, frankly, the nearest thing she’d had to a 
friend. Now, it seemed, the efficient, unassuming clerk had lost his sanity 
and turned into a murderer. Presvel would die a horrible death at the end of a 
rope—and it would be her evidence which would put that rope around his 
neck. 
For a few minutes Seriema let herself be comforted by her lifemate-to-be, 
then firmly, she pulled herself together. Slipping out of Cetain’s embrace, 
she walked to the fireplace, wiping away her tears as she went, and took 
another draught of her wine. When she turned back again, her eyes were dry, 
and her breathing steady. “Come on, then. There’s no point in putting this 
off. Let’s go and tell your father.” 

Presvel had it all worked out. In his plan to shift the blame for Grim’s 
murder to one of his companions, he had, after some thought, decided to 
implicate both Tormon and Rochalla. It was only fair. After she had betrayed 
him by running after Scall and the trader, she deserved whatever was coming 
to her. Besides, he’d discovered that she had taken Annas off to bed at more 
or less the same time as Scall had left the great hall, so chances were that she 
and Tormon had been together at the time of Grim’s death. If both of them 
did not appear to be guilty, then one could exonerate the other. 
And what had she been doing with Tormon when they were together? Had 
she been allowing the older man to put his hands on her, as she had with the 
boy? The slut deserved to bear the blame for this whole mess. Had it not 
been for her, none of it would have happened. 
The first thing that Presvel had done was to steal himself another weapon—a 
reiver knife, this time. Though the feel of it in his hand filled him with 
revulsion, he knew that it was best to be prepared. Secondly, he stole the 
Godsword knife that Rochalla had taken from the guardhouse. She had never 
really wanted it in the first place, and had never used it. He had taken it from 
the small bundle of oddments that were all her belongings, and with luck, 
she wouldn’t even notice it had gone. 
He had also managed to steal a jerkin and a shawl, respectively, from the 
selection of clothes that Tormon and Rochalla had managed to put together 
thanks to the charity of the reivers. A chicken, killed the previous night 
while it roosted, had provided the blood with which he had daubed the 
clothing and the knife so convincingly, though he still couldn’t believe how 
much harder it was to kill the fowl deliberately than it had been to kill the 
old man by accident. 
Now it was time for the next step of his plan. This morning he would take 
the weapon and the bloodstained garments to Seriema, say that he had found 
them hidden in Tormon’s room, and let her do the rest. Presvel wrapped the 
gory bundle in an old sack and went in search of her. 
At first he couldn’t believe it when he discovered that the Lady was with the 
chieftain’s son, and as for the gossip that was running through the fortress 
like wildfire— well, that was just impossible. On reflection, however, he 
decided that in the unlikely event that the rumors were true, then things 
might well work out for the best. This business of Cetain’s asking Seriema to 
be his lifemate had distracted everyone from the murder, and while the focus 
of their attention was elsewhere, Presvel’s story might be accepted much 
more easily. If he sought out Seriema right now, while she was with the 
chieftain’s son, then, whether she had said yes or no, they would both have 
their minds on other things, and Arcan would hear his version of events all 
the quicker. Moreover, a barbarian like that would surely be more inclined to 
take the objects at face value and not ask the awkward questions that might 
have occurred to the astute Seriema. 

Presvel paused outside Cetain’s door, his hand frozen in the act of knocking, 
as he heard the murmur of voices from within. His curiosity getting the 
better of him, he lowered his hand and put his ear to the door instead. 
When Presvel heard what they were saying, however, he almost stopped 
breathing, and his guts twisted in fear. Lewic, the chieftain’s oldest son, was 
there too. And he had the knife! That accursed reiver brigand was showing 
Seriema the knife. 
Will she recognize it? Oh please, Myrial, don’t let her identify it as mine! 
And if she does, please don’t let her say anything! 
For a moment, he dared to hope. Maybe it would be all right. Surely, after he 
had served her so well and so faithfully for so many years, she wouldn’t 
betray him out of hand, without giving him a chance to explain himself first. 
Then the floor seemed to fall away from under him as he heard her identify 
the weapon as his. 
Dropping his gory bundle, Presvel fled. There’d be no chance, now, for him 
to shift the blame. The time for subterfuge was past. When he reached the 
bottom of the staircase, however, and the more populated areas of the 
fortress, he had the sense to force himself to slow down and walk along as if 
everything was normal. It wasn’t easy. Though he knew it made no sense, he 
felt that every eye was on him. 
There hadn’t been enough time yet for Seriema and Cetain to go to Arcan 
with their information. He expected that they would want to talk things 
through a little, first. Despite the damning evidence of the knife, he hoped 
that Seriema would find it difficult to accept that he could do such a thing. 
I still find it very hard to believe, myself. 
It wouldn’t take them very long, though, to make up their minds. Soon they 
would go to the chieftain. He would have a brief respite while they talked to 
Arcan—then the hunt would be on. The hand of everyone in the place would 
be raised against him. Presvel’s mind raced, as he tried desperately to think 
of a way to save himself. Even if he fled the stronghold, Arcan’s men would 
pursue him in order to exact their vengeance. They knew these moors far 
better than he did, and they were far more accomplished horsemen. They 
would catch him easily and, he suspected, they wouldn’t even bother to 
bring him back to explain that it had all been a terrible accident. They would 
slaughter him then and there, and leave his body for the buzzards. 
You need a hostage. 
The calm inner voice of his intellect cut through the brute panic of the 
hunted animal and Presvel stopped in his tracks. Of course! Why hadn’t he 
thought of it sooner? If he had a hostage with him, how would they dare 
approach him? Shreds of a plan began to come together in his mind. He 
might even make it back to the city and hide in those tunnels that Scall had 
found. Surely he would be safe from the winged fiends down there? 
All that remained was the choice of his victim, but it took little thought to 
decide who he should take with him. 

Tormon’s child, of course. She was small, and weaker than he, so that he 
could capture her without much effort, and she could easily be cowed. 
Besides, it would be a perfect way to get back at that insufferable itinerant 
peddler and show him that city-bred Presvel was a force to be reckoned with 
after all. 
He knew that he would have to make his preparations quickly. Turning, he 
went down a different corridor, to the kitchens. During the previous day he 
had been too nervous to eat, so he was owed a substantial amount in the way 
of rations. He chose oatcakes, cheese, and cold meat, and wrapped them in a 
discarded apron when no one was looking. Then, moving quickly, he headed 
for the stables. Once there, he saddled both the animal he had ridden from 
Tiarond and one of the reiver horses. He had a vague idea, from something 
he had read, no doubt, that he would make much quicker time if he had a 
spare mount, so that he could change when one of them got tired. He hid his 
supplies in a pile of hay nearby, unaware that the man he’d killed had done 
the very same thing, and hurried back upstairs. 
A quick check assured him that Tormon was in the great hall, eating an early 
breakfast. That would mean that the brat would probably still be in bed. It 
was a real stroke of luck that her father wasn’t with her. Would Rochalla be 
minding her? If that was the case, there might just be a change of plan ... 
It had taken an age to get Annas off to sleep the previous night. Rochalla had 
been well on the way through her supply of stories before she realized that 
the child was playing her up because she wanted to be downstairs with her 
father, listening to the storyteller in the great hall. A brief battle of wills had 
followed, but the blond girl’s firmness had eventually prevailed. 
This morning, however, it was a different story, and Annas simply had not 
wanted to wake up. Rochalla had offered to watch the child so that Tormon 
could have breakfast, then go and see to the horses. Now that Scall had 
vanished, he was really missing the boy’s help, and needed to take extra time 
to do the additional work. 
Having managed to rouse her at last, Rochalla was helping the child to dress, 
to the accompaniment of the usual string of questions. It was hard to be 
patient and answer cheerfully. She felt very tired. Annas was a demanding 
bundle of energy, and took a lot of looking after. Part of the trouble, of 
course, was that she had still not adjusted to her mother’s death. The sudden 
disappearance of Scall, another member of her small, immediate circle, 
hadn’t helped, either. The poor little thing was very insecure, needing 
constant attention and reassurance—and stopping at nothing to make sure 
she got them. Hopefully, she would settle down with time. She deserved to 
be happy. She was a lovely child, with such a droll way of looking at the 
world that Rochalla often found it hard to hide her laughter. She didn’t feel 
like laughing today, however—not when she was worried sick about Scall. 
Until Annas had awakened, there had been nothing to distract her, and 

nothing to do but think, and fret, and worry about the gawky, gangling boy 
who had somehow, before she was aware of it, stumbled awkwardly into her 
heart. 
Poor Scall. Where are you now? Are you all right? Are you hurt? Are you ... 
The thought of his being dead was too horrible to contemplate. Yet Seriema 
had said that there were winged demons about on the moor, and Tormon had 
been unable to track the boy beyond the valley of the Curtain Walls. 
But he didn’t find any—remains—either. 
Rochalla clung to that thought, and hoped. She was tempted to pray, but 
remembered all the prayers she had wasted on her brothers and sisters when 
they were ill. After she had buried the last one, little Derla, she had railed 
against Myrial and vowed that she would never pray again, and she had seen 
or heard nothing since that would persuade her to change her mind. Indeed, 
if Myrial existed, then He had let Anna’s mother and Tormon’s beloved 
lifemate be murdered, too—and in front of the child’s eyes, at that. And 
what about all the hundreds of dead in Tiarond, actually slaughtered during a 
religious ceremony? How could Myrial have permitted such a thing? If He 
existed at all, Rochalla had no time for such a cruel deity. 
As she brushed Armas’s hair, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching 
along the stone-flagged passage. Rochalla wondered if Tormon could be 
coming back already. She hoped so. Then she could get off to her own room 
for some well-earned sleep—if she could sleep, when Scall was lost 
somewhere, out on the bleak moors. As the door opened, she turned toward 
it—and the welcoming smile dropped from her face. 
Presvel. Oh no—not now! I just can’t cope with him these days. 
She got to her feet. “What brings you here ...” The words died on her lips as 
he shouldered past her. He made a grab for Annas, and suddenly he had one 
hand across her mouth and a knife at her throat. Rochalla made an 
involuntary movement forward, and froze as the blade twitched against the 
child’s neck. 
“Don’t move—either of you,” Presvel said in a calm, almost conversational 
voice. “I know how much this brat means to you, Rochalla, and want to 
reassure you that I mean her no harm—unless, that is, you do something 
stupid like calling out, or trying to run away. Now, we’re going to take a 
little walk down to the stables. You’ll stay in front of me, in my sight the 
whole time. If you make one wrong move, or say one wrong word, Tormon 
will be short of a daughter as well as a lifemate. When we reach the stables 
we’re going for a little ride. I’m taking you back to Tiarond.” Rochalla 
gasped. The city? Presvel had been acting very strangely these last few days, 
but he must truly have lost his mind to propose such a thing! A chill ran 
through her. Such desperate behavior could only mean that he was the 
Summoner’s murderer—and a man who had killed once could kill again. 
“Presvel,” she said carefully, “I would love to go back to Tiarond with you. 
But what about the winged fiends?” 

“We’ll take our chances,” Presvel said shortly. “Now, move!” 
CHAPTER 27 
Revelations 
I he members of what Amaurn was coming to regard as his own little band 
of conspirators spent the night at Veldan’s house. The only exceptions were 
Kyrre, who had gone to spend some time with her own people; Maskulu 
who, with the best will in the world, wouldn’t fit inside; and Bailen, who 
wanted to visit his friend and fellow Listener Dessil, who was still 
recovering from being stung by a Dierkan on the night the dreadful creatures 
had raided the inn. 
The sleeping arrangements didn’t quite turn out as planned. Originally, 
Veldan had only offered Amaurn a bed at her house. Maskulu’s dark, dank 
dwelling was a sanctuary in times of trouble, but it was no place for a 
wounded man to recuperate. However, until word came back from Kalevala 
that the Takuru assassin had been neutralized, it was best if the Hierarch had 
a powerful bodyguard, and Kaz could fulfill that role. Furthermore, Amaurn 
had been missing from the settlement for hours. It was important that he be 
seen by the Shadowleague and make his presence felt. Veldan’s house was a 
much more central place from which to run things— though she had warned 
him not to get too comfortable. “Decide whether you want to build a new 
place or convert one of the existing ones,” she’d told him, “but whatever you 
decide, get the artisans from the village working on it as a matter of priority. 
The Hierarch needs his own dwelling. It’s the hub of his power. And 
besides, Kaz and I want you out from under our feet as soon as possible. I’m 
not having the entire Shadowleague trooping in and out of my home all day 
while you run your administration from my best armchair.” 
So it had been decided that Amaurn would go home with Veldan, and Elion 
would take Dark to stay with him for the night, as Ailie already had Zavahl, 
Toulac, and Scall at the inn, with one room out of commission as a result of 
the Dierkan attack. In the end, however, it hadn’t happened that way. Elion 
and the Summoner called in at Veldan’s house on the way back home, and 
that was as far as they got. 
On the way from Maskulu’s dwelling to that of Veldan and Kaz, the 
firedrake had taken Amaurn to the outskirts of the settlement on his back, 
then the new Hierarch had walked the rest of the way, with the surreptitious 
support of Elion and Veldan, who walked on either side of him, ostensibly 
deep in conversation but, in reality, ready to put out a helping hand if he 
should falter or stumble. 

In a community of telepaths, it was difficult to keep all emotions under 
control. Wherever he went, Amaurn caught spreading ripples of 
feelings—some disappointed and some relieved—to see him again. He 
hadn’t even been missing for a whole day, but clearly it hadn’t taken long 
for the rumors to start flying. Luckily, Maskulu had come along too, 
bringing with him Dark’s bound Ak’Zahar captive. Having given some 
thought to the young man’s notion of having a live foe to study, Amaurn had 
been very impressed. Grim’s apprentice, intelligent and unafraid of new 
ideas, was exactly die sort of new blood that was needed in the 
Shadowleague. And, of course, the appearance of such a dangerous predator 
in their midst, and Arnaurris instructions that a safe, and extremely secure, 
housing was to be designed and built for it at once, was enough to set 
tongues wagging with a vengeance, distracting everyone from the Hierarch’s 
mysterious disappearance. 
After her attempt on his life, Amaurn had contemplated having his 
unavoidable confrontation with Syvilda that night but, at the urging of Elion 
and Veldan, he had decided to put it off until the following morning—in 
fact, he was beginning to wonder if it would be necessary at all. Word of his 
return would soon be reaching her, and she would know that Vifang had 
failed. Furthermore, if the Takuru leader had been true to her word, 
Cergorn’s lifemate would never hear from her assassin again, and she would 
never get another—or not a shapeshifter, at any rate. In addition, Kalevala’s 
spies were already in position around her. She would not be able to make a 
move without Amaurn knowing of it immediately. He wondered how she 
would react when she discovered that her plots had come to naught, and 
allowed himself a cold, mirthless smile. 
The Takuru are mine, now. 
Amaurn’s triumph only lasted as far as Veldan’s house. When he crossed the 
threshold, his mind was flooded with memories of Aveole and, even after all 
this time, he was almost felled by the wrenching pain of her loss. He 
staggered, and Veldan and Elion closed in on either side to support him. 
“Come on,” Veldan said. “That walk has taken a lot out of you. You had 
better lie down for a while.” 
He turned, his footsteps unerringly taking him toward the door that led to the 
staircase, and Veldan looked at him with her eyebrows raised. “I see you’ve 
been here before.” 
“I—I used to come and visit your mother here.” Somehow, Amaurn could 
not bring himself to meet her eyes. To his relief, she didn’t comment, but led 
the way upstairs and opened another door off the landing. “There you are.” 
She gave him a penetrating look, but her tones were very neutral. “You 
should be comfortable here. It used to be my mother’s room. I don’t use it 
for myself, because I had another one built on the ground floor when I had 
the house remodeled, so that Kaz and I could sleep together. I keep this 
upper story for guests, now; otherwise, it doesn’t get used at all.” Veldan 
pushed open a familiar door, and within minutes Amaurn found himself in 

Aveole’s bed. Just then Elion came upstairs with a glass of water, and the 
two Loremasters closed the curtains and made sure that he was comfortable 
before they left, promising to be back with some tea and some hot food once 
they had got themselves organized. 
They might as well have strapped him to a rack. 
How well he knew this room! Some of the happiest times of his life had 
been spent here. And because Veldan didn’t use it for herself, she had never 
bothered to change the colors or the furnishings. Aveole’s presence was 
everywhere; so powerful that he was almost convinced he’d find her lying 
beside him if he only turned his head. But she would never come here again, 
except maybe as a restless spirit. All those years ago she had died, and he 
had not been with her. He had thought he’d been protecting her by not 
telling her his whereabouts when he had fled Cergorn’s death sentence. 
Following his brush with the assassin, however, when Maskulu had taken 
him to his dwelling and they had been waiting for Kyrre and Bailen to 
arrive, the Senior Loremaster had finally been persuaded to tell him what 
happened to Aveole once he had gone. Apparently her child had been 
conceived during their last, desperate meeting in the tower, the night she had 
helped him to escape. As the days passed into a month, then two, then three, 
without his getting word to her, she had finally begun to lose hope. 
Apparently, she had left the settlement before her pregnancy had begun to 
show, so that Cergorn couldn’t know for certain that her child had been 
fathered by Amaurn the renegade. For some time she vanished without a 
trace, and no one knew where she had been when she was found, dying of a 
fever, on the borders of Gendival, all alone save for a small child and a 
firedrake egg. 
Amaurn, however, knew exactly where Aveole had been. To have got the 
egg, she must have made the near-impossible journey, alone and pregnant, to 
the hidden lands of his people. She must have assumed that he’d gone back 
there. The thought of her fruitless journey tore his heart. 
Forgive me, Aveole! I always meant to get word to you when 
my position was secure, but I never thought it would take so long! I was too 
caught up in my own loss, my own bitterness, my own plans for revenge, to 
realize the anguish you must have been feeling, and the desperate courage it 
must have taken to go through your pregnancy, homeless and alone. If only I 
had sent for you—but I was afraid that through you, Cergorn would track 
me down. I loved you so much. How could I have been so thoughtless and 
selfish and cruel? If it weren’t for me, you might still be alive today. 
While he was in Callisiora. Amaurn had always managed to block out any 
thoughts of his beloved’s death because he couldn’t bear to believe that he 
would never see her again. Here, in her house, in her room, he accepted the 
truth at last and the part he had inadvertently played in her death. Burying 
his face in his hands, he wept scalding tears of anguish and remorse, 
mourning for the love that he had lost, and all the barren, wasted years that 
they might have spent together, in joy, if only Aveole had lived. 

When Elion went downstairs, Veldan hung back, and ducked into the other, 
smaller bedroom. She didn’t want to talk to Elion and Dark, or even her 
beloved Kaz, just yet. She had too much on her mind, and she needed a brief 
time alone, to think. Her suspicions about her relationship to the new 
Archimandrite, which had been growing for a while, were getting stronger. 
Amaurn seemed to like and trust her more, somehow, or in a different way, 
than he trusted her companions. If she wasn’t mistaken, he seemed to rely on 
her more. Yet the first time they had met, on the mountain above Tiarond, 
she had seen the naked shock, almost akin to fear, on his face. 
Just as if he had seen a ghost. 
And was she imagining things, or had she discerned an odd guardedness 
about Maskulu’s behavior when he saw them together; a feeling somewhere 
between speculation, interest, and a sort of wry humor? 
In addition, why did she feel so oddly drawn to Amaurn? 
Why was it that every time they met, she seemed to be defending and 
supporting him, even though she knew perfectly well what he had been like 
as Lord Blade? He had said he was a good friend of her mother. He knew the 
way to Aveole’s bedroom. And through the wall now, she could hear the 
sound of weeping: deep, racking sobs that bespoke the misery and 
abandonment of a wretched, tormented heart that was overcome by a grief 
beyond all bearing. 
Veldan found that she was trembling: torn between hope and fear and doubt. 
Did she really want a man like Amaurn, with his shadowy past and 
reputation for ruthlessness, to be her father? And if he was, did she really 
want to know? She was well aware that the most sensible course of action 
would be to march next door immediately and demand some answers, but 
somehow she couldn’t seem to find the nerve. 
This particular room looked out upon the wooded hillside that climbed 
steeply behind the house. Veldan went to the window, her eyes seeking the 
nearby forest clearing where her mother had been buried. She rested her 
forehead against the cool glass and sighed. “I wish you’d told me,” she said 
softly. “Couldn’t you have left me something—a letter, a message, a clue? I 
wish I could have known you, Mother. I wish you were here right now, to 
tell me the truth.” 
“You don’t need her, sweetie. I think you already know the truth.” Even 
though Kaz couldn’t get upstairs, he was still hovering close in his thoughts. 
She was glad that he was there. It was such a comfort to know that, even in 
these uncertain times, they would always have each other, and that would 
never change as long as they both lived. 
Veldan straightened and took a deep breath. “I had better go and talk to him, 
hadn’t I?” 

“It would be best, Boss,” Kaz agreed. In his thoughts, she felt his evil 
firedrake grin. “And if you don’t like the answers he gives you, just lure him 
back downstairs and I’ll incinerate him for you.” 
Veldan smiled ruefully. “I just might take you up on that. It would certainly 
make my life a damn sight simpler.” 
“You know,” Kaz said softly, “it isn’t easy being alone in the world. Both of 
us grew up severed from our roots, having no other family save one another. 
I know that if I had the chance, I would want to know who my people were.” 
He paused. “Even if they were a bunch of bastards.” 
“Thanks for that last contribution,” said Veldan dryly. “All the same, you’re 
right.” And before she could dredge up any more doubts, she squared her 
shoulders, went back to the room next door, and stood in the doorway. She 
could only think of one way to do this. “Are you my father?” she demanded. 
Amaurn took his hands away from his face, and her heart twisted at the 
desolation she saw in his eyes. Then he seemed to focus on her, and his 
expression softened a little. “I believe so.” He paused, and took a deep 
breath. “Do you want me to be?” 
Now it was Veldan’s turn to hesitate—but only for a moment. She went into 
the room, and sat down on the bed. “I believe I do.” 
“When did you start to suspect that he might be her father?” 
Elion had no need to ask who the firedrake was talking about. “That first 
night he came to Gendival—or at least the following morning,” he answered. 
“Me too.” 
“You know Veldan best, Kaz. Do you think she started to suspect at the 
same time?” 
“Well, if she did, she never let me in on the secret.” Kaz paused, looking 
thoughtful. “All the same I expect she did, somewhere deep down. She just 
wasn’t ready to admit it to herself at that point.” 
The best part of an hour had passed, and Veldan still hadn’t come 
downstairs. Elion and Kaz had lit the fires on the ground floor, by the simple 
expedient of the human throwing an armful of logs into each fireplace and 
the firedrake igniting them with a huff of his breath. Elion had made tea for 
himself and Dark, but he was loath to take any upstairs and interrupt 
whatever was going on between Veldan and Amaurn. Now he was pacing 
back and forth in front of the hearth and sighing a great deal. “I wish I could 
find out what’s happening up there,” he said. “This suspense is wearing me 
out.” 
“They’re talking, of course,” the firedrake said. “Though if they keep on 
doing it much longer, I think I might start getting jealous.” 
“Yes, but what are they talking about?” 

“Veldan’s mother, actually.” Kaz had far less scruples about eavesdropping 
and, because he knew his partner so well, was able to achieve it, on a 
superficial level, at least, without her noticing—or so he thought. Elion 
sometimes wondered if Veldan let him think he was getting away with it 
because she knew how much fun he got out of it. 
Dark, who had been dozing on the couch by the fire, woke up with a start 
and looked around wildly. For a moment, it seemed that he had forgotten 
where he was. Elion felt a pang of guilt. “Are you all right?” he asked the 
stranger. 
The young man dredged up a smile. “Yes, of course. Never better.” 
“He’s very good at putting a brave face on things, isn’t he?” Kaz remarked 
clinically. 
“He shouldn’t have to,” Elion said. He sat down beside the newcomer. “I’m 
sorry we haven’t done more to make you feel at home, Dark. We’ve been 
neglecting you, I’m afraid. Our manners are usually better than this, but it’s 
been a very unusual day.” 
“At least, my manners are usually better than this,” Kaz snickered. “Elion’s 
don’t bear talking about.” 
“You!” the Loremaster’s voice rose in indignant protest. “You haven’t got 
any, you overgrown lizard!” 
Dark laughed. 
“Elion, why don’t you go over to the inn and get us all something to eat?” 
the firedrake suggested. “There’s practically nothing in the house, because 
we’ve been away so much lately. If I don’t get something soon, I’ll be forced 
to eat our visitor, here.” 
“But...” Elion looked upward, as though he were trying to see through the 
ceiling. 
“Don’t worry,” the firedrake said dryly. “If there are any developments, 
you’ll be the first to know.” 
Elion had time to go all the way to the inn, wait while Olsam, bemoaning the 
absence of Ailie, packed up some food with much grumbling, and come all 
the way back again, before Veldan finally put in an appearance. When he got 
back she was just taking leave of Kyrre, who had come to place some 
portable versions of the colored healing beams around Amaurn. Even from a 
distance, he could feel the happiness of the Dobarchu healer. “Excuse me for 
hurrying away,” she was saying to Veldan. “I must get back to Mrainil and 
the rest of my people.” And with that she hurried off into the night. 
“I’ve got some food.” Elion held up two heavily laden baskets and a sack 
that contained half a fat lamb for Kaz. Veldan took the sack from him, 
staggering slightly under the weight, and they went inside. “Thank goodness 
for that,” she said. “I’m so hungry that I could eat the Afanc and have 
Maskulu for dessert.” 
“That would be worth seeing.” As they began to lay out the food—just 

bread, cheese, and cold meat, but plenty of it—on the kitchen table, Elion 
waited for her to say something about what had happened between her and 
Amaurn. He didn’t really want to ask her out loud, so he cleared his throat 
and caught her eye, hoping to put all his questions into his expression. 
Veldan met his gaze with a cool, impassive stare. “What?” Her tone dared 
him to stick his nose into her business. 
“Nothing,” Elion said quickly, and looked away. He knew then that no one, 
not even Kaz, would ever find out what had really taken place in that 
upstairs room. 
* * * 
Veldan, her emotions wrung dry, was almost too weary to eat but too hungry 
not to. She didn’t want to dwell on Amaurn anymore that night. Her whole 
world had changed very suddenly, and she wanted to give her impressions 
and emotions time to settle down and be assimilated before she saw him 
again. It was no good talking to Elion, however. He was too curious, and 
kept darting quizzical looks at her until she wanted to hit him. Instead, she 
turned her attention to the newcomer. “I’m sorry everything has been in such 
an upheaval today,” she said. “You must be wishing you hadn’t come.” 
Dark smiled his charming smile. “I won’t deny that it’s been nerveracking—
especially the monsters. When I was coming round the head of the 
lake with Kher, and that behemoth came rearing up out of the water, I nearly 
turned tail and ran all the way back to Callisiora. And my nerves were still in 
shreds from that, when I was introduced to that terrifying underground 
creature.” He shook his head. “To believe that they were both Senior 
Loremasters of the Shadowleague required a lot of readjustments in my 
thinking. After those two, your own big partner looks almost cute.” 
“You’d better not let Kaz hear you saying that.” Veldan chuckled. “I warn 
you, he’ll devote his entire life to reducing you to a quivering wreck—just to 
teach you a lesson.” She yawned. “I don’t know about you people, but I 
could sleep for a week.” Suddenly, for some reason, she found she didn’t 
want them to go. After the shocks of the day, their company was more than 
welcome—and if Amaurn wanted anything in the night, there would be 
someone else to go. “Are you two staying here tonight?” she offered. 
“Thanks, Veldan,” Elion said. “It’s so late now, I haven’t got the energy to 
walk home. As long as it’s not too much trouble.” 
“I’d be glad to have you. Elion, will you take the couch, so Dark can have 
the other spare bedroom?” 
Elion nodded. “No problem.” He turned to the Summoner. 
“We didn’t get you off to the easiest of starts in Gendival, Dark, so I think 
we owe you a comfy bed, at least.” 
They said their good-nights, and Veldan showed Dark to his upstairs room, 
helping him carry the two packs he had brought all the way from his former 

home. When they reached his door she handed him the lamp. “There are 
some glims in the bedroom, if you want to use them,” she said. “Just twist 
the two halves in opposite directions and they’ll start to glow.” She paused, 
feeling a sudden twinge of concern as she looked into his face. He looked 
hollow-eyed and exhausted, as did they all, but there was a pallor about his 
face that worried her. 
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked him. “You look awfully pale.” 
“I’m fine,” the young man said. “It’s—well, this is going to sound really 
silly, but it’s because, for the last few years, I’ve had to wear a mask day in 
and day out.” 
Veldan frowned. “You did?” She wondered why. There was nothing wrong 
with his face. On the contrary, it was a very pleasant face indeed. “What on 
earth for?” 
He grinned sheepishly. “Where I come from, folk are far more simple and 
superstitious than they are here in Gendival. The mask was the mark of the 
Summoners, and it was supposed to frighten people into a sense of awe and 
obedience. It used to work, too, I might add. You see, it was made out of a 
real human skull.” 
“Ugh!” Veldan shuddered. “Better you than me. But I do bow how awful it 
is to wear a mask all the time. I did it myself, for a while.” 
“You? But why?” 
Veldan felt herself coloring. “Why do you think?” she snapped. 
He frowned. “What? Your scar? But it doesn’t make any difference.” 
“Well, it makes a bloody big difference to me!” Veldan didn’t know whether 
to be glad of his casual attitude, to hit him for being so obtuse, or to run 
away somewhere and hide her embarrassment. 
Now it was Dark’s turn to color. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t put that very 
well. I realize that it must have had an impact on your life, and I didn’t mean 
to dismiss it. But you see, to me it’s just part of you. I haven’t seen your face 
look any different—and I like it just the way it is.” 
As if they both realized that the conversation had gone too far, too fast, they 
both looked away from one another. Muttering a hasty good night, Veldan 
fled downstairs as Dark dived into his bedroom. 
By the time she reached her own downstairs chamber, where Kaz was 
already curled up in his nest by the fire, Veldan was telling herself off for 
being silly. “This has been the weirdest night of my life,” she said to Kaz, as 
she shed her clothes in a trail from the door to the fireside. 
The firedrake opened one eye. “Never mind, sweetie. I’ll take care of you.” 
Needing to be comforted, Veldan pulled the blankets off her bed and brought 
them over to Kaz’s nest, where she curled up with the firedrake. “Thank 
goodness I’ve got you,” she murmured. “Between unexpected compliments 
from strange young men, and long-lost fathers turning up out of the 
woodwork, a girl needs someone she can depend on.” 

CHAPTER 28 
Beginning with Breakfast 
Toulac had stayed up very late the previous night, talking with Harral down 
at the stables, but mainly just being with Mazal. She had sent Scall back 
earlier, with a message for Ailie to the effect that his absence had been her 
fault, and when she had eventually dragged herself back to the inn, she had 
been so sleepy that she’d barely noticed the scolding the innkeeper had given 
her, or the fact that she had hauled the poor woman out of bed to open the 
door for her. All she cared about was that Ailie had found another room for 
Scall, and she had her bed to herself again. The last few days and nights had 
finally caught up with her, and she barely had time to take her boots off 
before she was under the covers and lost in the deepest of sleeps. 
The following morning, she slept late—and would have slept a damn sight 
later had she not been awakened by a frantic hammering on her door. She 
rolled over and opened a bleary eye. “Bugger off, whoever you are.” 
The banging started up again. “Toulac, Toulac! You’ve got to help me.” It 
was Scall again. The veteran groaned, and hauled herself out of bed, 
muttering curses. She marched over to the door and flung it open. “What the 
bloody blazes is it now?” 
The boy looked nervous, shifting from foot to foot as he stood in the 
doorway wringing his hands. “Please, Toulac,” he blurted, “will you come 
with me? The head man wants to see me—the Arch ... The Archi... Well, the 
same as the Hierarch, anyway, and—” 
“And you’re scared,” Toulac said flatly, not sufficiently awake yet to be 
tactful. 
Scall flushed crimson. “I am not!” he yelled. “Oh, who needs you anyway? 
You’re nothing but a stupid old woman.” 
Wonderful. An adolescent tantrum before breakfast. Just what I need to start 
my day. 
She gave him a cold, level stare that made him step back a couple of paces. 
“That’s as may be, sonny, but I’m not the one who’s frightened of the 
Archimandrite. Now do you want me to come with you or not? Because 
otherwise, I’m going back to bed.” 
“All right,” Scall mumbled. 
“All right what?” 

“Yes, I would like you to come with me ... please. Not that I’m scared, or 
anything,” he added defiantly. 
“Of course you aren’t.” With difficulty, Toulac resisted the urge to pat him 
on the head. “Just let me wash my face and pull myself together, and I’ll be 
right with you.” She yawned mightily. “Do you know if there’s any tea 
around here, this morning?” 
A pained expression flitted across Scall’s face, and she knew he was 
wondering how, with the Archimandrite in the offing, she could think of 
such mundane things as tea. “There wasn’t any downstairs,” he told her, “but 
the meeting is being held in someone’s house, and there are quite a few 
people coming, so Ailie’s coming along too, to make breakfast for 
everybody. Then they’re going to look at the stuff I found.” 
Breakfast! Suddenly, the day was improving. “Just wait there a moment,” 
Toulac said, and ducked back into her room for the quickest wash of her life. 
It was only then that she noticed the note that had been pushed under her 
door. Judging from the print of her boot sole on it, it must have been there 
since the previous night. Obviously, she had been so tired that she had never 
noticed. It was from the Archimandrite, and invited her to that morning’s 
meeting too. Toulac beamed. Notwithstanding her opinion of Lord Blade, it 
was always nice to be wanted. 
As she had suspected, the meeting was being held in Veldan’s house, and 
Ailie was going to take them there. Toulac and Scall were hanging around 
by the inn door, waiting, when the innkeeper came hurrying out, with Zavahl 
right behind her. At the sight of the former Hierarch of Callisiora, Scall 
turned pale. He dug Toulac with his elbow. “What’s he doing here?” he 
demanded, in a whisper loud enough to be heard all the way down to the 
Navigators’ trading post. 
Zavahl looked round at the boy, and smiled. “I live here now,” he said. “If 
you remember, they were going to burn me at the stake back in Callisiora, so 
I decided to find a friendlier place. I like it much better here.” 
Toulac smiled to herself as Scall went crimson at being addressed by such an 
august personage. 
They followed Ailie along the path that led around behind the village and 
crossed the river over a small footbridge, instead of the stone bridge on the 
road that would have taken them right through the settlement. As they went 
along, Toulac caught up with Zavahl. “Did you sleep well?” she asked slyly. 
He shook his head. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t—but not only for the 
reasons you’re thinking of.” His eyes looked haunted. “Ailie tells me that I’ll 
be meeting Blade this morning, and I’m not looking forward to it one bit.” 
“You and me both,” Toulac said. “Veldan kept trying to tell me that 
everything was different here, and he was trying to change and be a better 
man, and all sorts of other complete hogwash.” She waved her arm 
dismissively. “I’ll believe it when I see it—maybe.” 
Ailie looked back over her shoulder. “But Scall was telling me this morning 

that Amaurn rescued your horse for you, and you were wild with delight. 
Doesn’t that make you feel a little more charitable?” 
Toulac shrugged. “I bet he wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t needed a 
mount to bring him here.” 
“On the other hand, he’s the Archimandrite, and he can do what he wants,” 
Ailie argued. “Scall said you have a truly magnificent warhorse, which must 
be very valuable, and Zavahl was telling me that Amaurn loves horses with a 
passion. What was to stop him keeping the animal for himself?” 
“Scall and Zavahl would be better off minding their own affairs,” growled 
Toulac, “and I can’t be doing with this ridiculous ‘Amaurn’ business. To me 
he’s Blade, and always will be.” With that, she dropped back to stomp along 
in the rear. 
This was the first time that the veteran had seen Veldan’s house in its forest 
clearing. Elion answered the door and greeted Scall kindly. “Why, fancy 
seeing you here! Have you still got the little mare I gave you?” 
“I did have,” the boy said bitterly, “until I came here and that Harral took her 
off me.” 
“Ah.” Hurriedly, the Loremaster changed the subject. “Don’t stand there on 
the doorstep, everyone. Come inside.” 
They all followed him into the main room—and came face-to-face with Kaz, 
who was curled up by the fire. Toulac had never thought to prepare Scall for 
his first sight of the firedrake and, clearly, neither had anyone else. He made 
a choking sound and, as his knees began to buckle, she grabbed his upper 
arm in a viselike grip. “Steady,” she hissed. “It’s all right. He’s Veldan’s 
friend and partner, and he lives here.” She couldn’t resist the opportunity to 
brag. “I rode here on his back, all the way from Tiarond.” 
Scall, looking skeptical, was opening his mouth to reply when two figures 
came slowly down the stairs. Veldan came first, followed by Blade. On her 
other side, Toulac felt Zavahl stiffen. She didn’t blame him. At the sight of 
the former Godsword Commander, she could feel her own hackles rising, 
though she had to admit that he looked far less cold and intimidating now 
that he was out of his severe black Godsword tunic and wearing a soft green 
shirt. One arm was bandaged and in a sling, and Toulac was the veteran of 
enough wounds of her own to see that he had been hurt elsewhere, for he 
walked stiffly, with his arm clasped close to his side, and she could see him 
catch his breath at every step. 
Serves him right. 
There was no time to take in any more. Just as Blade reached the bottom 
step, there was a sudden movement at the veteran’s side. Zavahl sprang 
forward and hit him square in the face, hard enough to knock him offbalance 
so that he fell on his back on the lower stairs. 
“Zavahl!” Veldan pushed her way between the two men. “You can’t do that. 
He’s wounded!” 

The former Hierarch looked down at the sprawled figure. “That’s nothing to 
what he’ll be if he ever interferes with me or mine again,” he snarled. 
“Leave me alone in future, Blade— I warn you. Or, on my very life, I’ll 
make you sorry.” 
Veldan and a dark-haired young man that Toulac didn’t recognize helped 
Blade to his feet. Rubbing his jaw, the Archimandrite glared at the former 
Hierarch—then threw back his head and laughed. “Well,” he said. “I see that 
leaving Tiarond hasn’t done you any harm.” 
Zavahl’s mouth fell open. 
The former Godsword Commander held out his hand. “Zavahl,” he said, “I 
treated you very badly back in Tiarond. I was in a position of trust, I abused 
that trust, and you have my most profound apologies. I used you mercilessly 
to further my own plans, and thanks to me, you lost your place in the world 
and very nearly your life. But when I look at you now, I’ve never seen you 
look better or happier—and that being the case, I very much hope that you’ll 
come to forgive me in time. If there’s anything I can do for you to make up 
for the way I treated you, you only have to say the word. I wish you a long 
and prosperous life here in Gendival, and I promise you that you won’t have 
anything to fear from me again.” 
Toulac stared at the new Archimandrite in astonishment. 
Well, may I be dipped in dogs’ dung! I wonder if Blade has a twin brother? 
Because I’d bet my life that this can’t be the man I know. 
The gracious apology seemed to have taken the wind out of Zavahl’s sails, 
too. He looked at Blade doubtfully, and Toulac could see, from the changing 
expressions on his face, that distrust was at war with hope. “Why?” he 
asked, in an unsteady voice. 
Blade smiled wryly. “Firstly, because I feel I owe it to you. Secondly, 
because you now share your body with the consciousness of the Dragon Seer 
Aethon, and between you you can help me, the Shadowleague, and the entire 
world. Ironically, you’re more important as the host of Aethon than you ever 
were as the Hierarch of Callisiora, and you’re in a position to do a lot more 
good.” 
“It’s all right, Zavahl,” Veldan put in softly. “You can trust him this time. 
He’ll keep his word.” She fixed Blade with a steely stare that was so like his 
own, it sent a shiver down Toulac’s spine. “Won’t you?” 
“My daughter, I will.” When Blade looked at Veldan, his expression 
underwent such a fundamental change, softening from sternness into 
tenderness, that Toulac couldn’t believe her eyes. 
His daughter? Myrial up a pole! What in perdition is going on? 
She saw similar shock on the faces of Ailie and Zavahl, and even Scall was 
looking in puzzlement from Blade to Veldan, and back again. On the other 
hand, it was clear that Elion, the dark-haired stranger, and the smirking 
firedrake, were already in the know. 

Zavahl was the first to pull himself together. “Very well, Blade. I accept 
your offer, and your word. After all,” he added wryly, “you’re where you 
always wanted to be, on the top of the heap. I don’t have what you want 
anymore—neither rank nor power—so I expect I should be quite safe.” 
Blade smiled thinly. “You show a good grasp of the situation, Zavahl. 
You’ve learned a lot since last we met.” With the air of a man who was 
anxious to change the subject, he turned to the veteran. “And you, Toulac? 
Will you not stay? It would mean a tremendous amount to Veldan.” 
“Answer me one question,” Toulac said. “Why did you throw all the female 
warriors out of the Godswords, all those years ago?” 
A shadow of old sorrow crossed Blade’s face. “Because they reminded me 
so painfully of the love that I had lost— Veldan’s mother. She was a 
Loremaster here, too.” He put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders. 
“Grief and guilt and loss can make us selfish, sometimes. They can change 
and harden us beyond all recognition. I know that ‘sorry’ is a very small 
word to say for ruining someone’s life, but if you’ll join us here as a 
Loremaster, at least I can try, in some small way, to make it up to you.” As 
he spoke, an odd thought came to Toulac. Did he really ruin my life? All the 
places I saw, all the adventures I had, all the friends I made as a 
mercenary—I would have missed all that if I had become a Godsword, and 
stayed in Tiarond. 
She looked from Veldan to ... 
Drat it! I suppose I’ll have to get used to calling him Amaurn, now. 
“All right, sonny. Count me in.” 
With a whoop of joy, Veldan ran across to hug her, and the Archimandrite 
looked round at them all. “Now,” he said. “If there’s nobody else I need 
apologize to, I suggest we have some breakfast.” 
* * * 
Breakfast was a good opportunity for the introductions, and some filling in 
of the backgrounds of those who were strangers to one another. After they 
had crammed themselves around Veldan’s large kitchen table, and eaten 
every scrap of Ailie’s excellent food, they returned to the other room and 
found various places to sit. Amaurn addressed them all. “I wanted you 
people to be the first to look at the artifacts Scall discovered, for the simple 
reason that they were found beneath Tiarond, and I have a feeling that will 
prove to be significant. The people in this room have all been in Callisiora 
recently—and some of us, for considerably longer than we wanted to be,” he 
added wryly. “Before I make the discovery of these artifacts more public 
among the Shadowleague, I wanted to hear our interpretation of Scall’s 
finds, the relevance of the place in which he found them, and our present 
crisis in general.” 
“What about me?” the innkeeper asked. “I’ve never been to Callisiora in my 

life.” 
Amaurn smiled at her. “You are here, Ailie, because of your association with 
Zavahl, your common sense, the fact that you make superb breakfasts—but 
more particularly, because you run the inn, which is always a great 
repository of unofficial information among off-duty Loremasters. You also 
have regular links with the Navigators, who tend to pick up news and gossip, 
and a lot of local knowledge in their travels. If you find any links between 
anything you see or hear today, and anything you’ve heard elsewhere, be it 
fact or rumor, then it may be of great use to us.” He looked around his 
associates. “Now, Dark, if you please, would you show us the items that 
Scall found?” 
Dark went upstairs to fetch Scall’s strange artifacts, and while they waited 
for him to return, Amaurn asked the lad to tell everyone how he had come to 
discover them. With much blushing and stammering, he told his tale, and 
everyone listened with avid interest—though when they heard of Tormon’s 
involvement, Amaurn and Zavahl exchanged uneasy glances. Between them, 
they had almost killed the trader, and had slain his lifemate, and Amaurn 
knew that if they ever met him again, they could expect no quarter—nor 
would they deserve any. 
At least, for once, I don’t have to bear the blame for this one alone. It was 
Zavahl’s idea to get rid of the folk who found Aethon’s body, so he could 
claim the discovery for himself. He felt a stab of bitterness. 
I know who’ll get the blame, though. I seem to be required to apologize and 
atone for everything—mostly, to be fair, with good reason—but they all 
seem to have forgotten that the Hierarch of Callisiora wasn’t always a 
paragon of goodness, either. 
By this time, Scall had finished his tale and Dark had returned, carrying a 
small cloth bag. Amaurn could scarcely contain his excitement. He hoped 
desperately that there might be some clue here to the restoration of the 
failing Curtain Walls. Kneeling on the hearth rug, the Summoner pulled out 
the two objects—a small, silver sphere, and a thin disc about a foot 
across—and handed the sphere to Amaurn, who examined it closely. “Cradle 
it in the palm of your hand,” Dark instructed. Cupping the silvery object in 
his palm, Amaurn held his hand out—and everyone gasped. There, hovering 
in the air above the artifact, was a large, solid-looking image, with brown 
and green land, blue oceans, and a flickering fretwork of blue-white lines 
that could only be the Curtain Walls. 
This reminds me of that gigantic circular object in the Holy of Holies in the 
Temple of Myrial, in which the Hierarch could see what was taking place in 
other parts of Callisiora—or at least, he could until I came along and stole 
his ring. 
“Open your hand and close it again,” Dark urged. “Think of a place you 
want to see. Grim thought it seemed to work by some sort of connection to 
mind-speech, though if Scall can make it function, there’s obviously no need 
to have any marked abilities in that direction.” Amaurn did as he was 

bidden—and suddenly, there was an image of Tiarond on its mountain. He 
opened and closed his hand again, and there was Gendival, and the 
settlement beside the lakes. And again ... He caught his breath. There, on the 
opposite side of the globe, was a blank, grey, curving dome, bounded by the 
ocean on one side, and mountains on the other. His own land, the realm of 
the dispossessed Magefolk, covered and hidden by the mysterious force field 
of the Creators. 
“What in the name of perdition is that?” Veldan demanded. 
Amaurn turned to the firedrake. “That’s your home, Kazairl—the home of 
your people. Yours and mine.” 
“But why can’t we see it?” Elion wanted to know. 
“Because the Creators of Myrial thought the Magefolk— my people—were 
getting far too powerful and were a risk to their own plans for Myrial. They 
locked us away from the rest of the world, long aeons ago. What you see 
there is a force field a thousand times more impenetrable than the Curtain 
Walls. It blocks mind-speech, and other very powerful abilities of the mind 
that once we had.” 
“And the firedrakes live there too?” Kaz interrupted. 
“Indeed they do. Your people are trapped with mine.” 
“But how did you get out?” Toulac demanded. 
“Underground. I discovered a cave system that went deeper than the barrier.” 
With an effort, he shook away the memories. “Anyway, this is getting us 
nowhere.” He put down the small silver sphere and, after a moment, the 
image faded and vanished. “This will be very useful to the Shadowleague, in 
allowing us to see what’s happening along the Curtain Walls, and what’s 
taking place in other lands, but offhand, I can’t think of a way in which it 
will solve our current problems. Let’s have a look at this other item, 
instead.” 
He took out the flat, thin disc with the mirrorlike surface and the narrow 
band of gold about its rim—and with an oath, he almost dropped it again, as 
the surface turned deep black and lines of writing, formed in characters of 
bright green light, began to appear at the bottom, and move slowly up the 
page. For a page it clearly was, even if it was like nothing that Amaurn had 
ever seen before. 
The writing was formed from strange runes that he didn’t recognize. He 
wondered how old they were, and a shiver went through him. Was this the 
language of the Creators themselves? He handed the device to the former 
Hierarch. “Zavahl, may we talk to the Seer, please? Aethon, is there 
anything like this in your memories?” 
There was a slight, indefinable change in Zavahl’s expression. “This is very 
old indeed.” There was an odd, new resonance to his voice. “It appears to be 
a list of some sort, but there’s a lot that I cannot understand. 
Maintenance—what can that mean? Overmind? Ah, here’s something... 
Tunnel Plan.” He put his finger on the place to point it out—and the moving 

writing instantly vanished, to be replaced by a series of drawings and maps, 
all delineated in that same glowing, green light. Zavahl’s voice shook with 
the Dragon Seer’s excitement. “Amaurn, Veldan, see... It’s the mountain— 
Mount Chaikar! This picture is meant to represent Tiarond!” 
They all gathered around, getting in one another’s way, as more of the 
pictures began to emerge, one by one, from the bottom of the page. Zavahl 
choked at the sight of a stylized bridge and platform over a great drop and a 
massive circle suspended in midair above. “That’s the Holy of Holies in the 
Temple, where none but the Hierarch may tread!” he gasped, in his own 
voice. 
Amaurn looked away from him, feeling guilty. 
That’s what you think. 
Below that, there was the image of the Hierarch’s ring. Amaurn shuddered. 
He knew that this was significant—it was obviously leading 
somewhere—and now that he had seen the ring, he was pretty sure that there 
was a connection with the Curtain Walls. 
Zavahl spoke again, with Aethon’s resonant voice, and confirmed his 
suspicions. “Amaurn, there is a memory of my people that concerns a 
concealed locus of entry—or maybe even more than one—which gives 
access to the intelligence that maintains this world. I think you have one 
right here, beneath the Temple. Maybe it is accessed from the place that the 
Hierarchs call the Eye of Myrial, or maybe we can get in through the tunnels 
Scall found. To find our answers, it looks as though we must go back to 
Tiarond, notwithstanding the presence of the Ak’Zahar. Also, we may need 
to obtain the ring from Gilarra—if she survived.” 
Amaurn buried his face in his hands and groaned. “So the ring holds the 
key?” 
“I suspect so.” 
“Then we’re in big trouble.” He looked up at Aethon/Zavahl. “When Toulac, 
Kaz, and Veldan rescued you, the ring slipped off Gilarra’s finger when the 
platform collapsed. I saw it happen, but I was trapped under a piece of 
timber and couldn’t reach it in time. The Ak’Zahar took it. They have it 
now. It could be anywhere.” 
There was a long moment of silence. Amaurn glanced at Veldan, who was 
sitting beside him, and saw that she had gone very white at the mention of 
the Ak’Zahar. Belatedly, he remembered Elion’s mentioning that she had 
been badly wounded during her last encounter with the deadly winged 
predators. Clearly, the scars went deeper than the one on her face, and his 
heart went out to her. 
Finally, Toulac spoke, breaking the silence. “So it looks as though we’re 
going back to Tiarond—whatever might happen when we get there.” 
“But why should we? Surely there’s no point if we don’t have the ring, and 
we don’t even know what we’re doing,” Elion argued. Belatedly, Amaurn 
remembered that the Loremaster had lost his own partner in the same 

skirmish that had wounded his daughter. No wonder he was reluctant. 
“Well, we won’t get anywhere sitting on our backsides in Gendival, that’s 
for sure,” the veteran retorted. 
“Toulac is right,” said Aethon, through Zavahl. “We may not know exactly 
how we can fix this disaster, but the heart of the secret lies somewhere under 
Tiarond, and the device that Scall found can show us maps of the tunnels. 
Maybe, when we get down there, we’ll be able to find out what to do. 
Perhaps I may see something that will awaken some memories from the past 
of my people ...” 
“And perhaps we’ll all get killed for nothing,” snorted Kaz. 
Though returning to Tiarond was the very last thing he wanted to do, 
Amaurn knew that he, at least, would have to go back. 
This is all my fault. I can’t start a new life here, and build a future for my 
daughter—for the world—until I put right the mess I made. And I won’t 
send others into danger to pay the price that should rightfully be mine. 
“You’re absolutely right, Toulac,” he said. “We’ll have to go back—and 
there’s no time to lose. Each day we delay, the chances of finding the 
Hierarch’s ring grow less and, what’s worse, the rate of deterioration of the 
Curtain Walls seems to be increasing. The longer we hesitate, the more races 
will go the way of the Dobarchu.” He looked around at everyone, trying hard 
not to let his gaze linger on Veldan. “However, not all of us need to make 
the journey; indeed, not everyone should.” 
“Well, you shouldn’t, for a start.” The blunt words had come from his 
daughter. 
“What makes you think I was planning to?” he asked, stalling for time. 
She gave him an old-fashioned look. “By your expression, your voice, the 
words you were using... Need I go on?” 
“No, you’re quite right.” A firm hand was obviously needed here. “I was 
planning to go—and what’s more, I fully intend to.” 
“Despite the fact that you were wounded only yesterday,” Veldan said flatly. 
“And you’re the Archimandrite now, if you hadn’t forgotten. There’s no way 
that the leader of the Shadowleague should be risking himself on missions. 
That’s not how it works, and you know it.” 
He glared at her. “In an emergency—and I’m sure you wouldn’t deny that 
this is an emergency—there can be exceptions. My local knowledge will be 
needed in Tiarond. I must go back.” 
“How can you even think about leaving here just now?” Veldan exploded. 
“You’ve only just taken over as Archimandrite, and you haven’t really had 
time to consolidate your hold on this place. Cergorn’s supporters will be 
conspiring against you before you get as far as the Curtain Walls.” 
“Cergorn won’t be here.” Suddenly, there was absolute silence in the room, 
and all eyes were turned his way. “Oh, for goodness sake,” he said testily, 
“I’m only talking about exile, not execution. As I told Kalevala yesterday, 

I’m sending him back to his home island, and Syvilda with him. I’ve been 
talking to his healers this morning, and they say that he can be moved, with 
care. The three of them—Quave, Myssil, and Shimir—have all volunteered 
to accompany him on the voyage, so he ought to be all right.” 
“With all respect,” Elion said, “isn’t it a mistake to leave an enemy roaming 
loose like that? What if he returns, just like you did, sometime in the future, 
when you’re not expecting him? Or what if his followers bring him back?” 
Amaurn shook his head. “That won’t happen. I’m going to have a full, 
permanent memory-wipe done on both Cergorn and Syvilda, and a new, 
false set of memories put in their place. They won’t even know that 
Gendival and the Shadowleague exist. And it won’t be any use for their 
followers to track them down and try to remind them, because those 
memories will have been permanently destroyed.” 
“But... To be robbed of his memories like that, and sent away,” Ailie said 
hesitantly. “Surely that’s a cruel fate.” 
When Amaurn looked at her, his eyes were cold as steel. “It’s a damn sight 
better fate than the one he had planned for me.” 
“And his followers?” Veldan asked. “Will you explain your reasoning to 
them, or will you tell them after the event?” 
“That’s a very tempting suggestion,” Amaurn said, “but regretfully, I’ll have 
to tell them. That way, they’ll know exactly what happened, and it should 
put a stop to any rumors that I spirited Cergorn away and put an end to him. 
Besides, if I confront them and face them down, it’ll also have the effect of 
letting them know who is the leader around here. If I do it behind their 
backs, they might start getting the idea that I’m afraid of them.” 
“When are you going to do it?” Elion asked. 
“Today. I’ve already made arrangements with the Navigators, and a ship will 
be ready to take him downriver. I want to get him away as quickly as 
possible after I’ve made the announcement, before his followers can start 
thinking up ways to interfere.” He shrugged. “I plan to tell everyone at the 
same time as I let them know they’ll be having the Takuru as their 
neighbors.” 
“What?” cried Ailie, in horror. 
Amaurn smiled wryly at her. “That’s about the reaction I’m expecting. I’m 
hoping that one outrage will cancel out the other.” 
Elion shook his head. “Maybe you’re right to be leaving for Callisiora. I 
have a feeling that you aren’t exactly going to be popular round here.” 
“I know. However, if I succeed in repairing the Curtain Walls, then maybe 
they’ll come round to my way of thinking. But we seem to have strayed 
from the original point of this discussion. Who shall we take back to 
Callisiora with us, and who will be staying behind?” 
Zavahl looked sick. “I’m going to have to go, aren’t I?” he said in a low 
voice. “Without me, you won’t have Aethon, and you need his memories.” 

Amaurn nodded. “I’m very sorry, Zavahl. I know that you’re starting to 
make a life here, and returning to Tiarond is the last thing you want to do. 
But we do need Aethon’s memories. Your own knowledge as Hierarch 
probably wouldn’t come amiss, either.” 
Ailie looked at the pair of them in horror. “No!” she cried. “Zavahl, you 
can’t! You’re not one of the Shadowleague. They can’t ask this of you!” 
He looked at her helplessly. “Ailie, I have to. There are more folk than just 
us to consider. You’ve got to understand—it’s more than just carrying 
Aethon along. As a Hierarch, I failed my people. If I can do something to 
help them now, then I can’t neglect that duty.” He tried to smile at her. 
“After all, it’ll be my last. Once we’ve put the world to rights and I get back 
here, I don’t plan to go more than a hundred yards away from the inn for the 
rest of my life.” 
Ailie’s mouth set itself in a stubborn line. “Then I’m coming with you.” 
“No,” Amaurn said firmly. “You aren’t. This isn’t a jaunt down the river, 
Ailie. We’ll be facing some of the deadliest creatures in the annals of the 
Shadowleague. You aren’t trained to defend yourself, and we’ll be hard 
enough pressed as it is. Having to look after you will weaken us in general.” 
“You’ll have to look after Zavahl,” the innkeeper retorted angrily. 
“We can’t do without Zavahl.” The Archimandrite was implacable. “We can 
justify having to defend him. You would just be deadweight in our party—in 
more ways than one, probably. Don’t try to cross me in this, Ailie, and don’t 
get any wild ideas about following us. Without my permission, no one will 
take you through the Curtain Walls. I’ve done enough to wreck Zavahl’s life. 
I’m going to make damn sure that you, at least, are going to be safe at home, 
waiting for him to come back.” 
“Damn you!” Ailie snapped. She turned to Zavahl. “Are you going to let him 
get away with this?” 
Zavahl sighed. “I’m sorry, but I think he’s right. I’ll miss you very much, but 
if you don’t come, then at least I’ll only have one of us to worry about.” 
“If you want me,” Toulac volunteered, breaking the tension, “I’ll be more 
than willing to come along.” 
“And you’d be more than welcome,” Amaurn said. 
“I think you can be sure that if you go to Tiarond, the rest of us are going, 
too,” added Veldan. 
He gave her a very direct look. “You don’t have to, you know. I think that 
you and Kaz and Elion have seen enough of the Ak’Zahar to last you a 
lifetime, and all three of you suffered in various ways from your last 
encounter. You’ve done your share, and more. I wouldn’t have you put 
yourselves through all that again.” 
Veldan shook her head. “If you’re going, I’m going.” 
“And if she’s going, I’m going, too,” Kaz added. “Although you can bet 
your life that I’m going to do my best to talk her out of it.” 

“And I would like to go,” Dark said. “If you think I would be any use.” 
Elion looked at the floor, and said nothing. Had he decided not to go, or was 
he still making up his mind? 
“Maybe we should discuss who will be going later, when we’ve all had time 
to think things through,” Amaurn interjected. “There is one other person I 
would like to take with me, however.” He looked at Scall. “Scall, you found 
the tunnels in the first place. I won’t try to coerce or even persuade you to 
go—I promised a good friend that I wouldn’t. But if you could find it in your 
heart to volunteer, you would be of tremendous use to us, and I promise 
we’d do our very best to keep you safe. Then, when we’re done, we can 
bring you back with us, and you can live here, if that’s what you want, or 
we’ll take you back to join your friends in Callisiora. It’s up to you.” 
Scall’s eyes grew wide. “You want me to go back there? There’s no way...” 
Then something seemed to occur to him. “I don’t want to come and live 
here, if it’s all the same to you. I would rather go back to my friends. But 
there is one thing I want, and if you give it to me, to keep, I’ll come with you 
and show you everything I can.” 
Amaurn leaned forward. “Whatever you want, Scall. Just name it.” 
“Well,” the boy said, “Elion gave me this horse, but that Harral says she 
belongs to him ...” 
Beside him, Toulac burst out laughing. “I might have guessed!” 
CHAPTER 29 
Hunters and Prey 
Seriema and Cetain were with Arcan, showing him the knife, when a reiver 
warrior came bursting in after the most perfunctory of knocks. “My Chief! 
The Tiarondian, Presvel, has lost his mind! He kidnapped trader Tormon’s 
child at knifepoint and has ridden off with her and that blond girl who was 
looking after her.” 
Arcan leapt to his feet, scowling. “He stole a child? And was allowed to 
escape the fortress? Who permitted that? Why was I not sent for 
immediately?” 
The warrior took a step back. “I’m sorry, my Chief, but it all happened so 
quickly, and there was so much confusion. He made his move when most 
people were at breakfast, so the corridors were nearly empty. He got most of 
the way down to the beast quarters before he was even seen, and by the time 
someone had run and fetched the guards, he was mounted and ready to leave. 

He had two horses already saddled, so this was no sudden fit of madness. He 
must have planned it and prepared well in advance. When he threatened to 
cut the little girl’s throat, the gates were opened for him at once. What else 
could we have done, my Chief? Tormon begged us to let him go. The poor 
man has already lost his wife, and he didn’t dare take the risk of his little 
daughter being killed, too.” 
“Where is Tormon now?” Arcan asked. 
“Saddling up,” the messenger replied. “The ground is wet enough for 
tracking. Presvel said he would kill his hostages if anyone pursued him, so 
the trader plans to follow at a safe distance until nightfall, keeping out of 
sight, then await his chance to take the little one back.” 
“If the winged demons don’t get him first,” the chieftain said. “I’ll go down 
and speak to him at once and see what help we can offer. He cannot take on 
this madman alone— especially not now that we know Presvel is Grim’s 
murderer. That makes it our business, too.” He looked down at the knife in 
his hand, and cursed. To Seriema’s surprise, he inclined his head to her. “My 
apologies,” he said brusquely. “If I had not shut you out yesterday, you 
would have identified this weapon much sooner, and we would have arrested 
the miscreant before he could foment this new mischief.” Beckoning them to 
follow, he swept from the room. 
As they hurried down the stairs, Seriema clutched at Cetain’s arm. “I must 
go with poor Tormon,” she said. “I can’t let him face this alone. I was the 
one who brought Presvel here, so I feel a responsibility.” 
“Then I’ll come too,” Cetain replied firmly, “and I’ll bring some of my best 
men. A few archers would be welcome, too, with those winged fiends 
around.” 
Seriema felt a glow of gratitude for his unquestioning support. 
I’m so lucky to have met Cetain. After all those lonely years, who would 
have thought it possible that I would find such a man? 
When she saw Tormon, her heart went out to him. Anger and fear seemed to 
emanate from him in waves, and she could not bear the torment in his eyes. 
As Arcan’s little group came down the stairs into the beast quarters, the 
trader was just mounting his great, black stallion. “Tormon, wait!” The 
chieftain called out. “Let me send some of my men with you. You can’t do 
this alone—not with the winged demons at large.” 
“I don’t have time to wait.” The trader set his face and rode toward the great 
doors. The two warriors who were guarding them exchanged nervous 
glances. 
Seriema ran forward. “Tormon, let us help. You’ve got to stay out of 
Presvel’s sight until nightfall in any case. It won’t take long to get the men 
mounted—and they know this terrain far better than we do. They can help us 
stay hidden while we’re chasing him. And Annas needs protection from the 
predators, as well as Presvel. If they strike after dark, you’ll be glad of all the 
help you can get.” 

Tormon reined in his plunging horse. “We?” 
“Of course.” Seriema, already heading for the fleet little reiver horse that 
Cetain had given her, threw the words over her shoulder. “You didn’t think 
for one minute that I’d let you face this alone? Cetain’s coming too, with 
some of his men.” 
The trader hesitated, common sense warring with his desperate need to find 
and rescue his daughter. Then he nodded. “Hurry, then,” he said. 
It didn’t take long before they were riding away from the fastness. Though 
Tormon had offered her the use of his Sefrian gelding again, Seriema had 
decided that, since she was about to join the reiver community for good, it 
would be better to ride one of their horses. In any case, she was already 
becoming attached to the smaller, faster animal. It also put her at the right 
height to talk to Cetain, and since the trader seemed to have no desire for 
conversation, that would probably work out for the best. 
They set off across the moors in the raw, wintry weather. Spits of sleet, and 
sometimes even a brief flurry of wet snow, fell halfheartedly from an irongrey 
sky. The wind was light, but in the moorland hollows, the heather, 
bracken, and whin were white with frost. Cetain’s little band—eight warriors 
in all, three of whom had reputations as skilled archers—rode steadily, 
guided by the clear trail that Presvel’s horses had left behind. Accustomed as 
they were to years of raiding and battle, the reivers didn’t follow the track of 
footprints directly, but instead moved in their general direction, following 
the secret folds and hollows in the land. Cetain, who was leading them, knew 
how important it was to stay well back, out of sight. If Presvel should even 
catch a glimpse of them, it could spell the end for Annas. Nevertheless, 
Seriema could see how difficult it was for the trader to keep his distance 
when every fiber of his being was straining to go to his little girl’s rescue. 
She closed the distance between them. “We’ll do it,” she said quietly. “If it’s 
humanly possible, we’ll get her back.” 
He gave her a look that was filled with pain. “It’s hard to have faith, 
Seriema, after everything that’s happened. I lost Kanella, then I became fond 
of Scall and he vanished. Now it’s my daughter.” He lifted his face to the 
skies. “What have I done? I never hurt anybody in my life. What have I done 
to deserve this?” 
To that, there could be no answer. 
They rode in silence for a little while, then he turned to her again. “He killed 
Grim, didn’t he?” 
“I’m afraid he did. I recognized his knife as soon as I saw it.” Seriema shook 
her head. “I don’t understand what has happened to him, Tormon. He always 
seemed to be the most sensible, levelheaded person in the world, but since 
the fall of the city, he’s changed beyond all recognition.” 
The trader nodded. “I got the feeling that he was bothering Rochalla, though 
she never said anything about it. I know she was fond of Annas, but I think 
that she volunteered to look after her so much because it let her keep her 

distance from Presvel.” 
Seriema sighed. “Well, why didn’t the silly girl say something to one of us? 
Maybe if we’d had more warning...” Then she shook her head. “No, I’m not 
being fair to her. We all noticed that Presvel’s behavior was becoming 
increasingly erratic, but we had our own concerns, and we were too busy 
finding our own feet after our everyday worlds had collapsed all around us. 
But there must have been some sort of relationship between them at one 
point, I’m sure of that. He introduced her into my household to take care of 
Annas with some trumped-up story about her being a distant relative, or the 
daughter of a friend, or something like that, but I wasn’t convinced. Still, she 
seemed a kind, decent girl, and good with the child, so I let it lie. I meant to 
look into her background in more detail after the Great Sacrifice, but...” 
“Well, whatever happened between them before, she doesn’t want him 
now,” said Tormon bluntly. “I was beginning to get the feeling that she was 
a bit sweet on Scall, in fact.” 
Seriema looked at him, wide-eyed. “Tormon, if he murdered the old 
Summoner, you don’t think he killed Scall, too?” 
“I don’t know,” said Tormon bleakly. “The fact that Dark is also missing 
gives me some hope. Maybe they thought they would be blamed, and ran 
away—though it wouldn’t be like Scall not to leave some kind of note, or 
message.” He shrugged. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to get the truth out of 
Presvel—before I kill him.” 
She felt sick to hear him talk so bluntly about killing a man who had been 
her friend and confederate for so many years. Cetain, who noticed 
everything, rode up between them and put out a hand to touch her arm. 
Tormon, noticing the gesture, looked down at them with a frown. “You two 
seem thick as thieves, all of a sudden. Is there something going on between 
you that I don’t know about?” 
“Yes,” Cetain said. “I asked Seriema to be my lifemate, and she agreed.” 
Tormon stared at them for a long moment, his face betraying no emotion. 
“Congratulations,” he said bleakly, then, spurring his horse, he left them and 
rode on ahead. 
Sadly, Seriema watched him go. With his own life smashed to splinters, it 
was too much to expect, at this time, that he could find it in himself to 
appreciate the happiness of others. 
Poor Tormon. No one can ever bring back his lifemate, but 
somehow, we must find a way to get his daughter back safely. If we fail, it 
will be the end for him. 
Rochalla had, perhaps, been a little more afraid when the winged 
monstrosities had invaded Tiarond, but it was a close-run thing. And, 
somehow, one of the most frightening aspects of the situation was the fact 

that the person who had been her protector then was now the very one who 
threatened her life. 
Everything had happened so quickly when Presvel had abducted Tormon’s 
daughter at knifepoint that Rochalla had been stunned into obedience, unable 
to think of a way to save herself or the child. Now, as the distance grew 
between herself and safety, her mind was starting to work once more—but 
what was the point? It was already too late. If she couldn’t do anything to 
save herself and Annas back in the fortress, where there were people around 
to help her, what hope did she have now, when she was all alone with a 
helpless child and a madman in this bleak and isolated place? For there was 
no doubt in Rochalla’s mind that she was dealing with a madman. The only 
possible way she could hope to get herself and Annas safely through this 
nightmare was to convince Presvel that she was on his side—no matter what 
it took to do so. 
I’ve got to save Annas, no matter what becomes of me. Poor Tormon has lost 
so much already—he couldn’t bear it if anything happened to his little girl. 
Rochalla was worried about the child. Annas had no coat or cloak, and the 
day was bitterly cold. Already, her skin had a chilled, pinched look. Much 
more alarming, however, was the way she had lapsed into that same, numb 
silence that had followed the death of her mother. Presvel had put her in 
front of him on the saddle, and she sat there like a rag doll, her eyes glazed, 
taking no notice of her surroundings. It was as though she had shut herself 
off once again, just as she had done before. 
It was hard for Rochalla to keep her hatred of Presvel from showing in her 
face. 
How could he do this? How dare he? The poor little thing was just 
beginning to regain her confidence. Goodness only knows how badly this 
will affect her. 
If we survive. 
Did Presvel know that the winged fiends had come out onto the moors? Did 
he care? If they should manage to get all the way back to Tiarond 
undiscovered by the creatures, what would happen then? Did Presvel really 
believe he could survive in a place that was swarming with such deadly 
predators? Did he have a plan at all? Or was he simply running? 
As they rode on, Presvel decided to pick up speed, so for some time 
Rochalla was too busy trying to cope with her horse to worry about anything 
else. Though Presvel was no great horseman, at least he could manage, but 
she had never ridden on her own before. It was a lot different from riding 
double, and being a mere passenger, as she had done when they had escaped 
from Tiarond. Not knowing how to hold the reins, or how to sit properly and 
balance herself in the saddle, she slithered and bounced around all over the 
place, perpetually on the brink of disaster, and staying on only by clinging 
for dear life to the front of the saddle. Her horse, sensing, as all animals will, 
who was the boss, eventually tired of following his stablemate and stopped 
abruptly, putting his head down to graze. Rochalla shot over his neck and 

landed facedown in a scratchy clump of heather. 
With an oath, Presvel turned his own mount and came back to her, wrestling 
with his own reins and keeping Annas in place with one hand, while leaning 
over to catch the girl’s straying mount by the bridle with the other. Rochalla, 
winded, scratched, muddy, and bruised, burst into tears, but he looked down 
on her with no trace of pity. “Get up,” he said coldly. 
“I can’t,” she sobbed. “You know I can’t ride this bloody thing!” 
Suddenly, he had the point of his knife at Annas’s throat once more. 
“Learn.” 
Cold hatred dried her tears. Glaring at him, she managed, somehow, to haul 
herself up onto the back of her fidgeting mount. Leaning across, he hit her, 
an open-handed blow across her cheek. “And take that look off your face.” 
Rochalla dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry, Presvel,” she said meekly. It wasn’t 
difficult to pretend to be cowed. It had been one thing to think he might hurt 
her, but quite another to have him do it. It had brought home to her, in a way 
that nothing else had, just how much danger she and Annas were in. Better 
to let him think he had intimidated her—otherwise, she knew she could 
expect further punishment. 
Presvel tied her reins to a ring on his saddle, and led her along. They rode in 
silence for some time before Rochalla gathered her courage and spoke. 
“Presvel, I’m trying to understand. Why did you kill the Summoner? You 
did kill him, didn’t you? But surely it must have been a mistake? An 
accident?” 
Presvel gave a short laugh. “Oh, it was a mistake, all right. It was your good 
friend Scall that I was after, when the old fool intervened.” 
Horror washed over her in a dizzying wave. “You were trying to kill Scall?” 
He gave her a black look. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about your little 
friend,” he sneered. “At least, not on my account. I was only trying to 
frighten him, and warn him off you—at that point, at least. No, it seems to 
have been Dark who dragged him off to who-knows-where.” He grinned 
nastily. “What with one thing and another, I doubt that they survived the 
night out here, but that’s hardly my fault. And now that the competition’s out 
of the way, you’ll go back to being mine, and only mine.” He squeezed 
Annas cruelly, so that the child whimpered. “We could make a nice family, 
don’t you think?” But the mockery in his voice gave the lie to any chance 
that he might keep the little girl alive. Rochalla fought to keep her voice 
level. “Of course we could. But Presvel, how are we going to survive in 
Tiarond? Is there nowhere else we could go?” 
“We’re going home,” Presvel said firmly. “I don’t believe that the winged 
demons will be there anymore. I don’t believe that there were all that many 
in the first place. Seriema panicked, and so did that ignorant oaf Tormon. 
There was no real need to leave and put ourselves through all this. You saw 
for yourself that there were still Godsword troops around, because we passed 
that patrol. They’ll have taken care of the problem by now, and everything 

will be as it was, except that I will take over the reins of Seriema’s empire— 
not to mention her mansion.” 
He smiled at Rochalla, his earlier violence apparently forgotten. “Everyone 
should have a home. Seriema doesn’t want her house anymore. She’s going 
to wed that dolt of a barbarian, the chieftain’s son, and spend the rest of her 
life running around like a savage on the moors. So I decided that we might 
as well have it, instead. After a whole lifetime of pandering to her 
Ladyship’s every whim and fancy, I think I’ve earned it, don’t you? And 
why shouldn’t you be a great lady? You may be a lying, treacherous little 
slut, but I’m sure we can cure you of that.” 
A chill went through Rochalla. More than ever, she knew that she and Annas 
must escape from this madman but, while he continued to hold Annas at 
knifepoint, she had no idea how she could get the two of them away. 
Tormon and the reivers must be following us by now, I’m sure of it, but they 
won’t dare come anywhere near us until after nightfall, when the winged 
fiends will be on the loose. Dear Myrial, I don’t know how we’ll ever 
manage to get out of this. 
In the Otherplace of Helverien’s long exile, the Mage gathered that it was 
time for recriminations among the new and unexpected visitors. As soon as 
the second pair arrived, caught by the same trap into which the first couple 
had fallen, there had been a very noisy shouting match, with much yelling 
and waving of arms. The four were so preoccupied with their dispute that 
they had ignored Helverien completely, and she had stepped back into the 
background, not very pleased, but listening, with one eyebrow raised, to all 
the commotion. “They may let slip more information in the course of their 
quarreling than they would tell us voluntarily,” she commented to Thirishri. 
*Truly.* Shree, quite literally invisible to the human eye, was also watching 
and listening closely, hovering above the humans. They certainly come from 
my time,* she said. Though I don’t know the others, I recognize the one of 
them as a Godsword—a Temple warrior from Tiarond. I wonder what he’s 
doing here? He would be the one who could tell us exactly what has been 
going on in the city, but I doubt that we’ll get much sense out of him until 
these idiotic humans have finally settled their differences.* 
Helverien nodded agreement. From the hot words that passed between them, 
she gathered that the prime quarrelers were brother and sister, that she had 
stolen something and run away, and that he had followed her. Though the 
field of human emotions had been closed to her for a very long time, she 
soon realized that beneath all the shouting and shoving, they loved each 
other very deeply and, as she had expected, the argument ended in a tearful 
embrace, and peace was restored. The Godsword, on the other hand, seemed 
to be avoiding a confrontation with the girl though, judging from the iciness 
of his demeanor, he was certainly angry with her. Helverien suspected that 

he was saving up their fight until they could be alone, which implied that the 
rift between them was much more serious. She vowed to keep an eye on 
them both. 
In the meantime, she noticed, the girl’s companion was staying well out of 
reach of the tall, blue-eyed warrior with the air of command. When Shree 
turned her attention to him, the skinny, unkempt little man was protesting his 
innocence. “But it wasn’t my fault. I saw her sneaking around the temple, 
and I saw her nick the food, but I didn’t know what else she had stolen until 
later. I followed her because I could see that she was getting into some kind 
of trouble, and I wanted to help. All along, I’ve been trying to persuade her 
to go back, but she wouldn’t.” 
Helverien, rather piqued that the quartet were far too preoccupied with their 
own affairs to take any notice of her, decided that it was time to intervene. 
Drawing herself up into a dignified pose, she stepped forward, so that all 
four humans fell silent and turned to look at her. “I am Helverien,” she said. 
“This place has been my dwelling and my prison for long ages uncounted. 
Before you say another word, I want to know who you are, how you came to 
this place, and what you are doing here.” She gestured them toward the table 
on the terrace and created chairs for the two newcomers. Judging from their 
reactions, the materialization of furniture out of thin air impressed them 
quite as much as it had done with the first two. Shree, watching, invisible, 
from above, sighed. Helverien ignored her, focusing all her attention on the 
four new arrivals. “Well?” 
It took some time to sort their stories out. Even with Shree, their 
contemporary, helping her with occasional pertinent comments, it took a 
while for Helverien to get all the facts straight—and to be honest, she found 
it difficult to care about the politics and petty machinations within the ranks 
of the Tiarondian survivors that had sent Aliana down into the tunnels 
beneath the Temple. Out of the entire tale, only one thing was of any 
importance. “Can I see the ring?” she asked. 
Reluctantly, with a wary glance at Galveron—as the Mage now knew his 
name to be—Aliana pulled it out of her pocket, unwrapped it, and laid it on 
the table, where the large red stone glowed like an ember. Helverien gasped. 
“I knew it! Do you know what this is? It’s a key. A key that can be used to 
repair the Curtain Walls. With this ring, and my knowledge, we stand a 
chance of rectifying matters.” Then she sighed. “If we could get out of here, 
that is.” 
Galveron had turned very pale. “So, are you saying that without this ring, no 
one in our world outside this place has a chance of putting things right?” 
The Mage shook her head. “There may be other ways, but the ring is the 
only one I know. But it’s doubtful that your people could have made use of it 
in any case ...” 
But Galveron was no longer listening. He was looking at the girl, his 
expression a daunting mixture of anger and contempt. “There,” he said. “Do 
you see what you’ve done? The lives of all those people will be on your 

conscience. I hope you’re proud of yourself.” 
With a cry of distress, Aliana leapt up from the table and ran off. Packrat got 
up to go after her, but Alestan restrained him with a hand on his arm. “Leave 
her. Give her a few minutes to get it out of her system. I’ll go after her in a 
little while.” He turned to Galveron, his eyes hard. “Sooner or later, you’ll 
pay for that.” 
The Godsword shrugged. “Really? Well, sooner or later we’ll all pay for 
what she did.” 
“Oh, come, Galveron,” Helverien intervened. “You were far too hard on the 
child. She was only thinking of you.” She looked down at the crimson jewel 
that glittered on the table. “She couldn’t have been expected to understand 
the significance of the ring. According to you, not even your Hierarch knows 
that.” 
“But she ought to know the difference between right and wrong,” Galveron 
replied implacably. “She was perfectly well aware that she was doing wrong 
when she stole that ring— but she did it anyway.” 
The Mage shook her head. “Maybe,” she said, “but in truth, this entire 
business has come down to a gamble. If someone should come looking for 
you all, and happen to free us, then Aliana will have done the only possible 
thing that could save the world, by bringing the ring to the one person who 
knew how to use it. If she hadn’t stolen it, and had just given it to your 
Hierarch—well, you would all have been doomed in any case.” 
“How do you know?” said Galveron indignantly. “We might have learned 
how to use it.” 
“And pigs might fly.” Helverien gave him a long, level look. “For my part, I 
think it almost impossible that you would have done any such thing. 
Whatever that poor, misguided girl’s motives were for stealing that ring, it 
was wrong and cruel of you to put the deaths of a whole world on her 
conscience. You owe her an apology.” 
Galveron spluttered. “I owe her an apology?” 
“You heard me. Just think for a moment, Galveron, why she did what she 
did. She never thought for one moment of keeping the ring for herself. She 
took it for you—because she believes in you, and she’s sure you’d make a 
damn sight better leader for her people than the current Hierarch.” Helverien 
smiled. “You have to admit, there aren’t many women who would have the 
gumption to try to steal a whole realm as a gift for the man they love.” 
“What?” 
“That’s bloody ridiculous!” 
“There’s no way Aliana would fall for an accursed Godsword!” 
The objections came from all three men simultaneously, and with such force 
that Helverien was almost rocked back on her seat. “Well, well,” she said to 
the watching Wind-Sprite, in mind-speech. “We may be trapped here, but 
this situation looks like providing us with some entertainment.” 

*Who cares about yet another example of human folly? How can you be so 
flippant when the future of the world is at stake?* 
The Magewoman shrugged. “If I could alter the fate of the world, I would, 
Thirishri, as well you should know. But since currently I’m not in a position 
to influence a damn thing, I might as well work with the material I have right 
here.” 
Muttering, Shree left the terrace, venting her frustration in a violent blast of 
wind that threw dust and leaves up into the air, almost flattened the olive 
trees, and sent a huge wave thundering up the beach. Before it could reach 
the humans, however, Helverien waved her hand, and the wall of water 
suddenly collapsed, spreading out across the beach before draining 
harmlessly back into the sea. 
“What in the name of perdition was that?” Alestan demanded. Packrat was 
trying out some of his more colorful curses, but Galveron sat silent and 
grave, so deep in thought that the phenomenon had passed him by almost 
unnoticed. Suddenly, he got to his feet. “I’m going to find Aliana.” 
Alestan rose to block his path. “Leave her alone. You’ve done enough 
damage.” 
Galveron’s eyes flashed, but when he spoke, his voice was almost 
conciliatory. “You don’t understand. I’m taking Helverien’s advice. Aliana 
was wrong to steal the ring, and nothing can change that, but I was equally 
wrong to treat her as I did. I don’t want to hurt her, Alestan. She—she means 
a lot to me. I’m going to apologize to her, and maybe then the two of us can 
talk this whole business through.” 
“Don’t let him,” Packrat said. “Make the stinking bastard leave her alone.” 
But Alestan stepped back. “All right,” he said. “For once, I actually believe 
you, Godsword.” 
Briefly, Galveron clasped the Grey Ghost’s hand. “Thank you, Alestan. I 
appreciate that. And don’t worry. I’ll be careful. I know that the last couple 
of days must have been very hard on her.” With that, he strode off in the 
direction in which the thief had vanished. 
Alestan shook his head. “I hope this situation isn’t going the way I think it 
is,” he said. “If I end up with a blasted Godsword for a brother-in-law, I’ll 
never live it down.” 
Packrat gasped. “But you wouldn’t let her ...” 
“How the blazes could I stop her? She’s her own woman, you ought to know 
that by now. That’s how we all ended up here in the first place. Just so long 
as she’s happy, and he takes care of her, I can stand it, I suppose.” 
Helverien watched them all with a faint, indulgent smile on her face. It was 
nice to have people around her again. 

Aliana sat beneath a tree, with her arms wrapped around her knees, and 
stared at the ocean. She wasn’t weeping, and she didn’t even feel any 
anger—not yet, at any rate. Within her was a numb emptiness where all her 
feelings ought to be. She didn’t even want to think about Galveron’s words, 
let alone take them in. Packrat had been right. Her whole impetuous scheme 
had ended in disaster; but just for a little while longer, she could pretend that 
it had not. By keeping her mind in this precarious state of blankness, she 
could pretend that the dreadful scene between herself and the Godsword 
Commander had never taken place. 
When Alestan and Galveron had appeared, Aliana had felt weak with relief 
at the sight of them, safe and apparently unhurt. Unfortunately, the pleasure 
didn’t seem to be mutual. She had never seen her brother so angry with 
her—but she and her twin could never stay vexed with each other for long. 
They were all the family each other had, and they shared the close, 
mysterious bond of twins. Their quarrels tended to be noisy, tumultuous, and 
of short duration, but once they had managed to get whatever-it-was out of 
their systems, forgiveness was as natural to them as breathing. 
I wish he was here with me right now. It would be such a comfort... 
It was much easier to think of Alestan’s stormy anger than Galveron’s cold 
contempt... But that thought was taking her in a direction in which she did 
not want to go, and she cut it off abruptly, returning to her contemplation of 
the vivid blue sea. 
She never heard him coming. One minute, it seemed, she was alone, and the 
next, Galveron was sitting beside her. She stiffened, not knowing exactly 
what to expect, but bracing herself for whatever was to come. 
“Aliana, I’ve come to say I’m sorry.” 
“What did you say?” This was the last thing she’d expected. 
“Don’t push it,” he growled. “One apology is all you get.” 
She kept on gazing out to sea, rather than look into his face just yet. It made 
things easier. “I’m sorry too, Galveron. It was a stupid idea.” 
Galveron picked up a pebble and threw it toward the water. “You know, 
you’ve had me worried sick about you? All the way through those accursed 
tunnels, I’ve been rehearsing, at great length, all the things I wanted to say to 
you. In the end, though, it all starts with a single word. ‘Why?’ ” 
Aliana gave him a wide-eyed glance of surprise. “You were worried sick? 
About me?” 
Galveron turned red. “Stop changing the subject,” he said gruffly. “Answer 
my question before you start asking any of your own.” 
So, as there seemed to be no way out of it, she took her courage in both 
hands and gave him a very direct look. “Why did I take the ring? Because 
you wouldn’t take it for yourself,” she said quietly. “You’re so damn loyal to 
Gilarra, but everyone except you can see that she can’t cope as Hierarch. She 
concentrates on the wrong things, she can’t seem to get herself, or anyone 

else, organized, she has no idea how to encourage people and make them 
feel important—just the opposite, in fact. She almost seems to feel it’s 
beneath her to say ‘thank you.’ If it hadn’t been for you, she would never 
have lasted beyond that first night, and neither would the rest of those poor 
refugees. I wanted you to see that you should take charge—at least for as 
long as the emergency lasts. The situation in the Temple needs a military 
mind, not a religious one. But if I had just said to you that you ought to step 
in and take over, you wouldn’t have listened—either that or you’d have 
scoffed at me, or told me to mind your own business. I wanted to make you 
see how serious I was about this, so my idea was to go down into the tunnels 
and hide the ring—to use it as a sort of hostage until Gilarra consented to 
step down and you agreed to lead us all. It wouldn’t just have been me, you 
know. Apart from the priesthood, maybe, you’d have had the entire Temple 
behind you.” 
The Godsword Commander shook his head. “But what about the penalties 
for stealing, you little idiot?” 
“You could hardly do anything to me if I was the only person who knew the 
whereabouts of the ring.” 
He shook his head. “To you, maybe. But what if I, or Gilarra, had elected to 
torture your friends until you gave it back?” 
That came as a blow. Aliana’s mouth fell open. “You— you wouldn’t have, 
would you?” 
“You have no idea what I would have done,” Galveron said sternly, “and 
furthermore, you had no idea what you were doing, either. It was the most 
harebrained, impractical, ill-conceived idea I’ve ever heard, and it was 
doomed to failure from the start.” 
Aliana hung her head. “I know that now,” she admitted. “I didn’t really have 
time to think it through properly. I knew I wouldn’t have the ring for long 
before Gilarra demanded it, and it was just a stroke of luck that I had it at all. 
It just seemed like fate, somehow...” She swallowed hard. “But then once I 
got into the tunnels, there was nowhere to hide the wretched thing, and so I 
kept on going because I didn’t dare go back, and by that time Packrat had 
become embroiled in the whole business, too, and it all just got so out of 
hand ...” She heard the tremor in her voice and swallowed hard. She was 
damned if she was going to cry in front of him! 
He put an arm around her shoulders. “Well, it’s done now, and Helverien 
says that if someone finds us in time, you did the only thing possible to save 
Callisiora.” 
“But what if they don’t find us?” Aliana said miserably. “Or what if 
someone comes after us and falls into the same trap as we did?” 
Galveron sighed. “I don’t know. But don’t worry. We’ll find a way to make 
it right somehow. And as for you... Well, I’m not going to worry about you 
anymore.” 
Aliana felt a pang of disappointment. In the short time she had known 

Galveron the liking between them had been growing, but she had thought 
she’d ruined their budding friendship by stealing the ring. Just for a little 
while, as they talked, it seemed as though the rift between them had been 
healed. She should have known better. She had betrayed his trust in her, and 
he wasn’t going to forgive her for that. She cleared her throat. “I don’t blame 
you for wanting nothing more to do with me,” she said, trying to keep her 
voice under control. “After everything I’ve done ...” 
“Now, hold on there! Who said I didn’t want anything to do with you? I’m 
going to ensure you won’t worry me, that’s all.” The Godsword Commander 
grinned at her, and put an arm around her shoulder. “From now on, I’m 
making it my personal business to keep you out of mischief, and I plan to 
take such good care of you, you won’t have a chance to get yourself into any 
more trouble.” 
“Well of all the nerve ...” Then Aliana’s brain caught up with her mouth, and 
she cut herself off in midprotest. If Galveron wanted to take care of her that 
suited her just fine. And if curbing the independence of a Grey Ghost was 
not going to be as easy as he thought—well, they would work that out as 
they went along. She answered his grin with a smile of her own. “All right,” 
she said with a deceptive meekness that would have made her brother 
shudder, had he been there to hear her. “I can live with that.” 
CHAPTER 30 
Fitting In 
Slightly away from the Gendival settlement, around the northern edge of the 
lake, on the opposite side from the tree-clad slopes where the Loremasters 
dwelt, and a few hundred yards past the village and the mill, there stood an 
abandoned house. About ten years previously, the place had been built by 
the miller’s eldest son, whose increasing family—his wife was one of those 
cheerful, fecund women who seemed to drop another offspring every 
year—had forced him to move out of the mill, and into a larger home of his 
own. His choice of site had proved unfortunate, however. It was a pretty 
spot, on the edge of the water, but two winters after the family had moved in, 
a freak storm had caused the lake to rise and break its banks, and the 
floodwaters had come pouring around the house. 
Everything had happened so quickly and unexpectedly that two of the 
family’s small children had been drowned while they were trying to make 
their escape, and after that, no one had wanted to live there anymore. 
Though such a storm happened only once in a blue moon, people now knew 
that particular location to be flood-prone, especially since such a large 

section of the banks had been washed away. The villagers thought the place 
was unlucky and haunted, and it was on the wrong side of the lake, and too 
distant from the other Loremaster dwellings and the settlement in general, to 
be of interest to the Shadowleague. 
Now, however, the abandoned house had come into its own once more, as 
the new home and prison of the captive Ak’Zahar. The main living area of 
the single-story house was being caged off—walls, floors, and ceiling—with 
a sturdy, specially reinforced mesh which would withstand even the strength 
of the winged predator. A team of Shadowleague volunteers whose scientific 
curiosity had overcome their revulsion were moving into the remainder of 
the dwelling to study the creature, turning the kitchen into the makeshift 
laboratory and the bedrooms into study and meeting rooms. The third 
bedchamber had retained its original function, and would hold beds for offduty 
researchers to rest from their day and night vigil. 
As dusk fell around Gendival, lighting had been put into position around the 
house, inside and out, and the research team, plus a number of laborers and 
artisans from the village, were continuing to work into the night to get the 
place ready for its new occupant. The sound of hammering, sawing, and the 
tumult of voices trying to be heard above the background noise could be 
heard from within, and flashes of brilliant light could be glimpsed through 
the windows as the cage was welded into place. 
Veldan leaned on the low garden wall and watched all the activity from a 
safe distance. She had put in an exhausting day with Amaurn, doing nothing, 
it seemed, but argue and fight with Cergorn’s supporters—not to mention 
other members of both Shadowleague and village. They hadn’t wanted the 
Takuru shapeshifters living in their midst, they didn’t want to keep the 
captive Ak’Zahar alive to study, and many of them hadn’t wanted Cergorn’s 
memories to be wiped. Thanks to nothing more, in the end, than Amaurn’s 
sheer strength of will, they had ended up getting all three, but it had taken an 
awful lot of wrangling and debate before they had given in. Veldan felt 
battered and drained from all the arguments and strong feelings flying 
around the settlement, which were even more wearing than usual because the 
protagonists were all adept in mind-speech. She had come outdoors to 
escape, and the last thing she wanted was someone volunteering her for a 
job. 
“Too damn right.” Kaz, as always, was at her side. “Honestly, Boss, I could 
hit you sometimes. Somebody ought to knock some sense into you. In a 
couple of hours we’ll be leaving for Callisiora again. This was our last 
chance for a while to have supper in front of a nice, roaring fire, and instead 
of making the most of the opportunity, we’re standing out here on a cold, 
damp evening looking at the ugly face of that accursed monstrosity.” He 
twitched his tail in irritation. 
“Oh, shut up, Kaz.” Veldan made a rude gesture at him. “You know very 
well why I came out here.” Her eyes went to the Ak’Zahar, which was in a 
temporary cage on the other side of the garden wall, while its new enclosure 
was being constructed. It was crouched in a corner, watching her with a flat, 

unblinking stare that promised her no mercy should she stray within its 
reach. The Loremaster shuddered. All that day, the planned return to Tiarond 
with Amaurn had been preying on her mind. There had been no doubt that 
she would go, but the thought of having to face those winged predators once 
more was filling her with dread. So she had brought herself out here to the 
captive Ak’Zahar, in the hope that spending time in the presence of her old 
enemy would somehow inure her to the terror of its fellows, but it didn’t 
seem to be working. On a night like this, the raw cold stiffened the scars on 
her arm and shoulder, and set them aching, reminding her all too clearly of 
her last encounter with the Ak’Zahar. Unconsciously her hand went to the 
side of her face and, once more, she became aware of the difference in the 
texture of her skin and the eerie numbness that existed in the new-grown 
tissue. 
Will it happen again? 
Will it be worse this time? 
Will I die in slow agony, as Melnyth did, torn into a thousand pieces by talon 
and tooth? 
The firedrake growled, low in his throat. “No, no, and no!” he snapped. 
“This time, I’ll be with you, and I’m not going to let anything happen.” 
Veldan put an arm around his curving neck and decided that there was no 
point in trying to hide her doubts from her partner. “But you heard what 
Scall said. There’ll be tunnels again. What if it’s the same as last time, and 
you can’t be with me?” 
“Ah,” the firedrake said smugly, “I knew you’d be worried about that, so I 
talked to Amaurn. He’s agreed to take blasting equipment and a couple of 
those plasma beam weapons, like the one that Kher is so good with, so that 
we can enlarge any openings that aren’t built for beautiful and intelligent 
and proper-sized beings such as myself.” 
He leered at her, and Veldan burst out laughing, feeling relief sweep over her 
at the thought of having her partner at her side. “Oh, Kaz—I do love you.” 
Suddenly the firedrake’s head snapped round, as he peered into the shadows. 
“Who’s there?” 
Dark stepped out, looking a little discomfited. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to 
interrupt. Amaurn sent me to find you, Veldan. He says we should all be 
getting some rest, since we’ll be riding through the night.” It had been 
decided that the journey would begin at such an uncivilized hour so that they 
could reach the Curtain Walls at daybreak, and be traveling through the 
predator-ridden lands of Callisiora in the daylight. 
The Loremaster laughed. “Amaurn says we should be getting some rest? 
Coming from him, that’s rich, the way he’s been charging around all day 
with that wound, keeping going on drugs and your painkilling skills.” 
“I know,” Dark agreed. He came up beside her and took up a similar 
position, leaning comfortably against the wall. “I had to refuse him in the 
end, just so that he would slow down a bit and act sensibly—or at least, that 

was the idea. I know that Kyrre knit those tissues with her sealer, but the 
repair needs time to strengthen. Only his body’s natural healing processes 
can complete the job. He’s crazy to push himself as he’s doing, and this trip 
to Tiarond in his condition is nothing short of ridiculous.” 
“I think so, too,” Veldan agreed, “but he doesn’t seem to feel he has a 
choice.” She shrugged. “I feel a bit like that myself, I suppose. Once you’ve 
tangled with the Ak’Zahar, things become personal.” 
“You did?” Dark looked surprised. 
“I certainly did.” Lightly, Veldan touched her disfigured face. “It was the 
Ak’Zahar who gave me this.” Somehow, possibly because the subject had 
already been broached with Dark, she could talk quite comfortably about her 
scars. “We were in Ghariad, their own lands, a good way to the north of here 
beyond the Curtain Walls. Cergorn was Archimandrite then, and he had sent 
us to gather information; Kaz and me, and Elion with his partner Melnyth.” 
She swallowed hard, against memories that still were painful. “In a way, I 
got off lightly that day. When they discovered us, they tore poor Melnyth to 
pieces, and the rest of us were lucky to escape with our lives. We thought 
Elion would never get over it.” 
“And yet the three of you are prepared to go up against them again,” Dark 
said wonderingly. “That takes a rare and special kind of courage.” 
In the darkness, Veldan felt herself blushing. “What about you?” she asked, 
to cover her embarrassment. “You must be the only person ever to have 
captured one of the Ak’Zahar. That’s a pretty impressive feat.” 
The Summoner laughed. “Don’t tell anyone, or I’ll never live it down, but 
I’m afraid the laurels have to go to Scall for that one. The creature was 
attacking me—in fact, it had me on the ground—when he bashed it with a 
rock.” For a moment, his face grew somber. “I thought it was the end for me, 
to tell you the truth.” 
“And yet you’re willing to pit yourself against them, too,” Veldan said. 
Dark nodded. “It’s for all the folk I left behind, in Arcan’s clan,” he said. “I 
may have left them without a Summoner, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped 
feeling responsible for them. Grim would expect no less of me.” 
“Grim was Amaurn’s old friend?” 
“That’s right. He was my friend too, and my teacher and mentor, besides. He 
was like a father to me.” His voice thickened with unshed tears, and 
unthinkingly, Veldan tucked an arm through his. 
“It’s hard when you lose someone you love,” she said. 
Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Have you tried mind-speech on our 
captive here?” 
“No.” Veldan shuddered. “To be honest, I’m not even sure how intelligent 
they are. Thank Providence, they don’t seem to have much idea of working 
or hunting cooperatively, or we would be in bigger trouble than we are, but 
on the other hand, they do strike me as being brighter than the average 

animal. Why do you ask, anyway? Have you tried mind-speech with it?” 
The Summoner nodded. “I walked over here earlier today. I thought that if 
we could somehow work out a way to communicate with the Ak’Zahar, it 
might solve a lot of our problems. It would have given Amaurn a lot more 
ammunition for the argument that we should keep it here, besides.” 
“And what happened?” 
“Nothing. All I got was a blank, like a wall. But I couldn’t decide whether it 
actually lacked the ability to use mind-speech or whether it was shielding 
itself from me because we’re its enemies.” 
“I wonder ...” An idea began to form in Veldan’s mind. “If we can get one of 
the Takuru to join the research team, and it takes on the form of the 
Ak’Zahar, it might get our captive specimen to be more trusting, and to 
communicate.” 
Dark’s face lit up. “That’s a brilliant idea!” 
“It was pretty inspired, if I say so myself, and at least it might help to justify 
Amaurn’s promise that the Takuru could come and live here in the 
settlement. Sadly, though, it won’t be much help to us.” Veldan sighed. “If 
only we didn’t have to leave so soon! The items Scall found, plus your 
Ak’Zahar, might have made our task a whole lot simpler, but there’s no time 
to investigate them now.” 
“Having all the answers handed to us on a plate would be just too easy—and 
when is life ever like that? At least this crisis has given us the impetus to 
discover new material that might help to ensure that such a disaster never 
happens again.” 
Veldan nodded. “You’re right, of course. And now that Amaurn is running 
the Shadowleague, we’ll be able to make good use of these new finds, 
instead of burying them ... And if we fail when we get to Tiarond, those who 
follow after us may stand a better chance.” 
“Let’s not talk about failing,” Dark said hastily. “Tell me about the Takuru 
instead. I know I’m new here, but I can’t understand the antipathy people 
have toward them. There are so many weird and wonderful beings in the 
Shadowleague; so why such prejudice against one particular race? I thought 
there was going to be a riot today when Amaurn announced that they were 
coming to live with everyone else. They almost seemed to object to the 
Takuru even more than they did to the Ak’Zahar, and that’s ridiculous.” 
“The Takuru have a bad reputation in the Shadowleague,” Veldan told him. 
“People are unnerved by a creature who could be right in their midst without 
them knowing, and though most of them seem to be decent enough, there 
have been various shapeshifters in the past who were more than willing to 
cause mischief by spreading gossip and passing on secrets that they’d 
overheard.” 
Dark nodded. “And so the problem escalates. The Takuru make mischief 
because they aren’t accepted, and they aren’t accepted because they make 
mischief.” 

“Exactly. And Cergorn’s habit of using them as spies didn’t help, either. 
That’s why there’s a fair-sized community of them living here—on the 
outskirts, of course. The Archimandrite found them far too useful to allow 
them to go home, yet he wouldn’t bring them right into the settlement, 
either. I think he felt he would retain power over them by throwing them the 
occasional crumb of acceptance while leaving them hungry for more. It’s 
very sad, really.” 
“Well, let’s hope it will change now,” the Summoner said. “I thought 
Kalevala spoke very well today. Her solemn oath that the Takuru would 
stick to their true forms within Gendival did a lot to set people’s minds at 
rest.” 
“That’s true,” Veldan agreed. “And because Cergorn used the Takuru 
himself, even his supporters couldn’t really find a lot to object to, in the 
end.” 
Dark turned to look at her. “Tell me to mind my own business if you want 
to, but I thought it was hard for you when Cergorn left today.” 
“You’re right.” Now Veldan was the one who felt close to tears. The parting 
from Cergorn and Syvilda that afternoon had been difficult. She had known 
them all her life—in a sense, they had practically brought her up. Though 
her relations with them had soured lately, they were still an important part of 
her life, and she was conscious of how much she owed them. The worst part 
of all had been the lack of any recognition on their blank faces as Cergorn 
was carried on board the waiting Navigator vessel, with Syvilda following. 
Though Veldan knew that the memory-wipe would have been painless, and 
she was also aware that they had a whole lifetime’s fabricated memories 
waiting to be triggered once the ship had departed from Gendival, it seemed 
that part of her past was being erased, as well as theirs. Though they would 
survive, and hopefully would live out a happy life, to her it would be as 
though they had died. She knew that she would never see them again. 
She sighed. “I think the hardest part of losing them was knowing that we 
parted on such bad terms. Cergorn was far from pleased with me and Elion 
when we returned from Callisiora, but maybe we could have patched that up 
in time. Once Amaurn came on the scene, though, and I sided with him 
against them ...” She shook her head. “There’s such a lot of old hatred there. 
Even if there had been some way for Cergorn and Syvilda to have stayed in 
Gendival, they never would have forgiven me for choosing Amaurn, just as 
he never forgave them for his own trial and exile, and indirectly, for my 
mother’s death.” 
Suddenly, Veldan didn’t want to talk about it anymore, and it was her turn to 
cast around for a change of subject. “If you don’t mind me asking, is Dark 
your real name?” 
He shrugged. “It is now. Grim gave it to me when he took me as his 
apprentice, and even though I’ve left the reivers for the Shadowleague and 
I’m not really a Summoner any longer, I want to keep it for his sake.” 

Suddenly, they were interrupted as the Ak’Zahar made a leap to the front of 
its cage Hissing and snarling, it reached out a bony arm between the bars and 
flailed at Dark with its claws extended. With an oath, Veldan jumped back, 
then grinned sheepishly at her companion. “Old habits die hard. Even with 
that monstrosity behind bars, I don’t think I’ll ever really get used to having 
it around.” 
“You and most other folk,” Dark said ruefully. “Amaurn had to push very 
hard to get the Shadowleague to accept it, and the villagers were almost 
worse.” 
“Amaurn’s good at pushing, though. They came round to the idea in the 
end.” 
“Only because he didn’t leave them with a lot of choice,” Dark retorted. 
“Nobody but that handful of researchers actually wanted it.” 
“Maybe you’re being a bit too pessimistic,” Veldan argued. “It’s only 
natural that people are going to feel uneasy about living so close to one of 
the Ak’Zahar. I do myself, even though I know it’s locked up quite safely. 
But I also believe in your argument that knowledge is the most powerful 
weapon. When Amaurn put that to them, I think most folk accepted it, albeit 
reluctantly.” 
“I’m glad that he put it to them, and I didn’t have to,” Dark said. “They 
would have made mincemeat of me— especially that Afanc. We didn’t get 
off to a good start when he came rearing up out of the lake and threatening 
me and Kher, when I first arrived, and I got the impression that our second 
meeting today wasn’t much better. His objections against the Ak’Zahar were 
violent, to say the least, and I know that he was blaming me for bringing it 
here.” 
“Bastiar’s objections were more against Amaurn’s being leader than you and 
your Ak’Zahar,” Veldan told him. “He’s one of Cergorn’s most loyal 
supporters.” She shivered. “I’ve never seen him so angry as he was when 
Amaurn announced Cergorn’s exile, even though he must have known, in 
his heart, that it was a kinder and more charitable act than executing him.” 
“Is it always like this when the Archimandrite changes?” Dark asked. “It 
seems a little extreme.” 
“No,” Veldan shook her head. “As far as I’m aware, the progression from 
one leader to the next is usually quite smooth. But you’ve joined the 
Shadowleague in tumultuous times, my friend. Partly, I think, it’s due to the 
breakdown of the Curtain Walls, and all the associated problems. Suddenly, 
the isolationist position of the Shadowleague was hampering our attempts to 
help the victims of the resulting wars and climate shifts and, more 
importantly, it was interfering with our ability to put the situation right. If 
that wasn’t bad enough, we had Cergorn and Amaurn, whose positions and 
opinions were so polarized that they had to be natural enemies, and of 
course, we still have their followers entrenched in their opposing camps.” 
She picked a piece of lichen off the wall, and sighed. “It was so tedious 

today, having to go through all those tired old arguments about tradition 
versus innovation yet again. The fact is, no one will know if the new ways 
are any good until they’ve been tried, and no one would ever try them before 
now, because once the knowledge is out there, it can never be taken back 
again. I know it’s a risk, but I don’t think we can keep suppressing this stuff 
forever. Take those lamps over there.” She waved a hand in the direction of 
the brightly lit house. “They’re powered by crystals which are found in the 
deserts of the Dragonfolk, and there’s certainly a tradition that the Dragons 
used them on their home world. But were we allowed to use them here? Of 
course not. Cergorn and his predecessors wanted to keep even the 
Shadowleague to a low level of technology, so that we wouldn’t get 
dependent on it to solve problems while we were out in the world. Amaurn 
actually had those lamps hauled out of the museum and told the researchers 
to use them, but a lot of people aren’t too happy with the idea. It’s the same 
with his notion of using blasting powder against the Ak’Zahar while they 
roost.” She was talking about a suggestion that Amaurn had made, toward 
the end of that morning’s meeting. “It’s the only way I can think of to deal 
with them, and it’s certainly the safest—apart from the poor soul who has to 
go in and set the charges, of course. But to hear the Afanc talk, you’d think 
the world was coming to an end. I’d like to think that, with Cergorn gone, 
we should see an end to the dissension, but it won’t happen. His followers 
are still here, they’re still very resentful, and while the former Archimandrite 
is alive, they’ll keep looking for a way to bring him back.” 
“Do you think they’ll ever manage it?” Dark asked. He shifted position 
uneasily. “Judging from the Afanc’s behavior, I wouldn’t give much for the 
prospects of Amaurn or his supporters if they succeed.” 
“I don’t think they’ll be able to bring back Cergorn as leader,” Veldan said. 
“Not after a full memory-wipe. But there would certainly be nothing to stop 
them aligning themselves behind another candidate.” As she spoke, she 
thought of the lost Wind-Sprite, Cergorn’s former partner. 
J wonder what happened to Shree? Because if she ever returns, Amaurn will 
really have to watch his back. 
A silence fell between them, and they stood for a while, turning their backs 
on the brightly lit house to watch the stars glittering in the darkness above 
and the wind ruffling the surface of the lake. 
It was interrupted by Kaz’s voice. “I hate to interrupt, but Amaurn wants to 
know where you two are. He says he’s finished working out his plans for the 
blasting powder with Kher, and we’re nearly ready to go.” The firedrake 
snickered. “Naturally, I didn’t tell him where to find you—but I think you 
and your new friend had better hurry right along, sweetie, before he comes 
looking for you.” 
Only when she heard Kaz speak, did Veldan remember that he had been 
there, and wonder when he had actually left. “Where are you?” she wanted 
to know. 
“I’ve been enjoying that supper in front of the fire that you won’t get now. I 

didn’t think you needed me around.” He paused, and she could sense that he 
was grinning. “I like Dark. I think he shows a lot of promise—especially for 
a Callisioran.” 
Veldan was glad that the darkness hid her blush. “I’m glad you like him, 
Kaz. So do I.” 
She turned to the Summoner. “We’d better be getting back. Kaz said that 
Amaurn is ready to go.” 
Dark’s eyes widened in surprise. “What—so soon? The time has just flown 
by.” Even as Veldan turned to go, he hesitated. “Veldan—do you really 
think I’ll fit in here?” 
She stepped back toward him, and took his hand. “I think you’re going to fit 
in just fine.” 
CHAPTER 31 
The Way Back 
Annas was afraid of Presvel, but it was more than that: she hated him, too. 
He had handled her roughly, he had hurt her with a knife, and he had hit 
poor Rochalla—and worst of all, he had taken her away from her dad. He 
was a Bad Man, just like the Bad Men who had killed her mama. Some 
instinct of survival made the little girl stay very still, slouching in the saddle 
and pretending to be asleep. If she didn’t do anything, or say anything, 
maybe he would forget that she was there and not hurt her. 
Beneath her eyelashes, she caught the occasional sidelong glimpse of 
Rochalla. Because she had been brought up with horses, and riding them 
before she could walk, she could tell that the blond girl didn’t have a clue. 
Rochalla was sitting all wrong, and sliding around in the saddle, because she 
wasn’t holding on properly with her legs. She looked uncomfortable and 
scared. Annas wanted to help her and tell her what she was doing wrong, but 
if she spoke up, it might make Presvel angry, which was the last thing she 
wanted. All too well, she remembered what the other Bad Men had done to 
her mama. What if this one did the same thing to Rochalla— or even to 
herself? 
The rain was beginning to turn into big, wet snowflakes, and Annas didn’t 
have a coat or a cloak to keep her warm. She was cold, tired, hungry, and 
scared, and getting wetter by the minute, and she wished that her dad was 
here. He wouldn’t let Presvel hurt her. Where was he? Why wasn’t he here? 
Why had he let the Bad Man get her? Surely he must be coming. Oddly, the 
other person who would have been comforting to have around was Lady 

Seriema. She might be a bit grumpy, but she wasn’t so bad, really, and she 
wouldn’t put up with any nonsense from Presvel. She could tell him what to 
do—Annas had seen her do it before. 
My dad will be coming. He must be coming. All I have to do is look after 
Rochalla till he gets here, and not let the Bad Man get me. Then everything 
will be all right. 
Of course, if she could get away, somehow, then that would be even better. 
It didn’t seem very likely that she could manage it, but Annas was 
determined to be on the watch. If a chance did come along for her to run 
away, she had better not waste it. 
Presvel was actually beginning to hope that he might get away with this. It 
was growing dark now, and so far there was no sign of any pursuit. Though 
he had more sense than to believe that Tormon and the reivers weren’t after 
him, if he could keep them at a sufficient distance, he might actually have a 
chance to get up into Scall’s tunnels before they realized his intentions. 
Then, safe and sound from any threat of the winged demons, he was sure he 
could lose his pursuers altogether. 
Though the valleys were falling into shadow, there was still a little daylight 
left in the evening sky. Ahead of him, he could see the looming mountains, 
with the peak of Mount Chaikar standing tall and proud above the others, a 
landmark and a beacon to guide his way. Now that it was beginning to get 
dark, and he was coming closer and closer to the city, he began to worry 
about the winged predators. Once or twice he thought he heard a harsh cry in 
the distance, but with Presvel’s innocence of anything to do with nature, it 
might just as well have been a night bird, or some hunting animal. The wind 
was getting up now, too, and as it whistled across the open spaces of the 
bleak foothills, it distorted and masked all other sounds. 
As the mountain drew closer and the hills around its skirts became more 
steep and rugged, the halfhearted snowfall began to thicken, though the soft 
wet flakes didn’t lie, but sank into the muddy ground, and vanished. Now 
that the clouds were coming down, it was growing increasingly difficult to 
see without carrying lights of some kind, which the fugitive dared not do. 
Besides, the two horses were exhausted; stumbling and staggering along the 
slippery trail. When the little group of refugees had left the city, going the 
other way, Tormon had rested their mounts frequently, making everyone 
dismount and lead them for a time, but Presvel hadn’t been interested in 
walking—especially when he knew he was being pursued. Now, even 
though he was no horseman, it was beginning to come home to him that if he 
didn’t stop soon, he would lose the horses altogether. The prospect of 
finishing his journey on foot, combined with the threat of the winged 
demons, brought him to his senses. For some time now, as they had drawn 
nearer to Tiarond, they had been passing the odd farmstead, not to mention 
isolated cottages belonging to laborers and shepherds. Much as it made him 

uneasy to stop when he knew that Tormon and the reivers must be on his 
trail, and much as he begrudged losing the time, he knew he would have to 
find somewhere to shelter for the night. His only comfort was that his 
pursuers would be in the same position. 
For some time, he had been following a track which seemed to be leading 
him in the right direction, and finally, it had joined a clear, if primitive, road. 
As it wound across the side of a hill, Presvel saw another narrow track 
leading up to his left, and a cluster of buildings nestling into a hollow in the 
hillside above. Clearly, they had been abandoned—there were no lights in 
the windows, and no smoke could be seen from the chimneys—and he 
decided that they would be as good a place as any to stop for the night. 
It was difficult to persuade the horses to drag their way up the steep hillside, 
especially with the riders still aboard, but there was no way that Presvel was 
going to walk all the way up there. When they finally reached the cluster of 
buildings he found a stable, and they dismounted and led the drooping beasts 
inside. Rochalla was limping stiffly, grimacing with pain but, nevertheless, 
he made her take the saddles and bridles from the horses and give them a 
perfunctory rubdown with a wisp of musty straw, while he stood nearby, still 
holding Tormon’s child at knifepoint. Leaving the weary animals to roam 
loose within the stable, to find any bits of fodder they might scrounge, 
Presvel made sure that they were securely fastened in. Then, tucking the 
child under one arm, he made Rochalla walk in front of him to the house, 
carrying the saddlebags. 
The farmhouse was dirty and squalid, and smelled of mold and damp, but at 
least it was a shelter from the predators that stalked the night. When he put 
Annas down, the child ran to Rochalla, who knelt and put her arms around 
her. “Are you all right?” she asked softly. “Mostly,” Annas said. “But I’m 
cold and I’m hungry.” 
“Here,” Presvel said, pulling the cloth-wrapped package out of his 
saddlebag. “I brought us some food.” 
“What about a fire?” Rochalla asked. “We’re frozen.” 
“No fire,” he said flatly. Though it would have made sense for Tormon and 
the reivers to have found their own shelter by that time, the trader’s concern 
for his daughter might have overridden all considerations of safety, in which 
case Presvel was not about to take the risk of betraying his whereabouts. 
Smoke from a chimney might attract the winged fiends, too, and that was the 
last thing he wanted. Rochalla looked as though she wanted to protest, but 
she compressed her lips and said nothing. The memory of the earlier blow 
must still be clear in her mind. Presvel smiled to himself. Evidently, he had 
been too indulgent with her in the past. He should have taken a firmer hand 
with her long ago. After he had fed them, he made Rochalla put the little girl 
to bed in one of the upstairs rooms and, once Annas was settled, locked the 
door behind her. Then, ignoring the blond girl’s protests, he took her arm 
and hustled her back downstairs. He’d had no chance to get her alone since 
they had left Tiarond—but that was about to change. He had a lot of lost 

time to make up, but on the other hand, they had the whole night in front of 
them. Presvel looked hungrily at the blond girl who was his at last. The last 
few days had been bad ones, but maybe things were looking up. 
It was a long night. Cetain’s reiver band spent the hours of darkness in 
another abandoned farm, but this house was an empty, burnt-out shell, and 
they were forced to camp out, horses, warriors, and all, in the large, sturdy 
barn. Looking around at the walls of solid stone, Seriema was reminded of 
the night when they had been attacked by the predators on the moor and 
forced to take shelter in the cellar of the old, ruined tower. She reflected that 
she was lucky to be living in a region where stone was cheaper and more 
plentiful than wood as a building material. That one fact might make all the 
difference to the survival of human beings in these mountains. 
There was nowhere safe for a fire in the barn, which was going to mean a 
chilly night, but the straw and dried bracken in the upper loft could make a 
cosy bed, and they found a small but precious supply of hay squirreled away 
in a corner, to feed the horses. 
As always, each rider carried rations with him, so supper was not a problem. 
After watches were set, the men began to settle down for the night, making 
themselves at home in their new surroundings. Word of Cetain and 
Seriema’s intentions to wed had spread through the troop, and so they had to 
endure some good-natured chaffing on the subject of sleeping arrangements, 
but she didn’t care. Drowsy after the long ride, she wanted nothing more 
than to snuggle down with Cetain and fall asleep in the warmth of his arms. 
Unfortunately, however, she was too concerned about Tormon to do 
anything of the kind. 
When Cetain had insisted on finding shelter for the night, the trader had 
argued long and vehemently against the decision, and had only changed his 
mind when Seriema had pointed out that they ran the risk of losing Presvel’s 
trail in the dark—or even worse, they stood a chance of running into him and 
frightening him into harming his hostages. Finally, Tormon had acquiesced, 
though with ill grace, and now he had taken himself apart from the others, 
and was standing near his horse, looking as if he intended to stay there all 
night. 
Seriema was sitting on a pile of bracken up in the hayloft, looked down 
helplessly at the trader. “I feel as if I should go to him,” she told Cetain, “but 
I just don’t know what to say. He already lost his lifemate in the most 
horrific circumstances, and now his little girl is at risk, and frankly, her 
prospects don’t look good. Any words of comfort I could try to offer him 
would be empty right now. He would know it, and so would I.” 
“I’ll go and talk to him, shall I?” Cetain got to his feet, brushed straw and 
bracken fronds from his clothing, and scrambled down the ladder, leaving 
Seriema looking after him in astonishment. He approached Tormon, and 

seemed to be admiring the big black Sefrian stallion, and to her surprise, the 
trader was soon talking to him. The conversation went on for a while, and 
though Seriema, eaten up with curiosity, strained her ears, she was too far 
away to hear what they were saying. After a time, Cetain clapped Tormon on 
the shoulder and set off back up the ladder. In a few minutes, the trader 
followed him and settled down in the bracken. 
Wide-eyed, Seriema looked at the reiver. “What in the name of all creation 
did you say to him?” she whispered, as he settled back down beside her. 
Cetain looked a little uncomfortable. “Just man stuff,” he said. 
“Man stuff?” Seriema’s eyebrows went almost up to her hairline. 
He sighed. “Oh, all right—if you really want to know. I said I understood 
why he was in a hurry to get his hands on Presvel. I told him that if it were 
you, or our child, who had been taken hostage, I would feel just the same.” 
He spread out his hands. “Lass, it’s no good trying to tell a man in Tormon’s 
position that everything will be all right. He knows damn well that there’s a 
good chance it won’t.” 
“So what did you tell him?” Seriema was still a little baffled by all this. 
Cetain looked her straight in the eye. “I promised him that whatever happens 
tomorrow, I’ll help him hunt down Presvel and kill him, like the dangerous 
animal he’s become.” 
“Oh.” It was as though someone had kicked Seriema in the stomach. For a 
moment, she felt physically sick. 
Cetain was looking at her with concern, searching her face carefully with his 
eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you understand, don’t you, why it has to be 
this way? I know he was your friend and companion for so many years, but 
we aren’t hunting the old Presvel, the one you knew. This one has already 
murdered one man, and now he has a young girl and a child at his mercy. It 
we let him go, next time it could be you, or me, or our child if we ever have 
one, or someone else’s.” 
Seriema took a deep breath. “If he ever goes after you, I’ll kill him myself,” 
she said fiercely—then shook her head. “Just listen to me, would you? As if 
I’d have the faintest clue how to kill a man!” She nestled into the curve of 
his arm. “I know you’re right, Cetain. In my heart, I’ve known all along that 
we weren’t going to bring Presvel back alive. But it took a while for the 
reality to sink in, I suppose.” Her eyes filled with tears. “And I can’t help but 
mourn for the man I used to know.” 
Cetain held her tightly. “I shouldn’t have brought you, really,” he said. “But 
I was selfish. I needed you to be part of this. I don’t want to involve you in 
Presvel’s death, but you were a part of his life. For the sake of our future, 
lass, I don’t want you wondering if I took part in the needless slaughter of 
your oldest friend. Such a doubt would fester between us and ruin what we 
have together. This way it’s hard for you, but at least you’ll be there. You’ll 
know what happened and why, and you won’t spend the rest of your life 
wondering.” 

Seriema wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I understand,” she said, 
“and you’re right, even though it isn’t easy to be a part of it all.” 
“Aye, life can be very cruel, sometimes.” He kissed her gently. “But it does 
have its compensations, too. Let’s try and get some sleep now, shall we? 
Hopefully, by this time tomorrow, it’ll all be over.” 
As Seriema snuggled down into the bracken beside Cetain, the last thing she 
saw, before she closed her eyes, was the lonely figure of Tormon, sitting 
alone with his arms wrapped around his knees, staring vacantly into space. 
And in that moment, she knew without a single doubt that they were doing 
the right thing. 
As the bleak dawn broke across the hills, Rochalla cleaned herself as best 
she could in cold water in the farmhouse kitchen, wishing that she could 
wash away the memory of Presvel’s foul touch. The previous night had been 
one of the most difficult of her life, but it would have been far worse had she 
not spent those hard years as a whore, to keep her family alive. During that 
time she had learned to distance herself from what was happening to her 
body, no matter how distasteful it might be. 
When Derla died, I swore that I would never again lie with a man I didn’t 
love, for as long as I lived. I broke that oath when I put myself under 
Presvel’s protection, because I was alone and scared, but little did I know 
then, that I would have 
to play the whore for him to save my own life, and that of another little girl. 
Presvel had been outside, checking that their horses had made it safely 
through the night. He knew he didn’t have to worry about her running 
away—not with poor little Annas locked in the room upstairs and the key in 
his pocket. She heard his step outside and rearranged her clothing hastily. He 
had been insatiable through the night, and she didn’t want to give him any 
glimpses of flesh that might set him off again. 
As he came in, he was whistling. “All ready to go?” he said. She couldn’t 
believe how well she had deceived him. He was so desperate to believe that 
she still wanted him that he had never paused to consider how she might feel 
about a murderer who had captured herself and a little child at knifepoint. 
He won’t ever trust me completely—even Presvel has more sense than that. 
Besides, this violent jealousy of his would never allow it even under the most 
ideal circumstances. But the more I can get him to relax around me, and the 
more happy, and wanted, I can make him feel, the better my chances will be 
to get him to drop his guard and give me a chance to get Annas away from 
him. 
Putting on a bright smile, she turned to her captor. “Just let me give Annas 
something to eat, and get her ready, then we can be on our way. I’m looking 
forward to seeing Tiarond again.” 

“Oh—of course. Here, you’ll need this to get into her room.” 
As she took the key, Rochalla realized that Presvel had been too wrapped up 
in his own concerns to consider Tormon’s child. As she went upstairs, she 
knew she would do whatever it took to protect the little girl. To save Annas, 
she was willing to debase her own body and her own emotions, and to lie 
until she was black in the face. She only hoped that her subterfuge would 
eventually bear fruit. At the moment, she could see no way out. 
All I can do is hold on, and try to keep us safe, and hope that help is on its 
way. Otherwise, we don’t stand a chance. Sooner or later, the winged fiends 
will get us—or Presvel will kill us himself. 
On the other side of the Curtain Walls, a crowd of people were encamped 
around the Gendival wayshelter. Amaurn’s little force from the 
Shadowleague settlement had ridden hard all night, arriving at the refuge not 
long before dawn. Now they were taking a couple of hours’ rest, as much for 
the horses as for themselves, before venturing back into Callisiora. Though 
the trail over the Snaketail was bad at this time of year, they had seen in 
Scall’s world-viewing artifact that it was not blocked by snow as yet, and so 
they had decided to risk the quicker route, which would get them there by 
about noon, rather than circle farther southwest, into the lands of the reivers, 
and take the long way round, climbing up to the plateau by the long, steep 
road. 
The morning had dawned cold, grey, and damp, as though Callisiora’s 
miserable weather was reaching out through the Curtain Walls to touch 
them, and they had built campfires for comfort and cheer on such a gloomy 
day, as well as for cooking and heat. People gathered round them, weary 
after the long night’s ride, and checked equipment or sat talking quietly, 
content to make the most of the break in their journey. 
They were a fair-sized group, Toulac thought, as she walked among them. 
Blade—Amaurn, she corrected herself—had come in person, leaving the 
nightmarish Maskulu in charge of the Shadowleague in his absence. At 
present, he was inside the wayshelter itself, while Dark, the other new recruit 
to the Shadowleague, checked his wounds. Veldan, still faintly disapproving 
of the Archimandrite’s having included himself, was with him and, of 
course, where she went, Kaz was never very far away. Though he wouldn’t 
fit inside the small stone building, he was sitting just outside, only separated 
from his partner by a wall. 
Elion was sitting by one of the campfires, talking to the strange 
Zavahl/Aethon partnership, and Scall was at the same fire, but keeping his 
distance. Though Elion was an old friend, the boy was still too overawed by 
the presence of the former Hierarch of Callisiora to be able to relax around 
the two men. 
Around a fire of their own, was a group of eight Loremasters who were 

strangers to the veteran. Although she had been introduced to them before 
they set out, there had been too many names for her to fix them all in her 
mind. The only one she could remember was the leader of the group; a 
cheerful young man with shoulder-length blond hair and a peculiar-looking 
contraption slung across his back that was clearly a weapon of some sort. 
His name was Kher, and he would be leading his little group—a handpicked 
band of archers, fighters, and explosives experts, who would have the 
unenviable task of going into the heart of the city, and blowing up the tunnel 
that led into the Sacred Precincts. 
The information that Elion, Kaz, and Veldan had brought back from their 
disastrous foray into the lands of the Ak’Zahar indicated that the predators 
always roosted together, and the larger the group, the better they seemed to 
like it. Reports from Elion, Scall, and Amaurn, who had been the last to 
leave the city, suggested that the fiends appeared to be settling in the 
Precincts tunnel, so it had been decided that one single explosion could solve 
the greater part of the Ak’Zahar problem at a stroke, for if the Curtain Walls 
could be repaired, no more could come down from the north to replace them. 
The operation could be carried out through the day, while the creatures were 
all roosting, and the charges must somehow be laid without alarming them. 
To that end, Amaurn had brought with him a secret weapon, the nature of 
which he refused to divulge, even to Veldan, much to her irritation. 
The veteran paced up and down on the crisp turf, easing the stiffness of 
riding out of her legs before she sat down and had some breakfast. She had 
been mounted on a strange horse, which always took a bit of getting used to. 
Having just had Mazal restored to her against all the odds, she had decided 
not to risk taking him back to Callisiora again. If, perish the thought, 
anything should happen to her, then Harral would take care of him—only 
too well! 
Toulac smiled to herself. Judging from the number of mares that the head of 
the stables wanted him to cover, the stallion was going to be having a fine 
old time in her absence. One of the candidates was Firefly, the little chestnut, 
who luckily had come into season a day or two before she arrived in 
Gendival. Though Amaurn had given her back to Scall, overriding Harral’s 
furious protests, the boy had been persuaded—albeit very reluctantly—to 
leave her behind in safety while he made this journey back to Tiarond. Even 
more reluctantly, he had been made to promise her first foal to Harral, so 
that her bloodline could be continued in Gendival. Scall himself was still 
adamant that he was going back to the reivers, to be with his friends, when 
all this business was over. The veteran was surprised to see such steadfast 
loyalty in one so young, even if it was at the expense of common sense. 
As for herself, Toulac was beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t have stayed 
behind in Gendival, with the fortunate horses. She shivered, feeling glad of 
her thick sheepskin coat and looking forward to a cup of tea when the water 
boiled. A drop of something stronger wouldn’t go amiss, either. These bleak, 
early-morning hours were a breeding ground for doubts. 
I’m an idiot to be going back. What do they need me for? I could have stayed 

in Gendival, in comfort, with my nice, soft bed at the inn, and Ailie’s 
cooking, and Mazal to keep me company... 
Who am I trying to fool? I would never have had an easy moment. Back at 
the sawmill, before Kaz turned up on my doorstep with Veldan, and all this 
started, I was despondent and desperate because all of my old friends were 
dead, and I had no one but Mazal. Well, now I have a whole crowd of new 
friends. And Ailie and Harral might be back at the settlement, but most of 
them are here: Elion, Zavahl, Kaz, and even young Scall—and most 
particularly, Veldan. A new part of my life is beginning, and I’m not going to 
start by deserting my newfound friends. Besides, they’re going to need to 
have somebody along with common sense. 
Nevertheless, she didn’t feel easy in her mind about this venture. There were 
too many imponderables. Her own rule of thumb, proved again and again 
over the years, was that every unknown element in a plan would increase the 
risks tenfold—and this so-called plan of Amaurn’s was positively bristling 
with unknowns. Basically, they were just going to go marching in, armed 
with very little information, and hope for the best. But what other options 
did they have? 
Ah, well. Even more reason for me to go along and look after them all. 
Amaurn was in the wayshelter itself, letting Dark examine the wound in his 
side, and listening to Veldan, as she voiced much the same doubts with 
which he himself was wrestling. “The one thing we’ll never do is get the 
ring back—how can we? Either it’s on one of hundreds of Ak’Zahar or 
they’ve stashed it somewhere in the city, and in that case, we wouldn’t have 
a clue where to start looking.” 
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” the Archimandrite replied. “And if our 
plan to blow up the tunnel into the Precincts succeeds, the ring is likely to be 
buried under tons of rubble—if it’s there at all. We had better hope it isn’t 
the only option, that’s all. Maybe Aethon will be able to dredge up some 
alternative course of action from his memories, once we get there.” He 
spread his hands apart. “We have to try, Veldan, The only alternative is to 
watch the world as we know it slowly being destroyed.” 
She sighed. “I know. And I’m sure we’ll come up with something. One way 
or another, we’ll have to. At least if we can get rid of the accursed Ak’Zahar, 
that’ll be something.” She paused, her face expectant. “Go on, tell me. You 
can’t keep it a secret forever. How are you going to get the charges into the 
tunnel without the predators finding out?” 
She really was hard to resist, Amaurn thought. And besides, now that they 
were under way, he didn’t mind his daughter knowing—nor Dark, he added 
to himself. He felt compelled to take the young man under his wing, for 
Grim’s sake but, apart from that, the Summoner clearly had the potential to 
become a first-rate Loremaster. Until there was time and leisure for Dark to 

be properly trained, however, Amaurn wanted to keep him under his eye. 
Besides, for the present he needed the pain-blocking techniques which Grim 
had pioneered, and taught to his apprentice. His injuries—his arm, his ribs, 
and particularly the wound in his side—were healing well, thanks to Kyrre’s 
prompt and expert treatment, but they would still take some time. He knew 
he ought to be resting, to save himself a lot of discomfort and give himself 
the best chance of a rapid recovery; but that was out of the question and, in 
the meantime, there was the pain. He wanted to avoid taking any painkilling 
medications in case they slowed his reactions or clouded his thinking at 
some critical moment, so Dark’s nerve blocks, though they had to be 
renewed every two or three hours, were the perfect solution. 
“Amaurn?” Veldan sounded impatient. He gathered his thoughts with a start 
and realized that he was a lot more tired than he had expected to be. His 
daughter was looking at him with a frown. “I knew you shouldn’t have 
come.” Her tone was accusing. “You should have stayed at home and 
rested.” 
“Never mind that.” At least he had something to distract her. “All right, I 
give in. I’ll show you my secret weapon.” He raised his voice a little. “Will 
you show yourself?” 
A bench in the corner began to flicker, then shimmered, and changed into an 
amorphous black outline. Veldan gasped. “A shapeshifter!” 
“That was my idea,” Amaurn said, a little smugly. “I asked Kalevala if she 
could spare one of her best people to come with us and take the form of an 
Ak’Zahar, to put the charges into the tunnel. She said she would send 
someone to meet us here. I didn’t want anyone to know about this before we 
were safely away, in case there might be objections.” He turned to the Takur. 
“Thank you for joining us. You are very welcome.” 
“I thank you for your welcome.” To his surprise, the voice was feminine. “I 
am honored to join you—but before we proceed any farther, there is 
something that you must know; something that my honor compels me to 
divulge to you. Then you may not be so pleased.” 
Amaurn smiled. “I doubt that.” 
The Takuru flexed its many limbs in what was clearly a shrug. “So be it. 
Then you should know that my name is Vifang.” 
“What?” Amaurn scrambled to his feet, but Veldan was faster, leaping in 
front of Amaurn with drawn sword. 
The shapeshifter assassin did not move. “I did warn you,” she said wryly. 
Amaurn felt anger burn within him. “Kalevala promised she would kill you 
herself,” he snarled. “Is this all the word of the Takuru is worth?” 
“No. Kalevala did not say she would kill me. She merely promised to take 
care of the problem. And she did. She came straight to me and told me that 
you had not demanded my death after all, though you would have been well 
within your rights. Since you preserved my life, the honor of the Takuru 
demanded that I should place it in your service. You need never fear me 

again, Amaurn. You needed a shapeshifter, and now you have one.” 
The Archimandrite was astounded. “Now just hold on,” he protested. “What 
about your loyalty to Cergorn?” 
Again, Vifang shrugged. “Cergorn used me—used all of us—for many 
years. Always, he held out promises to us, as did Syvilda when she engaged 
me to kill you, but the good things were always going to come tomorrow, 
next month, when we had completed what he asked of us, or whenever. We 
kept on with him because we wanted to be useful, wanted to be part of the 
Shadowleague, and we hoped that eventually we would be accepted. But it 
never happened. Cergorn never kept his word, but kept putting us off. But 
you ... Within a day of your agreement with Kalevala, my people were 
claiming sites for their new homes.” She folded her limbs and bowed. “You 
have earned my respect, Archimandrite, and the respect of my people. I 
place myself at your disposal to complete this mission, and afterward, if I 
survive, I swear that you will never again lack for a bodyguard.” A ripple of 
wry humor seemed to emanate from the Takuru. “No one else will ever get 
the chance to sneak up on you, Amaurn. You have my word on that.” 
Amaurn was lost for words, but Veldan was not. Close association with 
Toulac had been increasing her vocabulary. She looked at the shapeshifter, 
and a grin appeared on her face. “Well, may I be dipped in dog’s dung!” 
CHAPTER 32 
Sacrifice 
Far beyond the city and the Temple, Amaurn’s group of Loremasters and 
their companions had left the moorland’s slopes and swales and climbed the 
steep track that zigzagged up the southeastern slopes of Mount Chaikar, to 
the high gap where the Snaketail Pass curved round the shoulder of the 
mountain. At the head of the pass, they paused to catch their breath, and let 
their horses rest where generations of travelers had rested before them. It 
was an inhospitable spot in winter; cold, bleak, and exposed, with flurries of 
soft, wet snow swirling around and soaking into their cloaks and hair and the 
coats of the horses. The upper slopes of the mountain loomed menacingly 
above, still carrying their cloak of conifers, loose rock, and waterlogged 
earth that could come avalanching down without warning, as once it had 
done before. The wind whined and whistled between the craggy walls of the 
deep cutting into which the road plunged as it left the hilltop, and a shallow 
river still ran down the constricted trail, draining from the slopes above. 
The pass marked a turning point in the journey of the travelers. Behind them 

lay the moors, and the Curtain Walls, and their own land of Gendival. Before 
them, they could look down the other side of the pass to the river valley and 
the craggy slopes where a landslide had almost caused the deaths of Kaz and 
Veldan, and had transformed Zavahl’s life beyond all recognition. Beyond 
the landslide, they would pass Toulac’s old home and descend to the city on 
its plateau. 
People were mostly silent, lost in their own private thoughts and concerns, 
but Veldan knew that everyone was uneasy, for a whole number of reasons. 
To the Loremasters, the chief source of anxiety must be the state of the 
Curtain Walls. When they had reached the barrier, they had been dismayed 
to discover that the veils of energy were flashing in and out of existence, in 
place one minute and gone the next. The once-clear colors had changed to 
dirty, muddy hues, and the sound had become a screeching, crackling, 
dissonance that made their ears ache and set their teeth on edge. Worse, 
however, were the moments of dead silence when the barrier failed 
completely. Every one of them had been thinking of similar failures 
throughout the world and the chaos that must ensue as a result. It came home 
to them, then, how little time they had left in which to act. 
And in addition to our ignorance and our desperation, we have the Ak’Zahar 
to deal with. 
She only hoped that Amaurn and Toulac were right in their theory that the 
winged predators would not nest in the lower cliff tunnel because of the 
frequent flooding. She dreaded the notion of having to fight them again—but 
they were not her only source of evil memories. Veldan viewed the steep, 
dark cutting of the pass without enthusiasm, remembering the mountain 
shaking free its covering of mud and trees and hurling the whole mass down 
onto the trail to bury herself, and Kaz, and Aethon. “This all seems very 
unnerving,” she commented to the firedrake. “It’s almost as if time is 
running in reverse. It’s an unsettling feeling, to find ourselves going back to 
the place where everything started.” 
Kaz shrugged a shoulder, almost unseating her. “Time can run as it likes, as 
far as I’m concerned,” he said, “just so long as we don’t have that accursed 
landslide again.” 
“I’ll second that,” said Veldan, with feeling. The route was seemingly 
unchanged from the last time she had seen it, but she couldn’t believe she 
had been there only a few days before. So much had happened in the 
meantime, it seemed like years. She only hoped that this journey would 
prove less eventful than the last—though, frankly, she doubted it. 
We may escape the landslide this time, but we’ll still have the Ak’Zahar to 
contend with, not to mention whatever may await us underneath the Temple. 
The others, who were similarly silent, stood nearby, and she wondered what 
they must be thinking at this time. For a whole number of differing reasons, 
every one of them must be harboring mixed feelings. 

Elion was remembering the last time he had taken this road in this direction, 
and Thirishri’s warning that snow would soon block the pass for the rest of 
the winter. In a normal year she would have been right. Once those early, 
heavy falls blocked the pass, the route was buried for months at a time but, 
thank providence, the current freak weather patterns had proved her wrong 
this time. 
Though in a way I wish the snow had fallen thick and deep, and blocked all 
the routes to Tiarond. I don’t want to go back there! 
But there was no choice. Apart from Veldan and the firedrake, he was the 
only one who had any familiarity with the Ak’Zahar and their habits. And if 
the other two were going, how could he refuse? He had paid an appalling 
price for his knowledge—if he backed out now, he would be cheapening all 
the sorrow and suffering of his loss, and rendering Melnyth’s death 
pointless—and he wasn’t about to do that. His only true regret was that, 
because he felt he ought to stick with Kaz and Veldan, he would be going 
down beneath the Temple with Amaurn and the others, when what he really 
wanted to do was join Kher’s group and blast into oblivion those thriceaccursed 
killers of the woman he had loved. 
“So why don’t you?” It was the voice of the firedrake. “If you want to 
avenge Melnyth, I would understand, and so would Veldan. In your position, 
either one of us would feel the same.” 
Elion felt a flash of anger that the firedrake had dared to snoop into his most 
private thoughts. “Blast it, you overgrown lizard, are you eavesdropping 
again? Will nothing break you of that unconscionable habit?” Then the 
import of Kaz’s words came home to him. “You—you wouldn’t? Are you 
sure?” 
“Well, despite being an immoral, despicable snoop, I certainly wouldn’t 
mind.” As usual, the firedrake sounded completely unrepentant. “As for 
Veldan—why don’t you ask her yourself?” 
But the Loremaster was already smiling at him. Clearly, she had started to 
pick up some very unsavory habits from her partner. “Elion, you do what 
you have to. It seems only right and fitting that we three survivors of 
Ghariad should have our vengeance at last.” Sliding down from the 
firedrake’s back, she put her arms around Elion and hugged him hard. “And 
when you do blast those flying sons of bitches to smithereens, you’ll be 
doing it for me and Kaz, as well as for poor Melnyth.” Grasping his 
shoulders, she held him away from her, and looked into his eyes. “Just you 
take care of yourself, that’s all. Do you hear? We wasted too long in 
pointless enmity as it is, and I don’t want to lose you just when we’ve put all 
that nonsense behind us. You have a lot of friends in Gendival who care 
about you, including myself and my partner here. If you end up as a 
predator’s dinner, we’re going to be very cross with you.” 
She was saying far more to him than her words conveyed, and Elion knew 
exactly what she meant. She was telling him not to take risks, so that he 

could follow Melnyth into death—and to his surprise, he found that he no 
longer wanted to. The last few days had seemingly wrought changes in 
everyone, and in his case, he had rediscovered that life was precious after all 
and still held meaning and purpose— and perhaps, at some future time, even 
joy—despite the loss of the partner he had loved so deeply. 
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’m over that now, with some help from you, 
and Toulac, and one or two others. Though I’ll never stop loving Melnyth, 
it’s time to let her rest.” 
And, enjoying the look of surprise on her face, he kissed her soundly. He 
looked at Kaz, and grinned. “I’m not going to kiss you, you ugly great 
brute,” he said. “But thanks, anyway.” 
Kaz leered at him. “You’d better not try,” he warned. “I’ve already thrown 
up on the old Archimandrite—I don’t want to repeat the experience with the 
new one.” 
“I wouldn’t worry.” Veldan glanced across at Amaurn, a slight frown on her 
face. “He looks as though he has far worse things to worry about than one of 
your furballs.” 
Amaurn was far too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice Veldan’s 
glance or register her concern. Confronted once more by this land of his long 
exile, he felt a disquieting coldness settle over him. 
I thought I had escaped this wretched place. Why must I return so soon? 
Just as the old Amaurn had returned to him in Gendival, beyond the Curtain 
Walls, was heartless Lord Blade awaiting him here in the city, ready to take 
control of his life once more? 
That’s pure nonsense! Blade and Amaurn are not two different people. 
They’re both part of me. 
But maybe that was the problem. As he remembered those long years of 
loneliness, of bitterness, of ruthlessness and of hungry ambition, Amaurn felt 
uneasy. His existence here had not been a life to be proud of, and many of 
his deeds, which had seemed logical and necessary to the driven Godsword 
Commander, appeared expedient and reprehensible to the Archimandrite of 
the Shadowleague. 
A shiver ran through him, and he had to keep repressing the urge to look 
over his shoulder. The spectre of his old life had come back to haunt him, 
and try as he would, he was unable to shake off the superstitious notion that, 
in some way, he would be made to pay for his past misdeeds. He looked 
across at his daughter, who stood talking to Elion and Kaz. 
If I must make restitution, then so be it. But please don’t let the price be 
Veldan. 

Farther down the mountain, below Tiarond’s plateau, Presvel and his 
captives had been toiling their way up the vertiginous cliff road. They had 
been forced to make the final part of the ascent on foot, because their 
exhausted horses had proved unequal to the climb and had simply lain down 
and refused to go any farther. Presvel would have been a good deal more 
angry with the stupid beasts had his spirits not been lifted by the night he 
had spent with Rochalla; but he was aware that everyone needed to be under 
cover and hidden from any potential pursuers as soon as possible. 
The climb was grueling. He had made Rochalla and Tormon’s brat ascend 
the path in front of him, and so they could go no faster than the child’s best 
pace. Everyone was too breathless to speak, though it made little difference, 
for Annas had not uttered a word since they had set out that morning, and 
Rochalla had said very little, pleading cold and weariness as a reason for her 
silence. After the night they had spent, he was a little injured by her lack of 
warmth, but he assured himself that everything would be all right once they 
had a little more time together. It was a real shame, he reflected, that the 
damned child had to be there, distracting Rochalla and getting in the way, 
but for now, he decided that he still might need a hostage. He could always 
get rid of the little wretch later, when it was safe to do so, and then his 
golden-haired beauty would be free to devote all her time to him. 
Because one or the other of Presvel’s captives kept needing to stop and rest 
on the way up, it seemed to take an age before they reached the black mouth 
of the tunnel. This time it was Rochalla who faltered. “Please,” she gasped, 
“my legs won’t carry me any farther. Just let me sit down for a moment or 
two and catch my breath back before we go inside.” 
Presvel sighed. He was getting tired of their whining, but if he gave the girls 
one last rest before they tackled the tunnel itself, the respite should take them 
all the way to the entrance of Scall’s tunnel. Besides, though he was loath to 
admit it, his own city breeding and sedentary life were beginning to tell on 
him. If he gave in now, he would not only be magnanimous, and please 
Rochalla, but he could give his own legs a much-needed rest. “All right,” he 
said. “Not for long, though. We don’t have all day to be sitting about.” 
With sighs of relief, Rochalla and Annas simply flopped down right where 
they were, ignoring the coldness of the stone and the wetness of the path. 
Presvel, loath to display a similar weakness, remained standing, leaning back 
against the cliff face for support and looking out across the bleak landscape 
far below. Suddenly he straightened, with a lurid oath. Far below, where the 
trail wound between the hills like unraveled thread, he could see a cluster of 
tiny, moving specks. There were more than he had expected. Clearly, the 
reivers were determined to capture the man who had killed their Summoner. 
Ignoring his complaining muscles, Presvel strode across to Annas and 
Rochalla and yanked them roughly to their feet. “Come on,” he snapped. 
“There’s no more time to waste. Get into that tunnel now!” 

Just before he dragged her inside, Rochalla also caught a glimpse of the 
distant riders. Her heart leapt, and for the first time since Presvel had 
abducted her, she knew true hope. She wished she could tell Annas that her 
father was coming at last, but she decided that it was too soon to raise the 
child’s hopes. 
Only when the darkness had swallowed them utterly did Presvel kindle the 
lamp he had taken from the abandoned farmhouse, sending the blackness 
springing away from them and making their shadows dance and waver on 
the slimy wet walls. Rochalla remembered the terror of the flood, and 
shuddered. Tormon, Scall, and Seriema had been caught down here and 
barely escaped, and Tormon had explained to her afterward that the flash 
floods depended, not on the weather she could see, but conditions high up in 
the mountains—and there was no knowing, from one moment to the next, 
what might be happening among the peaks. At any moment, without 
warning, another deluge could come pouring down here, and she and Annas 
would both be drowned. All at once, her fear overcame her weariness, and 
she was even more anxious than her captor to get this journey over. With a 
sigh, she hoisted Annas up into her weary arms, finding the strength from 
some reserve she had not known she possessed. “Come on,” she said to a 
startled Presvel. “Let’s hurry.” 
It took them some time to find the opening to Scall’s mysterious corridors. 
The hand-hewn ceiling was very rough, and the lamplight threw deceptive 
shadows across the stone, concealing the aperture so well that at first they 
walked right past it and went on, unsuspecting, up the tunnel, until they were 
startled by a glimmer of daylight at the far end. Rochalla, her back aching, 
her arms almost breaking, and her legs feeling limp and strengthless, felt like 
bursting into tears. Regardless of Annas’s small ears, she gave vent to her 
feelings in a few choice phrases that she had learned while walking the 
streets of Tiarond. A dumbfounded Presvel clearly realized that she was at 
the end of her tether and finally condescended to take the heavy child from 
her as they turned and, resignedly, began to walk back down. And every 
single moment, Rochalla was expecting to hear the roar of the flood behind 
her and feel herself being swept from her feet by the inexorable torrent. 
This time they kept a more careful eye out, not only for the opening itself but 
for the cross-strut to which Scall had clung when the floodwaters lifted him 
to the tunnel roof. Approaching from the uphill direction, they were looking 
at the roof from a slightly different angle. This time they saw the strut easily, 
and the circular shape of the aperture above. “Finally,” Presvel said, putting 
Annas down and straightening with a sigh of relief. 
Rochalla, her nerves so tightly strung by this point that they were stretched 

almost to the breaking point, was equally grateful to find the escape route 
from the horrible, horrible place. Then she came to her senses, and thought 
of Tormon and the reivers, following behind. How would they know which 
way she and Annas had gone? For all they knew, Presvel might be planning 
to head back to the city. And what if they missed the aperture completely, as 
she and her companions had done? They might even forget about it, and 
simply continue on up to Tiarond! 
Presvel stooped and picked up Annas once more. “Look,” he said to the little 
girl, “I’m going to lift you up there, onto that strut. From there you can climb 
into the tunnel above, all right? Once you’ve done that, wait for us, and 
don’t move. If I climb up there and find you’ve gone, I’ll kill Rochalla, and 
it’ll all be your fault—do you understand?” 
In the lamplight, Rochalla saw the little girl’s face turn white, and she knew 
that Annas was thinking of her mother, murdered before her eyes by 
soldiers, in the Godsword Citadel. In that moment, she was rocked back on 
her heels by the violence of her hatred for him. 
You cruel bastard, to bring that back to her! By Myrial, I hope that Tormon 
and the reivers carve your guts out! 
Then her common sense reasserted itself. First of all, their friends would 
have to find them. When Presvel turned away to boost Annas up into the 
tunnel, she stooped and tore a long strip from the already-tattered hem of her 
skirt. Rolling it up quickly, she hid the wad of cloth in her hand, as her 
abductor turned back to her. “Now,” he said, “I’ll climb up there and pull 
you up after me.” 
Rochalla gritted her teeth. He knew full well that she wouldn’t try to run 
away while Annas was in his power. It took him several tries to leap high 
enough to grasp the metal strut, and he dangled there, his legs kicking, his 
face contorted with the effort. “Don’t just stand there,” he grunted. “Give me 
a hand.” 
Wishing that she had a weapon while he was in such a vulnerable position, 
Rochalla took hold of his feet and boosted him up until he sat precariously 
astride the rusting bar. Reaching up, she let him grasp her wrists and pull her 
after him, until they had both gained the perch. Then, balancing with 
difficulty, Presvel got hold of the rim of the aperture and hoisted himself up. 
Rochalla had only a moment in which to act. Quickly, she tied the strip of 
fabric to the strut, its end fluttering down like a banner in the draft that 
whistled constantly down the passage. She placed it near the wall, so that 
Presvel would be unlikely to see it from the opening, and by the time that he 
had turned around and reached down to her, her hands were empty and she 
could confront him with guileless eyes that hid her secret thoughts. Hurry, 
Tormon. Hurry up and find us—before it’s too late. 
Within Myrial’s Temple Gilarra was sure that it was already too late to save 

her people. Existence for the refugees had become a living nightmare. 
Despite all the heroic efforts of Kaita, Shelon, and their helpers, the sickness 
was spreading rapidly, making conditions in the building intolerable even for 
those who had not yet succumbed. Godsword soldiers, pressed into grim 
service, went back and forth through the route to the upper caves and the 
mountainside exit, carrying the bodies of the dead. There was little they 
could do to dispose of them safely; they couldn’t bury or burn even one, let 
alone so many. All they could do was hurl them off the ledge into the valley 
far below. Presumably, the winged predators and other scavengers would 
eventually clean up the grisly remains, but it was a terrible thing for the 
survivors to consign their loved ones to such a miserable, undignified end, 
and it only served to exacerbate the grief of those who had already suffered 
so much. 
Gilarra just didn’t know what to do anymore. Galveron had not returned, and 
she had been worried sick about him. What had happened to the Hierarch’s 
ring that he’d been sent to find—and, more importantly, what had become of 
the Godsword Commander himself? Had he perished? Along with everyone 
else in the Basilica, she was feeling the lack of his authoritative air, his 
organizational skill, his sound common sense, and his easy way of getting 
along with people. 
The Hierarch was lost without him. She was at her wits’ end, trying to 
comfort people who had already been reft of family and friends when the 
winged demons attacked, and who now had suffered further devastation 
through this dreadful affliction. The Temple was a scarcely endurable place, 
with its stench and filth from the sick, and the wailing and tears of the 
bereaved. Those who were still healthy were shocked, grieving, and 
exhausted, while those who had already contracted the sickness suffered and, 
for the most part, died. Only a handful managed to recover: generally, it 
seemed, those who were stronger and better nourished when they contracted 
the sickness stood a greater chance of struggling through, though they 
emerged as pitiful and wasted shadows. 
In order to slow the spread of the disease, Kaita and her assistant Shelon 
were trying to enforce stringent rules of cleanliness and hygiene, but their 
precautions were impossible to enforce within the confines of the Basilica. 
Kaita had wanted to boil all the drinking water, but there had not been 
enough fuel. Already, any wooden furniture or other combustible items were 
being devoured by the fires down in the makeshift kitchens, and the refugees 
were running out of options. Nor was there any soap, or any spare fat with 
which to make some. Everyone was imprisoned together in a confined space, 
with nowhere to go but outside; but the winged demons still infested the city, 
and no matter how desperate the circumstances became, no one was ready to 
risk being torn apart by the teeth and claws of the terrifying predators—at 
least, not yet. In the meantime, all the exhausted Healers could do was to try 
to separate the healthy from the sick and those who cared for them, and hope 
for a miracle. 
It was difficult to see how the spirits of the refugees could get any lower. 

The survivors of Tiarond, still devastated by the massacre that had sent them 
to the shelter of the Temple, were now reeling from this second vicious 
blow, which made their haven almost as dangerous as the city outside. 
Gilarra was certain that many folk were no longer making any effort to fight 
the disease. With their lives made intolerable by so many losses and 
tribulations, they had simply decided to stop fighting, and die. Telimon had 
been quick to follow his twin, and Agella’s niece, Felyss, who had lost her 
lifemate and all of her family save her aunt, would also have perished, save 
that she had recently begun a friendship with Gelina, the former thief, who 
was nursing her with such dedication and determination that she seemed to 
be pulling through. There was very little good news of that sort, however. 
Stablemaster Fergist had not been so fortunate, and Agella was fighting her 
sorrow by dedicating all her time and energy to helping the Healers, in 
whatever way they required. 
The Hierarch was becoming desperate. It had only taken a couple of days for 
sickness to sweep through the Temple, and people were dying with 
incredible speed, often within hours of showing the first symptoms. Kaita 
said it was because they were losing their bodily fluids so rapidly, but 
Gilarra was sure that the explanation went beyond the logical and mundane. 
It seemed to her that Myrial’s curse on his people had not been lifted with 
the end of Zavahl’s reign but had continued into her own. First the winged 
demons, and now this. Where was the justice in it? 
In searching for someone at whose door she could lay the blame, it was easy 
for her to settle on Aliana. If only the accursed thief hadn’t made off with the 
ring, it would all have been different! 
But would it, really? 
Gilarra was beginning to wonder. It truly seemed as though the deity had 
turned his back on Callisiora, and was determined to make an end of the land 
and all its inhabitants. The strongest proof that Myrial had abandoned them 
had come with the deaths of both the infants who had been destined as the 
new Hierarch and Suffragan. Such a thing had never happened before in the 
entire history of the Temple. Was it a sign? She couldn’t see how it could 
possibly be anything else. Whatever might happen to the Callisiorans, and 
whether or not there would be any survivors, it seemed that the Hierarchs 
had failed their god, and their reign had been brought to an end. 
There was little Gilarra had been able to do but move among the sick, trying 
her best to comfort the dying and those who cared for them. As she did so, 
she had an increasingly clear sense that the people were losing faith in 
Myrial—and in his earthly representative. Suddenly her own future seemed a 
good deal less secure. Again and again, the failure and fate of the previous 
Hierarch came into her mind. 
Was this what Zavahl felt? This same frustration? This helplessness? This 
fear? 
Over and over, she tried to block the chilling realization that she was 
treading the same path as her predecessor. One that had led to the Hierarch’s 

Sacrifice. 
Until recently, Gilarra had managed, with some difficulty, to keep such grim 
thoughts at bay, but now that was no longer possible. An hour earlier, she 
had walked up through the passages and caves behind the Temple, following 
the bodies of her lifemate and her small son. Though she had tried her 
hardest to keep her little family away from the sources of infection, it had 
not been possible in the overcrowded building. Once they had succumbed to 
the sickness, neither Gilarra’s earthly powers nor her most fervent prayers 
had been enough to hold them to the world. 
Hierarch or not, Gilarra had still wept and cried out, just like the poorest of 
the Tiarondians, when the bodies of her loved ones—one so pathetically 
small—were hurled over the edge of the cliff. As she returned from the high 
mountain ledge she had been beside herself. Too absorbed in her grief and 
too blinded by tears to see where she was going, she had needed to be helped 
by a sympathetic Godsword soldier who had lost children of his own. 
Clearly worried that the sight of so distraught a Hierarch might further 
demoralize the desperate refugees, an overworked and overtired Kaita had 
left her to rest on the stone ledge in the tunnel behind the sickroom, where 
she and Galveron had been wont to hold their private conversations. Shelon 
had arrived a little later with a cup of warm, bitter liquid, and said that it 
would help to calm her nerves. Longing for any respite from the pain which 
beset her, Gilarra swallowed it quickly, then the Healer took the cup and left 
her alone once more. 
Kaita’s potion filled her with a dreamy lassitude that blunted the edge of her 
grief a little, and allowed her to think once more. That the medication might 
also blunt the edges of her intellect, she never considered. Looking back 
over the last few days, it seemed to her that she had failed in everything, 
both as a Hierarch, and as a lifemate and mother. No one was around to tell 
her that she’d been trying to cope with a disaster unparalleled in the history 
of Tiarond. No one reminded her that she had only been Hierarch for a few 
short days, and that mistakes were inevitable at first, and could be rectified 
with experience. No one was there to share her worries or comfort her in her 
grief. Too late, she had discovered what Zavahl had always known: that the 
Hierarch of Callisiora was more isolated and more lonely than the meanest 
thief who lurked in the city’s alleyways, or the lowliest peasant who tilled 
the land. 
She who had decried Zavahl’s leadership had made a far worse mess of 
everything than he had, when her turn had finally come. She was useless as a 
leader of her people, and she had no more influence with Myrial than her 
predecessor. Too late, she realized that her obsession with the Hierarch’s 
ring had blinded her to her own shortcomings. 
It was time to face the brutal truth. She was an utter failure as a leader, and 
there was nothing she could do about it. 
Or was there? 
There is one thing. Zavahl never completed the Great Sacrifice. Were I to 

undergo it in his place, then maybe Myrial would listen to our prayers once 
more. 
No one was there to dissuade her. As she passed through Kaita’s busy 
sickroom, and into the Temple beyond, no one even noticed her in all the 
bustle. She felt detached from all the activity around her, from the lives and 
the fears and the tribulations of her people, as though she had died already 
and drifted back to the Basilica as a restless ghost. 
There was no question in Gilarra’s mind about a way to carry out her plan, 
or the location in which she should perform the Sacrifice. Only one place 
was appropriate. If people noticed her slipping behind the silver filigree 
screen that concealed the entrance to the Holy of Holies, no one remarked on 
it. She was Hierarch, wasn’t she? It was only natural that she would go there. 
On the high platform before the darkened Eye, the lonely Hierarch paused. 
Before she jumped, she began to compose a final, heartfelt prayer to Myrial, 
begging him to accept her Sacrifice, and beseeching his aid for her 
beleaguered people. 
Kaita had no idea that Gilarra was missing until Shelon brought her the 
news. According to his anxious report to the Healer, he had been seeing the 
soldiers off through the tunnels with another grisly burden of corpses when 
he had noticed that the stone bench was empty. In the normal course of 
events, he would have thought little of it. Myrial only knew, there was 
enough for the Hierarch to be doing in the Temple. On the other hand, 
however, it was unlikely that she would be very fit to do anything practical 
for some hours, after the strong dose of sedative he had given her. Shelon 
had begun to feel the first twinges of alarm. He’d considered Gilarra’s grief, 
her exhaustion, her increasing desperation, and all the other myriad pressures 
of her position as Hierarch—then he had come to find Kaita, as fast as he 
could run. 
The Healer’s first reaction was irritation. Didn’t she have enough to do, 
without scouring the Temple for a missing Hierarch? How dare the blasted 
woman heap more work and worry on her? Then all at once, she 
remembered that Gilarra had just lost her lifemate and her child. She 
remembered how she had grieved when Evelinden had been killed, and felt 
ashamed. “Can you manage here for a little while?” she asked her assistant. 
“I’m going to find Agella, and we’ll have a quick look around.” 
Shelon hesitated. “Do you—do you think we ought to ask the Godswords to 
look for her?” he asked. 
Kaita sighed. “For morale’s sake, I was hoping not to involve anyone else in 
this—but yes, you’re right. Corvin is a levelheaded fellow, and he seems to 
have taken charge in the Commander’s absence. I’ll ask him to organize a 
few of his most discreet men to mount a search.” 
A concerned Corvin told Kaita that he would divide his men, sending some 

up through the storage caves and along the mountain ledge, and others down 
into the extensive lower caverns, to search there. Agella was also more than 
willing to assist, though the Healer regretted having to ask her. The sturdy 
Smithmaster was thinner now, and looked much more frail and fragile, with 
her gaunt face and dark-shadowed eyes. Since Fergist’s death the previous 
day, she had kept herself determinedly brisk and busy, but Kaita knew that 
she was bleeding inside. 
Nevertheless, if Gilarra had possessed that kind of indomitable courage, we 
wouldn’t have to waste our valuable time searching for her now. 
Trying not to attract too much attention, the two women searched through 
the remaining refugees—a task made much more difficult by the fact that 
everyone wanted to talk to the Healer. There was no sign of the missing 
Hierarch, but only when they reached the filigree screen, did Kaita realize 
that there was one place they hadn’t looked. “Come on.” She took hold of 
the Smithmaster’s arm. “Let’s go and see if she’s in there.” 
“We can’t go in there!” Agella pulled her back. “That’s the Holy of Holies. 
We’re forbidden. Only the Hierarch can go past that screen.” 
“Oh, balls to that!” Kaita snapped. “To my knowledge, there are at least four 
people down there right now, who aren’t the Hierarch, including 
Commander Galveron.” 
Agella gasped. “It’s a good thing that isn’t common knowledge,” she said in 
a low voice. “People are bound to connect the violation of the Sanctum with 
this pestilence. You know how they are.” 
“Yes, I do. Stupid,” Kaita replied, but in her heart, she knew that the smith 
was right. “It doesn’t make any difference, though,” she added firmly. “If 
Gilarra is in there, we have to find her. She isn’t thinking too clearly right 
now, and I don’t know what she’ll do. If you don’t want to come, I don’t 
mind going alone.” 
Agella shrugged. “If you’re determined to go in there, then I’m coming with 
you. Come on—let’s get it over with.” 
Kaita nodded but, when faced with the actuality of entering the holy place, 
she couldn’t help but think of the Godsword Commander, who had traveled 
this way before her, and had never returned. 
I’m not the one who should be doing this, and neither is poor Agella. She 
has enough problems of her own, right now. Oh, Galveron—where in 
perdition are you? You’ve vanished just when we need you most. 
Though both women were sensible, down-to-earth, and not in the least bit 
superstitious, they had to admit to a shiver of awe as they passed behind the 
silver filigree screen. When they entered the black room, and the floor 
dropped so suddenly, the two women clutched at one another, and Agella 
swore. Having acted on the spur of the moment, neither had thought to bring 
a light with them, and when the sudden motion stopped, and the door sprang 
open, Kaita was glad to see the glimmer of a small lamp, away in the 
darkness. Her relief, however, was short-lived. As she and Agella walked out 

onto the open platform, she saw the narrow bridge without a railing that 
spanned the dark abyss. At the far end, perched precariously on the edge of 
another small platform, was the Hierarch. It was clear from her attitude that 
the woman was working up sufficient courage to jump. 
Kaita’s mind raced. Her impulse was to call out, but the last thing she 
wanted to do was startle Gilarra into jumping, so instead, she walked to the 
edge of her own small platform, and spoke softly. “If you really want to 
jump, Gilarra, that’s your choice, but you might want to think about it for a 
little longer. It’s not exactly a reversible decision.” 
Gilarra whirled, and the two watching women gasped as her feet strayed 
perilously near the edge. “Don’t try to talk me out of this,” she warned. “I 
know what I have to do.” 
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Kaita spoke calmly, but she was gripping Agella’s 
hand tightly in her anxiety. “I’d be grateful if you’d tell me why, though. 
After all, we’ll have to go up there and tell the refugees why their Hierarch is 
no longer with them.” 
Gilarra gave a bitter laugh. “As if they’d miss me! It’s Galveron they really 
want—do you think I don’t know that?” 
“They want and need Galveron, yes, but as Godsword Commander, not 
Hierarch,” the Healer told her. “They are two very different roles.” She took 
a deep breath. “Don’t leave your people like this, Gilarra. What will it do to 
folk who are already so demoralized? Some have lost their faith in Myrial, 
it’s true ...” 
“Like you, you mean!” 
Kaita didn’t see any point in lying to her. “Yes, like me. But a lot of them 
still believe, and in many cases that faith is the only thing that keeps them 
going. Your death might take their last hope away from them. Would you 
really want that?” 
“You’re wrong,” Gilarra said. “My death will give them hope. Zavahl was 
meant to undergo the Great Sacrifice, to intercede for his people at the feet 
of Myrial. Since he failed, I must act in his place.” She looked across at the 
Healer with honest appeal in her eyes. “Don’t you see, Kaita? I’m as much a 
failure as Zavahl ever was. This final act is the one remaining thing that I 
can do for my people. Forgive me, please.” 
“Gilarra, no!” cried Kaita. Terrified as she was of the slender bridge, she ran 
forward, but it was already too late. Before she had time to reach the edge of 
her own platform, Gilarra lifted her arms, as if in supplication to her god, 
and launched herself into space. 
Then there was silence. The platform across the abyss was empty, as if no 
one had ever stood there. 
Kaita backed away from the edge of the platform and let her shaky knees 
fold under her. Agella was still standing, staring at the place where the 
Hierarch had last stood, and cursing softly. The Healer’s thoughts were a 
jumble. Had Gilarra been selfish, weak, and deluded? Or had her final act 

been one of heroism and self-sacrifice? 
Don’t be stupid! The silly bitch has left us in a worse mess than ever. 
But if she really believed that, why were there tears in her eyes? In the end, 
Gilarra had given her people the greatest gift in her power—her very life. 
Once again, Kaita looked at the empty platform. Would there be any point in 
the Hierarch’s sacrifice? Only time would tell. 
CHAPTER 33 
The Tunnels 
It had not been an easy night for Seriema and her companions, and daybreak 
had found them on edge and unrested. The trouble had started during the 
hours of darkness, when they had been awakened by a scratching and 
scrabbling on the sturdy double doors of the barn, a slither and crash of loose 
slates falling from the roof, and a cacophony of strident screeching. Seriema 
awoke from uneasy dreams with a startled cry, and saw Cetain already on his 
feet and reaching for his sword, while all around him, his warriors had also 
roused and were garbing themselves to fight. “That’s done it” he said grimly. 
"They've found us.” 
Down below, the horses were panicking, and Tormon was in their midst, 
trying to calm them. Luckily, there were no windows to worry about; the 
place was vented by the odd gap where a stone had been knocked out of the 
wall, high up near the roof, and not even the cadaverous demons could get 
through such narrow spaces. Cetain deployed his warriors to guard the 
building’s vulnerable points: swordsmen to defend the doors, and archers, up 
in the hayloft, ready to shoot any winged fiend that managed to break 
through the thick slabs that protected the roof. He ordered several of his men 
to go down and help the trader keep the beasts from harming themselves, or 
one another. In the face of danger, a horse’s impulse was to run away, but 
here, with nowhere for them to go, they stood a chance of doing themselves 
serious injury in their frantic attempts to flee the threat. 
Seriema could sympathize with the poor beasts. Unlike a horse, she 
possessed the intellect to realize that the sturdy building should keep her 
safe, but even so, she found her heart beating faster as dark and dreadful 
images slipped, unbidden, into her thoughts. She soon discovered that 
keeping busy was the best way to deal with an unruly imagination, so she 
had spent the night giving assistance to Tormon, who had his hands full with 
the horses. 
Fortunately, the reiver band had only to wait until dawn. The roof and doors 

of the barn were sturdy enough to hold out until then. Once daylight came, 
all sounds of the predators had ceased. After an interval that had Tormon 
fuming with impatience once again, they had emerged from their shelter to 
find that the skies were empty and the danger had passed. 
They had pressed on swiftly then, aware that their later start must have put 
them farther behind their quarry. What must the trader be feeling at this 
moment? Not only was the delay costing him vital time that might mean the 
difference between life and death for his little girl, but, since such voracious 
creatures were abroad in this area, he must be terrified that they had also 
found Annas. 
On impulse, Seriema pressed forward to ride alongside him. “Just because 
the fiends discovered us, it doesn’t mean they’ll find the others,” she said 
softly. “We don’t know whether the creatures are attracted by our scent, or 
our body heat, or the sounds of our voices, or maybe even something else, 
but whatever it is, Cetain thinks that they were lured here to us because of 
our numbers ...” 
“Which means nothing.” Tormon cut her off, his voice harsh. “Presvel is a 
madman, remember? We don’t even know for sure whether he had the sense 
to take shelter for the night. And even if he did, what’s to stop the predators 
finding Annas and Rochalla as easily as they found us?” 
Sorry for him though she was, Seriema gave him a hard look. “Absolutely 
nothing at all,” she said crisply. “But that’s no reason to despair yet, 
Tormon. Annas might be dead already. We don’t know. But, on the other 
hand, she might be perfectly all right. If you keep dwelling on the bad things 
all the time, you’ll cloud your thinking with fear and anger, and then won’t 
be any use at all: not to us, not to Annas, and not even to yourself. I can only 
imagine how difficult this must be for you, but please don’t give up hope. In 
a day or two we might all be riding back to Arcan’s fortress, with Annas and 
Rochalla among us, safe and well.” With that, she left him, but at she 
rejoined Cetain, the sound of her own inner voice was mocking her. 
If we manage to rescue Annas and Rochalla, and get back to Arcan’s 
fortress in safety, it’ll be nothing short of a miracle. 
At last they reached the great cliff, where they discovered the weary horses 
Presvel had abandoned. Cetain, angry at the way they had been treated, had 
two of his men take charge of them, but Seriema took little notice of the 
arrangements. All her attention was on the trail before her, which seemed 
even steeper than she remembered. She wasn’t looking forward to such a 
stiff climb! A number of the men had never been to Tiarond, and more than 
one of the seasoned warriors blanched at the sight of the road that came 
snaking down from the plateau, high above. While Cetain was giving short 
shrift to his men’s complaints about having to go on foot, and lead their 
horses all the way up there, Seriema joined Tormon, who was already 
scanning the escarpment with anxious eyes. He acknowledged her approach 
with an unsmiling nod. “Are they going to take all day?” 
Seriema shook her head. “Only a moment or two. They might as well get 

their complaining over with now, because they won’t have any breath to 
spare for grumbling once we start to climb.” 
“Well, they can please themselves. I’m not waiting any longer.” Tugging at 
Rutska’s bridle, he set off up the road at a pace a little faster than was wise, 
his shoulders squared and his chin jutting with determination. Watching him 
go, Seriema sighed. She couldn’t blame him for not waiting. While they 
were riding down the valley, they had spotted the tiny figures, high up on the 
cliff road, and ever since then, the trader had been a man possessed. 
Catching Cetain’s eye, she pointed to Tormon and mouthed the words “hurry 
up.” The reiver nodded. Cutting short the complaints with a single barked 
command, he set off up the cliff, leading his own horse, with Seriema 
following. One by one, in single file, the other warriors fell into position 
behind. 
At least she was fitter than she had been when she first left Tiarond. Then, 
she would probably never have managed such a steep climb. Now, it was 
possible, though far from pleasant. Soon her legs were aching and she was 
gasping for breath. Judging from all the wheezing and panting from the 
warriors behind her, she wasn’t the only one having a hard time with the 
grueling ascent. Somehow, that made her feel a little better. 
By the time they finally reached the tunnel, however, Seriema was no longer 
thinking about the climb. She had other things to worry about. All too well, 
she remembered the flash flood that had almost killed Tormon, her, and 
Scall. While they were waiting for the last of the warriors to catch up, she 
scanned the skies anxiously. Apart from the flurries of damp, sleety snow, 
there was little in the way of precipitation—as far as she could see. 
Unfortunately, she knew as well as Rochalla had, that the weather on the 
plateau counted for little, and it was the weather in the mountains, unknown 
and unseen, that would rule their fate. 
Owing to the fact that she had reminded Cetain about the tunnel before they 
left, the reivers had come prepared with torches. However, neither the light 
nor the presence of a group of sturdy warriors could make Seriema any 
easier in her mind. Tormon, caring only for the fate of his little girl, had 
other things than floods to think about, and though she had tried to warn 
them, the reivers could have no idea how quickly such a deluge could strike, 
and the terrifying power with which it did so. All the worrying was left to 
her, and, she reflected wryly, she seemed to be doing enough for all of them. 
Keeping up a steady pace, they went on through the tunnel. The air smelled 
of damp stone and the acrid smoke from their torches, while the flames 
streamed out behind them in the strong draft. The hollow hoofbeats of their 
horses, multiplied a thousandfold by the echoes, sounded deafeningly loud to 
Seriema, who was forced to abandon all ideas of straining her ears for the 
distant roar of rushing water, though her nerves remained as tense as before, 
so that Tormon’s voice, calling out loudly from somewhere ahead of her, 
made her jump. “Look! There’s something flapping there! By Myrial, it 
looks like part of Rochalla’s dress!” 

Cetain and Seriema crowded close to the trader, who was holding his torch 
up high. It was clear that the long, ragged strip of fabric had not become 
caught, but had been deliberately tied to the metal cross-strut near the 
curving roof of the tunnel. Above it, clearly visible from that angle, was the 
circular aperture that led to the mysterious passages within the mountain that 
had been discovered by Scall during the flood. 
“So he took them up there, instead of returning to the city.” Seriema 
frowned. “What in Myrial’s name does he hope to achieve by doing that?” 
“He probably wants somewhere to hide until we get tired of looking for him 
and go away,” Certain suggested. 
“He’ll have a bloody long wait, then,” Tormon growled. 
Seriema tried to put herself into the head of the cautious, systematic assistant 
she had known for all those years. “I suppose he doesn’t want to contend 
with us and the predators, all at once,” she suggested. “Perhaps he’s even 
hoping that there’s another way into the city, through these tunnels.” 
The trader shrugged. “Well, standing around here won’t give us any 
answers. Let’s get after him!” 
At first, Cetain was intending to leave the horses in the tunnel to await the 
return of the reivers, but that suggestion brought such a horrified response 
from both Tormon and Seriema that he agreed to spare four of his men to 
lead all the beasts back to the bottom, and await the others there. “I wish you 
folk had told me all this sooner,” he grumbled. “It would have saved us a lot 
of trouble, and the poor beasts a lot of needless effort, if we had just left 
them there in the first place.” 
“But I didn’t imagine for a moment that Presvel would go up there,” Seriema 
objected. “I was sure he would head straight back to Tiarond, in which case 
we would have needed the horses when we got to the top, to ride across the 
plateau. After all, they’re on foot, now. With the horses we might even have 
caught them in the open before they reached the city.” 
Cetain nodded. “It’s a good point that you make. Indeed we might have done 
so.” He sighed. “I only wish he had gone on across the plateau. It would 
have made our task that much easier.” 
Seriema, who knew very well that their task was to kill her former assistant, 
shuddered, but said nothing. 
By the time the horses had been organized, Tormon had already managed to 
haul himself up onto the cross-strut, on which he was standing with his head 
and shoulders inside the aperture in the ceiling. Cetain called out to him 
from the tunnel below. “We’re coming now, Tormon. Don’t be getting too 
far ahead of us.” Without replying, the trader pulled himself up and vanished 
into the hole, where Seriema caught a glimpse of the rungs of a ladder. 
Cetain caught her eye, and shook his head. “We’d best be hurrying.” He sent 
Willan— the scar-faced veteran she remembered from the night they had 
sheltered in the ruined tower on the moors—up onto the cross-strut first, 
then held out his hands to Seriema. “Right, lass. Up you go. I’ll give you a 

boost.” 
She extinguished her torch by knocking it against the wall and thrust the stub 
into her belt. With Cetain lifting and the older man pulling, she managed to 
scramble her way up somehow, very conscious of her flailing legs, and 
thanking Providence that she’d had the sense to wear pants, like the rest of 
the reivers. 
I have quite enough on my plate at present, without a bunch of ribald 
warriors looking up my skirts! 
Once on the strut, she balanced there precariously, feeling both unhappy and 
uncomfortable and dreading the next part, where she would have to stand 
upright. But the wretched Willan wasn’t going to give her a chance to put off 
the evil moment. Clearly enjoying the spectacle of her maladroit efforts, he 
gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Come on, my Lady. Up you go.” 
Seriema suppressed the urge to give him a good hard shove. “You’d better 
make damn sure I don’t fall,” she said sweetly, “or Cetain will have your 
balls for breakfast.” 
At that point, Willan stopped grinning like a loon. Balancing carefully, he 
reached up at full stretch into the opening above and caught hold of the 
bottom rung of the ladder, hanging on to it as he raised himself unsteadily to 
his feet. Clinging to the rung one-handed, he used the other to help Seriema 
into the same position, then helped support her weight as she pulled herself 
up into the opening. Finally, after what seemed like an arm-breaking, 
shoulder-wrenching, leg-flailing eternity, her feet found the bottom rung of 
the ladder, and she began to climb in earnest—to the sound of cheers, 
catcalls, and ironic applause from the reivers assembled below. 
When she reached the place where the tube opened out into the tunnel above, 
she recoiled in surprise as she almost bumped noses with Tormon, who was 
kneeling by the rim of the hole. “You might have come and helped me, 
instead of sitting up here gawking,” she snapped. “I just made a total fool of 
myself.” 
Tormon brushed her protests aside. “What are they doing down there? Why 
the bloody blazes don’t they get a move on?” Though she sympathized with 
his urgency, Seriema, personally, was glad of a few moments’ respite. She 
climbed out unaided, sat down beside him on the soft, rather spongy floor of 
the tunnel, and leaned gratefully against the curving wall, massaging her 
sorely abused arms and shoulders. “They won’t be long now,” she said. 
“Cetain is sending them up one by one, because he’s afraid of putting too 
much weight on the cross-strut, all at once. But they’ll be much quicker than 
I was, you’ll see.” 
As if to prove her point, the first of Cetain’s warriors had pushed his head 
and shoulders out of the hole almost before she had finished speaking. 
Seriema and Tormon retreated a little way down the passage to be out from 
underfoot and waited for the rest to arrive. Seriema sat down again, making 
the most of the rare chance to rest. There was no point in trying to talk to 
Tormon, who waited impatiently, his attention focused on the tunnel ahead. 

Instead, she took the opportunity to look around a little. Though Scall had 
tried to describe it when he had spoken of his adventures, this place was like 
nowhere she had ever seen. While she had been climbing, she had been too 
preoccupied to notice when the light had changed to an uncanny, misty 
radiance, as faint as moonlight and changing color in a never-ending cycle of 
varying hues. A warm, dry breeze, coming from somewhere ahead, blew 
steadily through the passage, carrying the oddest medley of scents, part acrid 
and part spicy, that made her want to sneeze. Tentatively, she poked one of 
the walls, curious about the odd texture. The warm surface yielded slightly 
under the pressure of her finger, then sprang back when she removed her 
hand, leaving no trace of her touch. While Seriema was still investigating the 
strange substance, Cetain emerged from the access tunnel behind the last of 
his warriors. He exchanged a quick glance with Tormon, who had been 
pacing up and down a short stretch of the corridor, then beckoned to his 
men, who had been sitting around, taking a well-earned rest after their 
grueling ascent of the cliff road. “Come on, you laggards! Get off your 
backsides and let’s be moving on!” 
There was none of the groaning and grousing that usually would have 
accompanied such an order, and Seriema knew it was out of deference to 
Tormon’s feelings. She turned to Willan, who stood beside her. “They’re 
good men, your reivers.” He gave her a startled look, then his face creased in 
a gap-toothed smile. “Aye, lass, they are. A bit rough-and-ready, maybe, but 
none the worse for that. And a lot of them have wee ones of their own. They 
can understand what the trader is going through.” 
By this time, Cetain had found them, and as soon as he came up, Tormon 
was away again, striding quickly along the passage. Seriema knew that only 
the strangeness of this unknown place was stopping him from breaking into 
a headlong run, and was glad that he was showing that much caution, at 
least. The corridor curved gently ahead of them, so that it was impossible to 
see very far—and who knew what might await them around the next bend? 
Then they reached the massive chamber that Scall had described, and even 
Tormon was stopped in his tracks. Seriema gasped at the sheer scale of the 
place, which would have accommodated a hundred of Myrial’s Temples 
with room to spare. Cetain was gripping her arm tightly, and she could 
understand why he must be feeling overawed. The place affected her in the 
same way, and at least she’d had Scall’s descriptions to forewarn 
her—although, until that moment, she had never quite believed him. 
For the little group of humans who stood in the cavern entrance, dwarfed by 
the immensity around them, it was impossible to comprehend such an alien 
place. Just by being what it was, it threw the mind into confusion. Seriema 
gazed in perplexity at the strange formations, part organic, and part 
geometric, that were ranged across the floor of the chamber. Strange lights 
ran across the surface of the structures: some twinkling, some flashing on 
and off in patterns which almost—almost—conveyed some meaning to her 
mind, and others glowing softly like opal. Above her there were more lights, 
pulsing along what looked like vast spiderwebs, or leaping across the 

dizzying spaces in narrow, vibrantly colored beams. 
Again, the walls seemed to be formed from that odd, yielding substance. 
Bands, blotches, and starbursts of softly glowing light seemed to move and 
glide beneath its surface, changing color and melting into one another in a 
medley of amorphous shapes. The air felt dry and prickly on the skin, and 
the pungent scent was stronger here, with overtones of the smell that always 
accompanied thunderstorms. The sounds, though not particularly loud, were 
utterly alien: strange humming and droning in many different tones and 
pitches, sharp bursts of crackling and, beneath it all, a rhythmic, throbbing, 
pulse that seemed to penetrate right through to their very bones. 
Tormon was the first to recover from the bewildering assault upon the 
senses. “Come on,” he shouted. “What are we standing here for? Let’s all 
split up, and search.” 
Cetain, with the air of a sleeper waking suddenly from a dream, moved to 
forestall him. “Let’s do nothing of the kind,” he said firmly. “This is not a 
good place, Tormon, and just look at the size of it, man! If we get split up, 
we’ll never find each other again.” He paused in thought for a moment. “We 
must divide into two groups—no more. I’ll command one, and Willan will 
take charge of the other. We’ll go in opposite directions from this entrance, 
and stick to the walls. Is that clearly understood? Unless you get a definite 
sighting of Presvel and his captives, no one is to go wandering off into the 
center of the chamber, and if that happens—though I doubt it will—you 
must leave the others some sort of sign to show the way you’ve gone. 
Otherwise, we must all keep going until we meet again—and by that time, 
we’ll have an idea of the ways out of here; their position and, hopefully, 
whether anyone has passed that way lately. Rochalla seems to have her wits 
about her. She left us one clue to show where they had gone. Maybe she can 
manage others. If we get right around, and there’s no other way out, or no 
sign of them having left the chamber, then, and only then, will we worry 
about how best to search the middle.” He looked around his men. “Now, is 
everybody quite clear about what we’re going to do?” 
For a moment the trader looked truculent, but Seriema went up to him and 
spoke softly in his ear. “Tormon, this is really the best way. We’ve got to be 
systematic, or we’ll never find them in a place this size.” 
He bit his lip, and sighed. “All right. We’ll do it your way. But let’s stop 
wasting time!” 
Quickly, they split into two parties. Tormon, Seriema, and Cetain formed up 
with three of the reivers, and went to their left, while Willan took the other 
five warriors, and went right. Before the two groups parted, Seriema pulled 
the torch stub from her belt. Though prudence had made her hang on to it, it 
really wasn’t long enough to be much use. Carefully, she laid it in the 
entrance of the passageway. “There,” she said. “No matter what happens 
now, at least we’ll be able to find our way back out of here.” 
Cetain gave her a smile that was warm with pride. “Well-done, lass. You 
might not be so good at climbing, but when it comes to wits, you beat us 

all.” 
It was a long walk all the way around the vast chamber, and the knowledge 
that Presvel had probably taken a much straighter route, thereby saving 
himself a lot of time and effort, added extra irritation. On the other hand, 
however, theirs was the safer and more sensible way. Who could say that 
Presvel and his captives weren’t wandering around the cavern somewhere at 
this very moment, lost and unable to find a way out? 
For her part, Seriema hoped that she and her companions would find an exit 
soon. All the shifting, flashing lights, coupled with the incessant sizzling and 
buzzing in the background, were making her head ache. Not only was she 
physically weary after the long ride and hard climb that day, but her brain 
was beginning to feel fogged by all her fruitless attempts to make sense of 
what was taking place all around her, and she was finding it difficult to 
concentrate. Then, something happened to jolt her out of her trance. Finnall, 
one of Cetain’s men, had wandered a little way apart from the rest. He was 
notorious in the reiver band for having more curiosity than brains, and the 
warriors could tell a whole host of amusing tales at his expense. This time, 
however, it was no laughing matter. 
Out of the corner of her eye, Seriema saw him wander over to a tall column 
covered in scintillating lights that looked for all the world like jewels. As he 
reached out to see if he could pick one off the surface, she let out a yell of 
warning, but it was too late. With a loud snapping sound, a filament of 
searing light lanced out from the structure and attached itself to Finnall’s 
hand. In an eyeblink it had run up his arm, branching and multiplying as it 
went, until his entire body was covered in a blinding network of blue-white 
brilliance. Writhing and screaming, the reiver fell to the floor, while his 
comrades clustered round him at a respectful distance, desperate to help him, 
but not daring to go any closer. Then the scream was cut off abruptly, as 
Finnall burst into a ball of silvery flame. When the fire died away, absolutely 
no trace of him remained. 
There was nothing to do but go on, and as yet, everyone was too shocked to 
say anything about the terrible fate of their comrade. Seriema noticed, 
however, that the men stuck together in a tight bunch now, and avoided not 
only the structures in the chamber, but the walls as well. The dangers of this 
alien place had been brought home to them in the most horrific way, and no 
one was taking any chances. For herself, Seriema held tightly to the hand of 
a visibly distressed Cetain. She had waited too many years to find him, and 
she had no intention of losing him. If anything happened to him now, it was 
damn well going to happen to her, too! 
Weary and sick at heart, they finally reached what was apparently the only 
exit to the chamber, and it was a subdued band of reivers who met with their 
companions, who had arrived there a little while before. The others listened 
with horror to the tale of Finnall’s fate, but there was little time for dwelling 
on what had happened. Every one of them was seized by an urgency to get 
away from this dreadful place as soon as possible. And now they could make 
some progress, for they had another clue. Balled up in the doorway was 

another rag of cloth from Rochalla’s dress. The trail led onward, out of the 
chamber, and into the unknown regions ahead. 
Seriema looked at Cetain, wondering what they would meet with next, and 
whether anyone else would be lost. From the look on his face, she suspected 
that their thoughts were very much alike. 
CHAPTER 34 
Unexpected Friendship 
After they had rested at the head of the pass, Amaurn’s little force continued 
down the trail, riding in pairs where the way was wide enough, and single 
file where the rocks closed in. In the general scrimmage of departure, Elion 
had found himself riding alongside Vifang. To make people feel more 
comfortable, the shapeshifter had taken on human appearance and was riding 
Toulac’s horse. The veteran— thanks to a plot hatched between herself and 
Elion—had joined Veldan on Kaz, so that she could help to take the minds 
of the Loremaster partners off the landslide that had almost killed them on 
this very road. 
As they rode down the trail, Elion couldn’t help glancing across at Vifang. 
The form she had taken was distinctly feminine—which, he supposed, was 
hardly surprising. More unsettling, however, was the fact that the flame-red 
hair she had chosen was almost identical in color to that of his dead partner, 
Melnyth. The face was not the same, being much more delicate and regular 
of feature, and this woman appeared to be younger, and neither so tall nor so 
lean. Nonetheless, the slight, superficial resemblance was sufficient to stir up 
a welter of memories in Elion, both good and bad. The most vivid, however, 
was his partner’s horrendous death. 
Was this some evil omen? Unthinkingly, he recoiled from Vifang and saw 
her face take on a bitter expression; half anger, half regret. “Do I repel you 
so badly, even in this form?” she challenged him. 
Hastily, Elion shook his head. “No, of course you don’t repel me! It’s not 
that at all. It’s just... You remind me ... I can’t...” he gave up, and took 
another approach. “Why did you choose that color for your hair?” 
Vifang shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s strange, but the image of it has been 
popping in and out of my mind all day, as though it were being projected 
from somewhere. I even increased my mental shielding, but the impression 
is so strong, it just keeps breaking through.” 
Suddenly, Elion understood. He wouldn’t be the only one who had Melnyth 
on his mind today. Veldan and Kaz would be thinking about her too, 

reflecting on that last encounter with the Ak’Zahar and how badly it had 
failed. With all three Loremasters remembering her, it was little wonder that, 
between them, they had created images strong enough to pierce Vifang’s 
shield. Not for one moment did he think she’d been snooping deliberately. In 
order to take on the shapes of other beings the way they did, the Takuru must 
be extraordinarily receptive to form and detail. Because of the strength of the 
emotions that must be emanating from the three surviving Loremasters, on 
this day of all days, she had unwittingly copied Melnyth’s most distinctive 
feature—that banner of flaming hair. Elion found himself wondering just 
how Vifang’s personality meshed with the other forms she created. How 
closely did the emotions shown on this human’s face correspond with what 
was passing in the Takur’s mind? If she took on a human form, did her 
mental processes become more human? But in that case, what would happen 
when she took the form of a tree, or a chair? Sometime, if they both survived 
today, he would love to ask her ... 
He came back from his thoughts to find the shapeshifter staring at him. “So 
what’s the problem with this hair, anyway?” she demanded. “I swear, against 
all the weird prejudices of you damn Loremasters, we Takuru just can’t 
win.” 
Suddenly, Elion saw himself jeopardizing Amaurn’s entire plan to integrate 
the Takuru with the rest of the Shadowleague. “No, it’s not a prejudice at 
all,” he told her hastily. “It’s just that you reminded me ...” And with that, he 
went on to explain to her about his former partner, her violent death, and his 
theory that he and his colleagues had been projecting her image 
unconsciously. 
To his surprise, he found it easier than it had previously been to speak of 
those dreadful times. By the time he had finished, the glint of anger had 
faded from Vifang’s eyes. “Oh. Now I see—and I understand what it must 
mean to you, to be going back to fight the Ak’Zahar today. I’m sorry, Elion, 
to have brought back such memories. I can change the color—what shall it 
be? Black? Blue? Purple? Green?” As she spoke, her hair took on each color 
in turn, with some startling results. 
Elion burst out laughing. “I’d stick to the red, if I were you. Besides,” he 
added softly, “I always loved that color. It’s nice to see it again.” 
Vifang shot a shrewd glance in his direction. “I really don’t think that would 
be a good idea,” she told him gently. “I’ll stick to the purple, if it’s all the 
same to you—at least for today.” 
As they went on down the trail, they continued to talk, and Elion learned 
more about the sad exile of the Takuru: always on the outskirts, always 
excluded, suspected, reviled. He felt angry that Cergorn had lured them into 
this unhappy existence with false hopes and promises, and ashamed of 
himself and his own people for being so prejudiced. “But why did you keep 
on believing him?” he asked. “Surely, as time went on, you must have seen 
that Cergorn was deceiving you.” The Takur shrugged. “Of course we did, 
and it made us very bitter. That was when a few of my people actually 

started to make the sort of mischief that had been wrongly attributed to us 
before. But what alternative did we have other than to keep hoping that, 
sooner or later, the Archimandrite would keep his word? The Takuru have 
never been a prolific race. Even at the best of times, there were no more than 
a handful of us, and we were hunted down and killed wherever we were 
found. It was an easy matter for wrongdoers of any species to say that their 
crimes had been committed by shapeshifters, and if they could get anyone to 
bear false witness for them, they were generally believed. Just when it 
seemed that our race must be doomed, Cergorn offered us sanctuary and 
hope. Even if the Curtain Walls had not failed, I doubt that we would have 
survived much longer in our own lands. In spite of the way he used us, we 
still owe him a good deal, Elion. Had it not been for Cergorn, flawed and 
manipulative as he was, the Takuru would have been extinct by now.” 
It was somewhere around noon when Amaurn’s group of Loremasters came 
down the trail and onto the plateau. Elion looked ahead to the city of 
Tiarond, oddly surprised to find it so unchanged. But the invaders had not 
used fire, he reminded himself, nor had they attacked with siege weapons to 
subdue the city. All they had needed were teeth and talons, numbers, speed, 
and strength. Not to mention the ability to strike without warning from the 
skies. 
All too soon, the time came for the two groups to split up. Amaurn, along 
with Veldan, Kaz, Toulac, Dark, the Zavahl/Aethon pairing, and a reluctant 
Scall, would carry on across the plateau to the cliff road, and down into the 
passages that the lad had found. Elion, Vifang, Kher, and two other 
Loremasters would head into the city to deal with the Ak’Zahar. 
They didn’t linger over the parting. They were all too aware that the group 
who were going into Tiarond would need all the remaining hours of daylight 
to complete their task—and if, in the meantime, the clouds should come 
down really low, even that margin of safety would vanish. There was only 
time for a quick hug from Veldan, a slap on the back from Toulac, and some 
last words of advice and warning from Amaurn, before Elion found himself 
riding away from most of his friends and heading toward the city, to face 
once again the fiends who had killed his partner. 
Kher and Elion had talked it over on the journey and decided that the best 
plan would be to leave the horses near the city gate. Their hooves made too 
much noise on the cobbled streets, preventing any attempts at a silent 
approach to the Precincts’ tunnel, and if the Ak’Zahar should be disturbed, 
and rush to the attack, being mounted would not convey any advantage to 
the Loremasters. On the contrary, the only way to survive would be to run 
and hide in the nearby merchants’ houses, going to ground like hunted 
animals. Though the houses in this lower area were cramped and mean, the 
Loremasters chose one near the gates and led their mounts inside, leaving 
them safely tethered in the two downstairs rooms. Elion remembered Veldan 
telling him how Toulac used to bring her horse into her kitchen and felt a 
prickle running down his spine. He mocked himself for being unduly 
superstitious; nevertheless it seemed to him, as it had done to Veldan, that 

circumstances were coming full circle, back to a peculiar echo of the events 
that had started this entire business. 
Having made the horses secure, they went back out into the street, where 
Vifang changed back into her own amorphous form, which would be much 
more efficient for either hiding or fighting, and vanished into the shadows. 
To Elion’s surprise, it didn’t bother him in the least. Somehow, that human 
figure sporting the flamboyant banner of red then purple hair had made him 
view the shapeshifter in a whole new light, and since he had come to know 
her better, he had realized that she wasn’t alien and frightening after all. In 
fact, he had discovered that he liked her very much and was glad to have her 
at his side throughout this dangerous mission. 
Since the presence of the Takur had made Kher’s little group superfluous, 
Amaurn had sent all but two of them back to Gendival. Loremasters were in 
such short supply during the current crisis that it seemed insane to risk any 
more of them than was absolutely necessary. If Vifang failed, then an extra 
handful of fighters was going to make little difference. Elion suspected that 
Amaurn had only brought them in the first place to mollify the more 
conservative members of the Shadowleague, who couldn’t seem to see that 
on such a mission only abilities mattered, not numbers. Kher’s two 
remaining assistants were Loremaster partners. Though well versed in 
fighting skills, Alsive and Elysa were also skilled artisans and historians who 
had made a special study of the explosives and weapons that had come from 
the distant past. They were an oddly mismatched couple—while Alsive was 
short and dark, tending toward chubbiness, and explosive of temperament, 
blond Elysa was willowy and languid—and a deadly fighter, if aroused. 
As the little group crept through the streets, Elion was glad to have the two 
extra fighters. The deserted city was an eerie place. He shivered as they crept 
through empty streets that were wet and slippery with sleet, and wished he 
had one of the plasma beam weapons, like the esoteric device that Kher 
carried, slung by its strap from his shoulder. It was one of the only two in 
existence and, like most of the young Loremasters under Cergorn’s reign, 
Elion had sneaked it out of the museum of forbidden artifacts from time to 
time and taken it off to some deserted spot for a bit of target practice. 
I’m just as good a shot as he is. Why should he have it? 
But Kher had been given the weapon by Amaurn, because he’d been 
patrolling the failing Curtain Walls on the Gendival border. He wasn’t about 
to let go of it now, no matter how much Elion coaxed or cajoled, so there 
wasn’t any point in trying. There wasn’t any point in wishing for its 
counterpart, either, because Amaurn’s group had taken it down into the 
tunnels with them. 
Sternly, Elion told himself to stop wishing for things he couldn’t have and 
pay attention to his surroundings instead. 
The city was not as he had expected. Since everyone had been in the 
Precincts when the predators had attacked, there were no decaying bodies 
lying about, and he was profoundly grateful for their absence. The place 

looked as though the entire populace had simply packed its bags and 
decamped, and the Loremaster could almost let himself believe that they had 
fled—until a swirl of air brought a breeze down from the upper levels of the 
city, laden with the sickly pungency of decaying flesh. 
Despite the air of abandonment, however, Elion could not shake the 
sensation of being watched by unseen, hostile eyes. Time and again, he 
turned his head quickly, thinking he had seen a face or a shadowy figure at a 
window, only to be confronted by a curtain moving in a draft, a dead plant in 
a pot on the windowsill—or nothing at all. He only thanked Providence that 
it was daylight. Even now, the menace and threat of the predators was ever 
present. Every unexpected noise made the Loremasters startle and freeze, 
and they were surprised at the number of sounds there could be in such a 
deserted place: the whispering of the wind, the harsh cries of carrion birds, 
the slither and crash of a dislodged tile, and the creak of shifting timbers in 
the damp, deserted houses. Scrabbling and scratching sounds coming from 
the interiors of the deserted buildings showed that the rats, at any rate, were 
thriving. 
As the Loremasters moved cautiously onward, heading uphill toward the 
Sacred Precincts, Elion could see that, in the absence of their inhabitants, the 
buildings of Tiarond were already beginning to decay. Missing roof tiles, 
broken windowpanes, a creaking shutter that had come adrift and was 
swinging perilously by one hinge: all of these foreshadowed the city’s 
ultimate fate if the Shadowleague failed to take it back from the Ak’Zahar. 
The clouds were thickening by the time Elion and his companions reached 
the merchants’ houses on the edge of the Esplanade. Ahead of them, across 
the empty square, was the dark mouth of the tunnel that sheltered and 
concealed the colony of predators. Elion shivered, and wiped clammy palms 
on his shirt. They were in there. He could smell them—that same foul, 
carrion stench that had filled the labyrinthine caverns in Ghariad the day that 
Melnyth lost her life. At the thought of his lost partner, hatred flared within 
him, turning the fear into anger. 
Just stay put in there for a little while longer, you ugly, murdering bastards. 
This is the day when Melynth’s death will finally be avenged! 
They took shelter in the garden of Lady Seriema’s mansion, concealing 
themselves from view in a cluster of laurels while they organized for the task 
ahead. Kher wishing his weapon and hung it carefully on the broken stump 
of a thick bough while he sorted through the packs for the explosives. The 
sleet was coming down harder now, and Elion glanced up uneasily at the 
lowering skies. 
If this lot turns to proper snow, we could be in all sorts of trouble. Both the 
pass and the cliff road get blocked very easily, and I don’t fancy spending 
the winter in Tiarond. 
He turned to Kher. “We’d better hurry, before it gets any darker.” 
At that moment, there was a stir of movement among the shrubs, and one of 
the bushes lost its glossy leaves and melted into the nebulous, many-limbed 

form of Vifang. “Ah, er... There you are,” Kher said. Clearly, he was not 
quite comfortable yet, in the presence of the Takur. “Are you still prepared 
to go into the tunnel for us?” 
“I’ve already been inside,” the shapeshifter told him. “At least, a little way.” 
“What?” Elion was horrified. “You went in there without even letting us 
know? Well, of all the crazy, irresponsible...” 
“Calm down, Elion.” Kher gave him a quizzical look. “What’s your 
problem?” He turned back to the shapeshifter. “How far did you go, and 
what did you see?” 
“As I said, I only went in a little way,” Vifang told him. “I didn’t want to 
risk disturbing them yet. I took the form of a bat, so I could get an idea of 
their numbers in the darkness.” 
“And?” 
“There are so many of them, all clustered together, that it’s difficult to tell. 
I’d say there were a couple of hundred, anyway. At least that many.” 
Kher’s normally merry face looked closed and grim. “That’s good. 
Hopefully, we’ll get the whole accursed lot of them with a single blast.” 
“Are you ready then?” Vifang asked. “The day is wearing on. As soon as 
you’re ready for me to go, I’ll change shape, but I won’t do it until the last 
moment because, as one of the Ak’Zahar, the daylight will hurt my eyes.” 
“How can you be so calm about this?” Elion demanded. 
“You forget,” the Takur said, “I have been the foremost assassin amongst 
my people for some time. One way and another, I’ve had to teach myself not 
to let my nerves get the better of me.” 
The Loremaster shook his head. “How quickly can you teach me not to let 
my nerves get the better of me?” 
“Not that quickly!” 
“I was afraid you’d say that.” He thought for a moment. It was a concern to 
him that she planned to become an Ak’Zahar. He had seen them attack one 
another mercilessly before now, for no reason that would make any sense to 
a human. “Wouldn’t it be safer for you to keep the form of a bat when you 
sneak in next time?” he suggested. 
“Indeed it would,” Vifang told him, “but how would I carry the charges?” 
“Oh.” Elion felt foolish. “I hadn’t thought of that.” 
Vifang smiled her own, inner equivalent of a smile. She liked this human, 
who seemed to have accepted her so well. There was no way she could tell 
him just how nervous she really was or how perilous her task would be. He 
would only worry all the more. Then she revised her thought. Elion already 
knew how dangerous the Ak’Zahar could be. They had killed his partner. 

And he was already worried. 
“We have the charges ready now,” Kher broke into her thoughts. He handed 
her a sack, and the shapeshifter opened it and looked inside. “Those small, 
flat black discs are the charges,” he told her. “There are eight of them. Just 
place them firmly against the walls or ceiling, and they should stick there. If 
it’s at all possible, try to distribute them as widely as you can throughout the 
tunnel. If we can, we want to kill all of those damned monstrosities in a 
single blast, and it will be best if we can blow up the tunnel all along its 
length.” 
From his pocket he took another device, about the size of his palm and 
rectangular in shape. “Once you’re safely out, this will detonate them.” He 
showed her the raised white square that gleamed against the black, metallic 
background. “I just press this—and boom!” He paused. “At least, I hope so. 
We took these devices from the collection of materials that we weren’t 
allowed to use before Amaurn took over. Goodness knows how long they’ve 
been locked up in there or whether they’ll work at all.” 
“But didn’t you test them?” Elion asked him. 
“We couldn’t. We need all that we have, and we couldn’t spare any charges 
to test. Once we’ve blown them up, we can hardly use them again.” 
The Takur felt a stirring of unease. “But what if I go in there, risk my life to 
plant your charges, and then they won’t detonate? What then?” 
Kher plunged his hand into the sack and came out with another small 
package. “We use this—just ordinary blasting powder. There’s not enough 
here to blow up the whole tunnel, but when this explodes, the blast should be 
enough to detonate the other charges.” 
“Blasting powder?” the shapeshifter protested. “Have you lost your mind? 
They’ll smell that stuff at once. And how am I going to persuade the 
Ak’Zahar that I’m one of them if I have to go into that tunnel dragging a 
fuse?” 
Kher thought for a moment. “Well, I’ll tell you what. Just take the charges in 
at first, and come straight out again. 
Then, if they do fail to blow, you can go back in with the blasting powder.“ 
“So now I get to go in there twice? Thank you so much!” 
“Well, it’s only as a last resort,” Kher said hastily. “I’m sure there’ll be no 
need—really. The charges should detonate all right.” 
“If you’re so sure they’ll detonate, Kher, why don’t you wager your life on 
it?” Elion snapped. 
Vifang moved quickly to head off an incipient fight. “Well, there’s no point 
in standing around here.” She fixed the image of the hideous Ak’Zahar in 
her mind and felt the familiar cool, melting sensation that told her that her 
form was changing. Then her body settled into the new pattern, and one of 
the hideous winged predators squatted where the Takur had stood a moment 
before. 

Before she had left Gendival, Vifang had made a close and detailed study of 
the captive Ak’Zahar. It had been a tremendous stroke of good fortune that 
Dark had captured the creature alive. Without it, this plan could never have 
succeeded, for the shapeshifter needed a specimen from which to copy. On 
encountering a member of any new species—or, for that matter, any 
inanimate object that they wanted to copy—the Takuru had the ability to 
shift their consciousness into the other’s form, while the subject, in the case 
of living creatures, remained completely unaware of the intrusion. In that 
way, they could make an imprint in their minds—a template of the way the 
new structure functioned and fitted together, so that it could be replicated by 
their own shapeshifting form. A difference in size created no difficulty. The 
amorphous bodies of the Takuru existed partly in the normal world, and 
partly in the Otherplace—that strange, alternative, adjacent dimension 
which, according to Amaurn, the Magefolk had also been able to access 
through the use of certain artifacts. Existing simultaneously in both 
dimensions, the shapeshifters could move part of their mass at will from one 
to the other, using as much as they needed to form the shape that they were 
using in the mundane world and leaving the extra in the Otherplace. 
Now that she had taken on the semblance of the predators, Vifang 
discovered that not only could she could mimic their smell, their appearance, 
and the way they sounded, but she also suffered the same problems as they 
did where daylight was concerned. Even the subdued light of a clouded 
afternoon dazzled her, lancing into her eyes like blades of steel. She put 
down the sack and covered her face with bony hands, almost drawing blood 
with her elongated, razor-sharp talons. Her one imperative was to get out of 
that dreadful light. “I’m going now,” she said quickly. “I won’t try to 
communicate with you once I’m inside, in case those creatures can pick up 
mind-speech, but rest assured that I’ll be as quick as I possibly can.” 
Elion, who had been staring at her new form with a kind of fascinated 
revulsion, visibly pulled himself together. “Well, you take care of yourself,” 
he told her. “After this, I reckon that Amaurn owes you any favor that you 
care to ask of him—and I’ll make sure he knows that, too.” 
The shapeshifter laughed. “I’d appreciate that, Elion. All being well, I’ll see 
you soon. Stand back,” she warned, and, extending her leathery wings, she 
took off with her taloned hands hugging the sack close to her body—one 
lone figure on her way to challenge the menace of the Ak’Zahar. 
CHAPTER 35 
The Mirror Wall 

Come on, Scall. Keep up!“ Though Dark’s voice wasn’t angry or unkind, 
there was a sharp note in it that the youth had never heard before. Since 
Amaurn’s companions had said farewell to Kher’s group and gone their own 
way, tempers seemed to be fraying. Had it not been for the fact that they 
were all adults, members of the mysterious, powerful Shadowleague, and 
experienced in both fighting and the solving of problems, Scall would have 
sworn that they were nervous—if not downright scared. But that was hardly 
likely, was it? If anyone was going to be scared on this expedition, surely it 
was going to be him. 
Not for one moment had Scall imagined that he’d be back here again, 
especially so soon after his escape from this grim place. As he and his 
companions crossed the flood-ravaged plateau, and picked their way down 
the steep trail toward the waterfall, everything reminded him of his earlier 
flight from Tiarond. There was only one difference—to Scall, the most 
important in the world. This time, Tormon and Rochalla were not with him. 
They’ll still be at the reiver stronghold, I expect—unless 
Tormon went looking for me. But no—how could he? He wouldn’t leave 
little Annas. I wonder what they’re doing now? And did Presvel get 
caught—or is he still chasing after Rochalla? 
A shiver went through him at the thought. 
“Scall, come on!” This time, though he was yelling to be heard over the roar 
of the waterfall, the Summoner really did sound annoyed, and Scall realized 
that while he’d been woolgathering, he was holding up the line of people 
waiting to pass behind the immense waterfall and enter the cliff road tunnel. 
Amaurn, Zavahl, and Toulac were already inside. Dark, Veldan, and Kazairl 
were waiting behind him, because the firedrake had insisted on going last, in 
case his weight should crumble the edges of the waterworn road. 
“Sorry.” Scall felt himself going red. Even after all his adventures, it seemed 
that he was still as much of a day-dreamer as he had been when he was 
Agella’s apprentice. Quickly, he ducked beneath the sleek arc of water, 
letting the misty spray cool his burning face, and glad of the darkness 
beyond, to hide his blushes. 
In the tunnel, the others were waiting impatiently. “What kept you, boy?” 
Amaurn barked. “Sorry,” Scall mumbled again. 
Toulac took his arm and steered him away from the irate Archimandrite. 
“Try to keep your mind on business, sonny,” she said softly. “Just 
think—the quicker we can get this over, the sooner you can get back to that 
little chestnut mare of yours. Not to mention that girl you left behind with 
the reivers.” 
Scall, however, was not to be consoled. “It’s just not fair. I didn’t want to 
come back here in the first place, but they made me.” 

The veteran shrugged. “Welcome to the adult world, sonny. Life isn’t fair. 
You’ve just got to get on with it.” 
Scall fumed. This was just the sort of irritating thing that old people were 
always saying. It sounded good, but what use was it? Luckily for him, he 
was too much in awe of the veteran to answer back. 
By this time, the last of the companions had entered the tunnel. Everybody 
lit the glims they carried, and continued on down the wet road, their 
footsteps echoing from the curving walls of the passage through the cliff. 
Scall hurried as fast as he dared, keeping his eyes on the ceiling, despite the 
risk of tripping over the bumps and ruts in the uneven surface. Reluctant 
though he was to reenter the strange passages he had found, he couldn’t get 
there soon enough. Firstly, the thought of the flood that had almost killed 
him last time made him desperate to get out of the tunnel, and secondly, 
Toulac had been right about one thing. The quicker they got this over with, 
the better—and then he could go back to Tormon and Rochalla, and get on 
with his interrupted life. 
If I survive, that is. 
To his great relief, the downward journey didn’t seem to take nearly so long 
as it had when the place had been strange to him, and he’d been all alone. 
With relief, he saw the circular opening in the ceiling, and called out to the 
others. “Look! There it is.” 
They all hurried toward it, and clustered underneath. Amaurn frowned. “It’s 
going to be interesting, trying to get Kaz up there.” He unslung the peculiar 
weapon, a twin of the one that Kher carried, from his shoulder. “It looks as 
though we’ll have to bring down part of the ceiling, and use the rubble to 
make a ramp of sorts.” 
Toulac, in the meantime, had been scouting around the area in which they 
were standing. “Hey, look at this,” she called. “Someone’s been here before 
us.” There, at the edge of the road, was a pile of horse droppings. 
Amaurn bent to examine them. “What in the name of perdition ... ?” 
“Whoever they were, I don’t think they went any farther than this.” Toulac 
frowned. “We didn’t see any more dung, or any other signs of horses farther 
up the passage or the cliff road, and the ground was pretty muddy in places.” 
Then Dark made the second discovery. “Look up there!” Tied to the metal 
cross-strut was a strip of fluttering material. Lifting the glim above his head, 
he examined the cloth more closely. “Why, this is reiver patterning. What 
can they be doing here?” 
Rudely, Scall shoved his way past the Summoner. That cloth looked so 
familiar... “That looks like Rochalla’s dress!” 
Dark put a hand on his shoulder. “Steady, lad. That’s a pretty common 
weave among my people. More girls than one have dresses with that 
pattern—it could belong to anybody.” 
Scall remained silent, but he was certain that the Summoner was wrong. 

What in the name of Myrial would some other reiver girl be doing here? For 
some unknown reason, Rochalla had returned, just as he had. But who was 
with her? Tormon and Seriema? Or was it Presvel? 
Amaurn called them all to order. “Standing around here is getting us 
nowhere. Let’s get moving, shall we? Everybody stay well back.” Once they 
had all retreated to a safe distance, he lifted the weapon, aimed carefully at a 
spot on the ceiling near the rim of the circular hole, and fired. There was a 
brilliant flash of light, a reverberating crash, and a section of the ceiling 
came down in a cloud of dust that set them all coughing and choking. As the 
haze began to clear, Scall could see that a chunk of the roof had come down, 
exposing a length of the strange, circular corridor above. As they had hoped, 
the rubble had formed a large pile underneath that could be scrambled up 
with care. 
“Myrial in a ball gown!” Toulac said. “You haven’t gone and blocked the 
whole tunnel?” 
Amaurn squinted through the dust. “I don’t think so. If some of those rocks 
were moved, there would be a space to squeeze through. Probably.” 
“Who cares?” Veldan said impatiently. “We don’t need to get down there 
anyway. The way back up isn’t blocked, and as long as we can still get out, 
that’s all that matters. Let’s get on with this.” 
Scall couldn’t have agreed more. 
Ramp or no ramp, Kaz still had a certain amount of difficulty scrambling up 
into the tunnel above, and before he could squeeze into the passageway, 
Amaurn was forced to lower the settings on the plasma weapon and fire 
short bursts at the walls to enlarge the space. The results were unexpected. 
All the layer of spongy material, which turned out to be four or five feet 
thick, seemed to shrivel and shrink away, leaving a tube of polished stone 
that went like a wormhole through the interior of the plateau. 
“What in the name of Myrial was that stuff?” Zavahl wondered aloud. 
“Aethon says he can’t find anything in his memories that mentions it.” 
“We can worry about that later,” Veldan replied. “At least there’s room 
enough for Kaz now, and that’s what counts.” 
When the spongy substance had gone, the soft, changeful, colored lights also 
vanished, and once again the glims were needed as they crept along in single 
file, walking with difficulty on the curving bottom of the tube. To Scall’s 
annoyance, Amaurn wouldn’t let him take the lead. Instead, he was forced to 
trail along behind the Archimandrite and Zavahl, even though he had been 
the one who’d discovered the place, and he was the only one who’d been 
here before. Not, to be perfectly honest, that he particularly wanted to be the 
first to encounter any dangers but, on the other hand, it just went to show 
how useless they thought him. Fuming, Scall stomped along, muttering 
under his breath. Tormon had never treated him like that. And this lot had 
sung a different tune back in Gendival, when they had wanted to see the 
strange devices he’d discovered. 

Suddenly Toulac, who was walking behind him, tapped him on the shoulder. 
“Never mind,” she said in a low voice. “None of this lot ever had the nerve 
to tackle one of the winged fiends, armed with just his bare hands and a 
rock.” 
After that, Scall felt much more cheerful. When the tunnel opened out into 
the gigantic cavern, and Amaurn gestured for him to lead the way, his pride 
was restored completely. 
In truth, Scall had forgotten how bewildering and dauntingly strange the 
massive chamber was, with its bizarre, moving patterns of light, its weird 
sounds, and its unnatural structures, all different shapes and sizes, that 
seemed to be growing out of the floor. As they came out of the tubular 
tunnel, all the adults stopped and stood gaping at their alien surroundings. 
He noted with some satisfaction that they all looked as awestruck as he had 
been on his first visit. If truth be told, he was just as dumbfounded the 
second time around, but he concealed it as best he could, cultivating a 
studied, casual air. “Come on. The place where I found that weird stuff is 
over this way,” he said, and set off bravely in what he hoped was the right 
direction. 
“Dammit, we’ve lost him!” Seriema planted her fists on her hips. “Honestly, 
I can understand why Tormon is so anxious, but we’ve asked him time and 
again not to get too far ahead—and now look what’s happened!” 
They had reached a place where the tunnel widened and three passages 
intersected: the one by which they had entered and two others. The trader, 
who had been getting increasingly far ahead of them as time went on, was 
nowhere to be seen. Gesturing to his men to keep silent, Cetain went and 
shouted down each tunnel in turn. “Tormon! Hi, Tormon! Come back!” 
There was no answer, and the reiver turned to Seriema with a shrug. “Well, 
he’s really done it this time. And didn’t even have the gumption to leave us 
some kind of sign to show us where he’d gone. Why, even that young lassie 
had more sense.” 
“Aye—and if she left a sign to show which way they’d gone, that gormless 
mutton-headed trader has gone and moved it,” Willan said disgustedly. 
“So what do we do now?” Seriema asked in a worried voice. 
Cetain shrugged. “I’d toss a coin, if I had one. The two ways look the same 
to me, with naught to choose between them.” 
“We might as well take the nearest one then, I suppose,” Seriema said 
doubtfully. “If there’s no sign of him farther on, we can always come back.” 
She sighed. “We’ve walked so far already, I could do without this extra fuss 
and bother.” 
When they had left the vast chamber above, the tunnel had proved to be the 
same as the one by which they’d entered. The tubular walls were still 

covered with the soft, spongy substance, and the light, once again, had 
reverted to the soft, changeful rainbow hues. Sometimes the passage ran 
straight, and sometimes it curved gently. Occasionally, just to vary the 
monotony, there was a sharply angled bend, and sometimes the floor sloped 
downward with a steep gradient, letting them know that they were going 
farther down beneath the plateau. But that was all. There had been no 
crossroads, and no rooms leading off the endless passage, so there had been 
nothing to hold up the hurrying Tormon. Even when the rest of them had 
been tiring, he had gone forging ahead—until they had discovered, too late, 
that he had left them well and truly behind, and they could no longer find 
him. 
Seriema sighed. “Well, we’d better try not to let him get too far ahead of us. 
Has anyone got something to mark the tunnel we came in by?” 
Willan took a clean square of linen that formerly had been used to wrap 
some oatcakes, and skewered it with a dagger to the soft, yielding material 
of the passage wall. It hung there like a flag, marking the way home. That is, 
if we ever get the chance to come back this way. Trying to set aside such 
gloomy thoughts, Seriema squared her shoulders and set off down the new 
passageway, fighting a losing battle to keep up her spirits. “None of this 
makes any sense, ”she complained. 
Cetain, surprisingly, disagreed. “It may, though,” he said. “Among the 
reivers, when a chieftain dies, we bury him beneath the moor and raise a 
great barrow over him. His prized possessions go with him to his 
tomb—whatever might contribute to his wealth or comfort in the worlds 
beyond.” He looked at Seriema and grinned. “Of course, because the reivers 
aren’t wealthy people, there are certain folk among them who think it’s a 
waste to bury so much wealth under the ground where it will be lost forever. 
Inevitably, there are those who are brave— or foolish—enough to break into 
the tombs in search of forbidden riches. But to protect the chieftain’s spirit 
from unseemly disturbances, we build the barrows with a maze of false 
passages inside, and a lot of them contain pitfalls and traps. A would-be 
thief, breaking into the resting place of a reiver chieftain, very seldom seems 
to find his way out again—not that it seems to stop them trying, however.” 
His grin grew sly, and he winked at her. “Mind you, ‘tis said by some that 
the chieftains, before they die, will often pass on a plan of the barrow to their 
sons or daughters. That way, honor is satisfied, yet the wealth is not lost to 
the clan. Bit by bit, the items are recovered and find their way back into use, 
and no one ever remarks on their return.” Seriema looked at him with a 
frown. “So?” 
“Ah, the point of my tale is this, lassie. This place with all its tunnels made 
me think of the barrows, but on a much grander scale, of course. I don’t 
think all these endless passageways are here for any particular reason—other 
than to hide something.” 
“You know, I believe you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s the only 
thing that makes sense.” Seriema looked with increasing respect at the young 

man she had promised to wed. How lucky she was! Cetain was a reiver 
warrior, who could ride and fight with great skill. He commanded great 
respect in the rough, wild world in which he lived—but in addition, he had a 
brain, and he used it. “I wonder who built this place—and I wonder what it 
is they’re trying to protect,” she mused. 
Cetain looked grave. “I’m not sure if I want to know.” They had been 
walking for quite a while, without any sign of Tormon, when they were 
confronted with another choice of route. To their surprise, the tunnel, which 
had remained round in cross section like the others, with walls of the 
ubiquitous, yielding substance, opened out into a small chamber that looked 
almost normal by comparison, with walls of smooth, dark metal that were 
straight and squared-off in the usual way. Seriema gave a sigh of relief and 
looked around appreciatively. “Thank Myrial for that! Maybe now we’re 
finally getting somewhere. I never want to see another of those blasted tubes, 
ever again.” 
“I’ll drink to that,” said Cetain with feeling. All around him, his men had 
brightened perceptibly to find themselves between solid, comparatively 
normal-looking walls, and in plain, white light that stayed the same 
unchanging color. 
This time, they had no difficulty choosing a route. Leading off from one side 
of the room was a sort of doorless antechamber, and when they walked 
cautiously inside, they discovered that not only were there no other doors 
leading off it, but it didn’t even have any ceiling. Instead, a squared-off shaft 
went on upward for some indeterminate distance, its end lost in the shadows, 
high above. Back in the main chamber, the only other exit, apart from the 
one they had come in by, was a long corridor that led off from the opposite 
side. Again, it was built on conventional lines with straight, right-angled 
walls and ceiling, and clad in the same dark metal as the walls of the room 
itself. 
Willan took the lead for a while, with a couple of his best warriors 
accompanying him. Relieved to be heading into an area that seemed a little 
less alien, Seriema strode forward with Cetain at her side, and the remainder 
of the men following. After walking for a while they came to a place where 
the tunnel angled to the left. As she rounded the corner, Seriema froze in 
shock. There, coming toward them, were a group of warriors. Willan cursed, 
and as his men reached for their weapons, they saw the others do the same. It 
was only after another half dozen steps or so had brought the figures close 
enough to recognize, that they understood what they were seeing. 
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the grizzled veteran muttered. “It’s a mirror!” 
Abruptly, Cetain halted, stopping the rest of them in their tracks with a 
barked order. “Aye,” he said softly. “And a bloody sight more perfect a 
mirror than was ever found in Arcan’s fortress. But what would such a thing 
be doing all the way down here? Who would make a blank wall into a 
mirror?” He half turned and looked at Seriema. “Well, lass, not for nothing 
was I telling you all about the barrows, before. Call me a suspicious fool if I 

turn out to be wrong— but to me, this has the smell of a trap.” 
He grinned at the older man. “Willan, are you still as deadly with a knife as 
you used to be?” 
“Why, of course I am,” said the veteran indignantly. “I can put out the eye of 
a fly at twenty paces.” 
Cetain’s grin grew even more wolfish. “Ah, you don’t have to go that far,” 
he said. “All I want you to do is hit that mirror up ahead.” 
From nowhere, a sleek, balanced little throwing knife appeared in Willan’s 
hand, and, with a smooth cast, he launched it toward the reflective wall. 
With a loud splintering sound, the mirror shattered into countless fragments. 
There was a flash of eye-searing light, and their ears popped from the change 
of pressure as a strong wind went whistling past them, heading toward the 
shattered mirror, and whatever lay beyond. Then the light vanished, leaving 
dazzling purple afterimages in front of Seriema’s eyes. The wind died away 
and the pressure in her ears equalized as she swallowed hard. 
Seriema scraped tangled hair away from her face and blinked tears from her 
smarting eyes. She didn’t know what she had expected to see, beyond the 
mirror. Not a plain wall, or an ordinary room, that was for sure. What she 
had not expected, however, was to see the Godsword, Galveron, come 
hurtling out of what looked like a dark and swirling void, with four other 
figures trailing after him. All five of them ended up in a tangled heap on the 
floor of the passage while behind them ... Seriema blinked. Behind them, the 
wall was a perfect mirror once again, unmarked and flawless as before. 
“Well!” The voice belonged to Willan. “You surely don’t see that sort of 
thing every day!” 
It was a wonderful feeling to be free again. No matter how convincing 
Helverien’s illusion had been, it was an incredible relief to be back to the 
normal, solid world. Galveron strode forward to meet Seriema and her 
companions. “By Myrial, but it’s good to see you, my Lady! It must be you 
we have to thank for our rescue.” 
Seriema was still looking dumbfounded. “Lieutenant Galveron! I’m glad to 
see that you survived the attack on the city. But what in the world are you 
doing down here?” 
He shook his head. “Oh, my Lady, that’s a long, long story. These days, I’m 
no longer Lieutenant. Lord Blade seems to have been lost during the attack 
of those hideous winged monsters, and Hierarch Gilarra made me 
Commander in his place.” 
“Gilarra? She’s still alive, then?” 
Galveron nodded. “There are a few hundred survivors from Tiarond. We 
took refuge in the Temple, and from the Holy of Holies there, we found our 
way down here. In brief, my Lady, Gilarra sent me in search of the 

Hierarch’s ring.” 
Seriema’s eyebrows went up. “What? Down here?” 
“Don’t ask,” he told her wryly. “In any case, we found it, my companions 
and I, but we were caught in that trap from which you’ve just released us, 
and we were beginning to think we’d never see the outside world again. But 
what brings you down here, Lady Seriema? However did you find your way 
to this place?” 
“We are also searching—but for companions, not a ring,” Seriema told him. 
“Again, it’s a lengthy tale, but the short of it is that Presvel—you remember 
my assistant?—lost his mind following the fall of the city and has kidnapped 
trader Tormon’s child and another girl. We came down here with Tormon, to 
help him get his daughter back, but he went too far ahead of us, and we lost 
him. We were searching for him when we found you.” She turned to her tall 
companion with the dark red hair and the piercing eyes. “I think some 
introductions are in order. Commander Galveron of the Godswords, this is 
Cetain, son of the reiver chieftain Arcan—and soon to be my lifemate.” 
Galveron felt his jaw drop. One of those unregenerate rogues the reivers? 
And she was betrothed to him? How in the name of Myrial had that come to 
be? 
Cetain laughed and held out a hand. “I can guess your thoughts, Godsword, 
and as you said before—it’s a long story. But we’d be glad to tell it to you 
when we’ve more time. At present, though, I suggest we’d best put away any 
old enmities. We humans must band together against a far more menacing 
foe.” 
In spite of himself, Galveron was impressed. There was something about this 
young man that he liked. “By Myrial, but you’re right,” he said. “And in the 
interest of our new cooperation, I would suggest that we help you find poor 
Tormon and his little girl, as a matter of priority.” He frowned. “That poor 
man. Is there no end to his ill fortune? Still, we’ll do whatever we can to 
help him—then we can think about some way of getting out of here.” He 
grinned at Seriema. “But before we do, there’s someone I want you to meet.” 
With an arm around her shoulders, he drew Aliana forward. “Lady Seriema, 
this is Aliana, joint leader of the city’s finest thieves—and soon to be my 
lifemate—that is, if she’ll have me?” He looked down at Aliana, suddenly 
worried. He had a feeling that she might not appreciate being put on the spot 
like this. To his surprise, however, the thief looked up at him with a beaming 
smile. 
“Just try and stop me,” she said. 
Shree was paying little attention to all this trivial human chatter. The Wind- 
Sprite couldn’t quite believe her good fortune—she had given up hope of 
ever escaping from the timeless Otherplace in which the renegade Amaurn 
had trapped her. The final, incredible detail that put the seal on her joy was 

the face of Lady Seriema, who stood with a bunch of rough-looking men 
farther down the strange, metal-walled corridor. 
I can’t believe it! Not only did I actually manage to get out of there, but I’ve 
been released back into my own time! 
Helverien flicked a sideways glance at the Wind-Sprite, where she hovered 
near the ceiling. “It’s more than coincidence, if you ask me. I’ve had a long 
time to reflect on the way life seems to work, and what we tend to dismiss as 
Providence or serendipity are usually part of a much larger pattern, acted out 
on a scale of history that’s too large for us to comprehend.” 
Privately, Shree thought that sounded like claptrap. The only reason she 
could possibly see for being released so soon was that she would return 
within Amaurn’s lifetime and bring the renegade to justice at last. In the 
midst of dwelling on that happy prospect, she suddenly realized that the 
humans below her were already deep in conversation, and she had better stay 
aware of their intentions. 
It was as she had suspected, having heard Galveron and Aliana’s stories of 
their recent adventures. They had emerged in a continuation of the place in 
which they had found themselves when they ventured under Myrial’s 
Temple. Though she couldn’t care less about their plans to rescue the 
trader’s child, she decided that she had better remain with them for the 
present and investigate this strange place further. Clearly, it was some 
construct of the Ancients, and as such, it concerned the Shadowleague 
closely. Perhaps, between them, she and Helverien might be able to make 
some sense of it all. 
It occurred to Shree that she ought to be trying to reach Cergorn. Judging by 
what she had gleaned from Galveron and Aliana in the Otherplace, and was 
now hearing from the Godsword Commander and Lady Seriema, she had 
been missing for a few days at least. She needed the kind of detailed 
information that she could only get from the Shadowleague, and she needed 
to let her partner know that she was all right. It probably wouldn’t be easy to 
reach Gendival from here—she was a long way away, and who knew how 
far underground. Solid rock seemed to have a somewhat inhibiting effect on 
mind-speech. But if she tried her hardest, there should be Listeners on duty 
who could pick up and boost her thoughts, and it was desperately important 
that she reach the Archimandrite. He had to know as soon as possible that 
the renegade Amaurn was still a threat. 
While the humans were talking, Shree took her chance to send her message. 
Focusing her thoughts down to the narrowest, most private beam, she 
reached out beyond this tomb of stone, beyond the Tiarondian plateau, 
beyond the land of Callisiora, and through the Curtain Walls to Gendival. 
Immediately, she could sense that there was something wrong—something 
more than could be explained by a few short days’ absence. The team of 
Listeners on duty were new to her, and very young. Thirishri, concentrating 
even harder on reaching them, saw a hazy image beginning to form in her 
mind’s eye of the trio in the Tower of Tidings. There was a human girl, fresh

faced, young, and pretty, with golden highlights glinting in her light brown 
hair. Two others were next to her: a young man with stubble making a 
darker shadow on a shaven head, and a girl with pointed features, her 
braided hair a shade or two darker than that of her companion. 
Shree was puzzled to find that the trio were all human. Single-species 
groupings were traditionally rare among the Listeners, for the obvious 
reason that the abilities and talents of the different races could augment and 
boost one another. This trio, though able enough, were also very young: finalyear 
students, she suspected, who had been promoted before their training 
was complete. Again, she felt a frisson of unease. Cergorn would never have 
allowed such a thing! 
The leader and focus of the group was the girl with the lighter hair, who 
identified herself as Devera. Shree didn’t give her time for anything further. 
*This is Senior Loremaster Thirishri. I need to get a message to 
Archimandrite Cergorn immediately.* 
On the other end of the link, she could feel the girl’s confusion. “I’m sorry, 
Senior Loremaster, but... that isn’t possible.” 
Shree wasn’t feeling very strong on patience. *What do you mean, it isn’t 
possible? Just get him, girl!* 
“But... Senior Loremaster, didn’t you know? Cergorn is no longer 
Archimandrite. He’s no longer in Gendival at all.” 
*What did you say?* Thirishri was stunned, but she was not a Senior 
Loremaster for nothing. Within a moment, she had recovered herself and 
resolved to find out what had been going on in her absence. It took a while 
to bully the whole story out of the girl, who had, by this time, come to 
realize that she had slipped up badly in blurting out the news as she had. 
However, by the time the Listener’s explanations had stumbled to a close, 
she had heard all she needed—and far more than she had wished to hear. 
Almost absently, she broke her contact with Gendival, her other feelings 
overwhelmed by her grief. Truly, it was as though the Archimandrite had 
been killed. After such an intensive memory-wipe, there was no hope that 
Cergorn could be restored as he had been. Her partner in the Shadowleague 
was gone forever. Black rage gripped her, as icy and infinite as the depths of 
the ocean. 
If I find you, Amaurn! You can’t be far away! Finally, it’s time for the 
execution you’ve avoided for so long! 
After all, it shouldn’t be difficult. Her heart had leapt when the Listener had 
told her that her foe was right here, somewhere in these very tunnels. How 
convenient! It would spare her from wasting needless time in hunting the 
monster down. 
Below her, the humans were preparing to move off, and Helverien, who had 
been talking as animatedly as the rest of the pathetic fools, looked up to the 
corner where the Wind-Sprite hovered. “What about you, Shree? Are you 
coming with us?” 

Thirishri decided that she might as well—at least for now. Because of the 
nature of the tunnels, it might well be that Amaurn’s party would fetch up in 
the same place as these other missing humans. If not, she could always split 
away from the others and begin a search of her own for the traitors who had 
brought down her partner, for as well as the renegade, there were also the 
backstabbing turncoats who had supported him—mainly Veldan and her 
cronies. As she drifted down the corridor above Helverien and the humans, 
the Wind-Sprite’s thoughts were grim and bleak. It was time to settle a few 
scores. 
CHAPTER 36 
The Colony 
It was just as well that Vifang only had a very short distance to glide, 
because her narrowed eyes were watering so hard that she couldn’t see a 
thing, and her maiden flight wobbled and veered wildly from side to side. 
She managed to get herself leveled out just in time to avoid missing the 
tunnel entrance, and was rather proud of herself as she made a neat swoop 
into the dark opening. Then all such trivial thoughts vanished as she made 
her cautious way into the lair of the Ak’Zahar. 
It was just as well that her long, successful career as an assassin had taught 
her to submerge her fear in absolute concentration. On her earlier 
reconnaissance she had observed the ways in which the Ak’Zahar moved 
and rested and reacted to one another. Now she would find out just how 
much she had learned. The predators were clustered thickly in the central 
part of the tunnel, where the light from the entrance and exit could not reach 
them. In the darkness, the night-eyes of the Ak’Zahar began to function 
properly, giving Vifang clear but colorless images in varying shades of 
greenish grey. For the first time, she could see that their groupings were not 
random, but had a certain informal structure, with the smallest and weakest 
on the edges of the cluster, nearest the light, the cold winds, and any creature 
that would be insane enough to threaten the voracious monstrosities. 
Like me. 
There were no young to be seen, and briefly, the Takur wondered how they 
were born and raised. She decided that the interior of an Ak’Zahar nursery, 
whatever form it might take, was the last thing that she wanted to 
see—apart, of course, from the interior of an Ak’Zahar belly. 
Before she came too close to the group, Vifang flew to the wall of the tunnel 
and attached herself firmly with hands and feet to the rough stone, just as she 

had seen the other Ak’Zahar doing. In the process, she discovered the 
secondary reason for the long, curved talons. They allowed her to cling 
tightly to the tunnel wall, and even the ceiling, supporting the negligible 
weight of her emaciated, hollow-boned body with no difficulty or discomfort 
at all. 
Copying the odd, sideways scuttle of the Ak’Zahar, she moved cautiously 
along the wall toward the colony. There was a muted hissing, and the rustle 
of dry skin and leathery wings as all heads turned as one to view the 
newcomer, the knowledge of her approach passing through the group in an 
expanding ripple. Dozens of eyes, seen with her new vision as spots of 
bright, white light, were fixed on her with a flat, unblinking stare. A shudder 
ran through Vifang. She felt chilled and physically sick, but she knew it was 
essential that she find some way to control her mounting fear. If they scented 
it on her, they would exploit her weakness and tear her to pieces. 
For a moment she paused in her approach, and thought of Amaurn, and the 
hope he had held out to her people. She thought of the joy and triumph she 
had felt when she had finally been permitted to join a group of Loremasters, 
and the warm and totally unaccustomed sense of belonging it had given her. 
She thought of Elion—the way she was beginning to enjoy his 
companionship, and the way in which he had accepted her. Most of all, she 
thought of the future, where all sorts of adventures, possibilities, and 
opportunities lay open to her—if only she could survive the next few hours. 
These reflections steadied her and boosted her courage, allowing her to 
regain the cool, calm nerve with which she had always faced her 
assignments. Taking a deep breath, she began to move forward with great 
caution. In order to plant the charges as Kher had asked, she was going to 
have to go right through the center of the group of predators and out of the 
other side—and she had a feeling that the Ak’Zahar weren’t going to 
approve of that at all. 
At least the stench of the creatures didn’t seem so overpowering when she 
smelled the same way herself. Vifang laid the first charge at the edge of the 
throng, sticking it to the ceiling of the tunnel, and then began her perilous 
journey toward the center. As she had expected, the puny specimens on the 
outskirts of the group didn’t give her any trouble. On adopting this new 
shape, she had taken the precaution of making herself larger and more 
sinewy than most of the Ak’Zahar. In her studies of the captive specimen 
she’d learned as much of their body language as she could in a short time, 
and at this moment, her body said “Don’t mess with me.” The lower-ranking 
predators moved aside without protest to let her pass, and she shouldered her 
way through them as if she didn’t have a fear in the world, laying the 
charges at intervals as she went. As she penetrated farther into the cluster, 
she was aware of their ranks closing behind her, cutting off any hope of a 
quick escape. 
As she went on, the crowds of creatures grew more dense, their bodies so 
tightly packed together that she was forced to have increasing amounts of 
physical contact with them. It took all the willpower she possessed not to 

cringe away from the foul touch of their leathery skin. Within inches of her 
own flesh were innumerable sets of fangs and talons, ready to tear her to 
shreds if she made the slightest wrong move. And always, those eerie, 
glowing eyes were watching her; following her every move with their 
savage, pitiless gaze. 
Nevertheless, Vifang had progressed much farther than she had expected 
before the real trouble began. In the very center of the mob, there were a 
handful of predators, about a dozen or so, who were every bit as large and 
sinewy as she was—and a damn sight meaner-looking. Pushing their lesser 
fellows aside to make more space, they hissed menacingly at her, baring 
their fangs and beating their leathery wings. 
Well, I certainly won’t be going through the middle of this lot! 
With her escape blocked behind her, the shapeshifter realized that it would 
be a bad mistake to try to fight the predators or to provoke them in any way. 
Carefully, she backed off a little—far enough to nullify any suggestion of 
aggression on her part, but not so far that she appeared to be intimidated. As 
she did so, she glanced around the tunnel for an alternative route. 
For the first time, Vifang noticed that, while the walls and ceiling seemed to 
be the favored roosting places, the floor remained comparatively 
unoccupied. By this time, she had occupied the Ak’Zahar body long enough 
to begin to see the world from a predator’s point of view, and suspected that 
they avoided the floor for the same reasons as she. For one thing, it was 
covered in a thick and stinking layer of guano. For another, any Ak’Zahar 
who tried to roost down there was just too vulnerable to his fellows who 
were perched above. 
But I’m not going to roost. 
Opening her wings a little, the shapeshifter loosed her hold on the wall and 
glided down, swallowing hard as her feet sank into the malodorous muck. 
I damn well hope Amaurn appreciates this! 
Moving as quickly as she dared, she left the next two charges in the central 
part of the tunnel, sticking them to the lower part of the wall, one on either 
side of the passage. Then she continued on her way. 
It was nerve-racking in the extreme to be down there on the floor, with the 
mass of the Ak’Zahar clustered above her. She heard the scratchings and 
rustlings as they moved, and in the periphery of her vision, she could see 
their glowing eyes following her every move. Her unexpected move to the 
floor had whetted their curiosity. Were they waiting to see what she would 
do next? How long would it be before they attacked? 
Her skin crawled, and chills ran down her spine. If any of them decided to 
drop on her, the others would be sure to join in, and she would be finished. 
Keeping her nerve, so that she could make her way steadily onward to the 
end of the tunnel, placing her charges as she went, was the bravest, and the 
most difficult thing she had ever done. To plant the last two devices, she 
returned to the roof, and as she shouldered the weaker predators roughly 

aside, striking out at them with her talons, there was real venom behind her 
actions. 
By the time she had laid the last charge in position, her eyes had begun to 
hurt again, pierced by the gleam of faint light that came from the opening 
ahead. Vifang could stand it no longer. She changed herself into a hawk and 
shot out into the clean, free air. From behind her there came a chorus of 
hisses and harsh shrieks. Her transformation seemed to have stirred the 
Ak’Zahar thoroughly. But the sky was still light outside, and none of them 
dared leave the tunnel— not yet. 
Wheeling over the Sacred Precincts, she kept her eyes carefully averted from 
the piles of carrion below, reluctant, after her recent experiences among the 
predators, to think of the appalling fate to which the populace of Tiarond had 
succumbed. Soaring higher, she flew over the massive barrier of rock 
through which she had just passed and swooped down to the Esplanade, 
where she landed in the garden of the merchant’s house and changed back 
into her own shape, contriving to lose the last of the filth and the stench from 
her body as she did so. 
The Takur was deeply moved by the welcome her companions accorded her. 
Never before had she felt such a sense of belonging. As she accepted their 
congratulations and praise, she began to feel that her dreadful experiences in 
the tunnel had been worthwhile. Elion stood close to her as Kher prepared to 
detonate the charges. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded. “You 
seemed to take ages! I was worried sick.” 
Vifang shuddered. “You don’t want to know. Trust me, Elion, you really 
don’t.” 
Kher interrupted them. “Is everybody ready?” he asked. “Stay down, behind 
the wall of the house. This is going to be a big explosion.” As they all 
crouched down, he pressed the white button on his detonator. 
There was a long pause. 
Nothing happened. 
“Shit! Damn, blast, and balls!” Kher stood up, and hurled the device into the 
bushes. 
Vifang had turned cold all over. “I don’t know what you’re swearing about,” 
she said quietly. “I’m the one who’ll have to go back in there.” 
Elion blanched. “No!” he protested. “You can’t.” 
Kher laid a hand on his arm. “She has to go back, Elion. We all knew it 
might come to this.” 
“You don’t understand what she’ll be going through in there.” Elion turned 
away from his fellow Loremaster, shaking off the restraining arm. “It’s just 
not fair.” Vifang knew that his thoughts were echoing her own. He knew as 
well as she did what the outcome of a second trip into the tunnel was likely 
to be. 
I pushed my luck getting through there once. I’ll never manage it again. 

She thought of Amaurn, and the way he had welcomed her into the 
Shadowleague, even though she had done her best to kill him. She thought 
of her people, already beginning to settle into their new homes. She thought 
of Elion and his fellow Loremasters, and being accepted amongst their 
ranks. To be part of the Shadowleague carried certain responsibilities. She 
had no choice. 
The former Takur assassin turned back to Kher. “All right,” she said. “Let’s 
get on with this. I’ll change back into one of the Ak’Zahar, and you can give 
me the blasting powder and the fuse. I’ll need about the same time as I took 
before. If I’m not out by then, I won’t be coming. Light the fuse, and make 
sure you finish those creatures off—for me.” 
Kher nodded. “Don’t forget, you won’t have to go all the way in this time. 
Plant the blasting powder by the first of the charges, and get out of there as 
fast as you can. Once the first is triggered, it should set the others off.” 
“You’d better hope so,” the shapeshifter told him grimly, “because there’s 
nothing in this world that could induce me to go in there a third time.” 
For the first time since she had joined them, Kher reached out and touched 
her. “Take care,” he said softly. “I salute your courage.” 
Once again, Vifang made the change into the Ak’Zahar. “See you later, 
Elion,” she said, but the Loremaster would not turn to look at her. She 
reached tentatively toward his mind—and saw the vivid image of the redhaired 
woman, and heard the sound of her screams as the winged horde tore 
her to shreds. 
Vifang got out of his mind as fast as she could, and slammed her shields up 
for good measure. 
That’ll teach me to intrude. 
Badly shaken, she set off for the second time, toward the tunnel mouth—and 
this time, as she approached, she could feel that they were ready for her. 
There was a stir of movement as Vifang entered the tunnel, clutching the 
package of blasting powder with its fuse trailing out behind it. As soon as 
she approached the darker areas, where the predators clustered, she found 
herself the focus of an untold number of eyes. Also, there were more than 
the weaker members of the group at the edge of the crowd. The larger, 
dominant specimens had pushed their way forward and were regarding her 
with a threat apparent in every line and angle of their stance. She knew then 
that they didn’t intend her to leave that place alive. And there on the floor, 
right beneath the largest and most threatening of her foes, was the place 
where she would have to leave the blasting powder. 
Carefully, Vifang selected the spot where she would put her package—a 
small protrusion in the tunnel wall that was just about underneath the spot 
where she had left the first charge. Since most of the guano was concentrated 
nearer the center of the tunnel, the floor here was still fairly clear, so she 
hoped that the fuse would stay dry enough for long enough to do the job. 
Slowly, so as not to provoke the Ak’Zahar into a sudden attack, she inched 

her way forward, until she had almost reached the spot she wanted. They 
were right above her, watching, waiting. She didn’t dare go any farther. 
Stealthily she stretched out her arm as far as it would reach—but it wasn’t 
quite far enough. There was only one thing for it. Making a slight alteration 
to the image in her mind, she changed her shape, just a little, enough to make 
her arm long enough to reach the ledge. 
Harsh cries of challenge sounded overhead, and leathery wings unfurled. 
Vifang dropped the package with its trailing fuse neatly on the ledge, and 
turned to fight or flee—but it was too late. There was no time for her to 
change shape. They were on top of her, clawing and rending at her flesh with 
their teeth. As the pain ripped through her body, she sent one last, desperate 
message in mind-speech. “I’m caught. Light the fuse now. Elion, goodbye!” 
Among Amaurn’s group of adventurers, Aethon had his own 
preoccupations. As everyone followed Scall across the cavern floor, he was 
the only one who was not completely baffled by the surroundings. Because 
Dragons communicated with a language of music and light, he could read a 
certain amount of meaning into the displays of coruscating, colored radiance 
around him. Some faint echo of memory told him that the lights carried 
massive amounts of information, coded in some ancient language of which 
he could almost make out the odd word here and there, though it didn’t help 
that Zavahl’s human eyes could only register a limited spectrum. Aethon 
suspected that there was a great deal more going on around him than he was 
able to perceive. 
The Dragon tried hard to glean any snippet of information that he could, but 
he found it difficult to concentrate. For the past few days, since the 
kidnapping by the Dierkan, he had been fairly quiet; remaining, for the most 
part, in the background of his host’s mind, and not communicating much. He 
had found himself faced with an agonizing dilemma: if he returned to his 
people and passed on the memories to a successor, then he—or at least, the 
consciousness and personality that was all that remained of Aethon the 
Dragon Seer—would cease to exist. And he didn’t want to die. Even riding 
as a passenger in someone else’s body was preferable—and he had to admit 
that, now that he and Zavahl were coming to terms with their peculiar 
arrangement, he was quite enjoying his entirely new perspective on life. 
On the other hand, if he did remain where he was, he would die in any case, 
when his human host perished. The memories would die with him, and the 
most valuable resource that the Dragonfolk possessed would be lost forever. 
How could he do that to his people? As Seer, he had a responsibility to pass 
the memories on, at whatever cost to himself. 
At that moment, Scall led the little group to the center of the chamber, and 
all thoughts of the future fled. Aethon’s awe matched that of Zavahl, as they 
stood and stared at the circular, sunken area of floor, about twenty feet 
across, that looked like the inside of a large silver bowl. Spaced at 

equidistant intervals around the edge were six great columns of light, about 
as thick as a human body, that soared upward, converging slightly, until they 
met, presumably, at some distant point in the shadows, far overhead. Each 
beam was a pure, clear hue: red, yellow, green, blue, violet, or dazzling 
white, and the colors moved in order from one column to the next, traveling 
endlessly round the circle so that the spire of light above the silver bowl 
seemed to be turning gently in place. In the center of the sunken area was a 
large iridescent sphere, for all the world like a gigantic soap bubble, with 
streaks and swirls of rainbow colors in constant motion around its 
translucent walls. Scall pointed to it. “That’s it,” he said. “Inside that bubble 
is where I found those weird contraptions.” 
“You went inside it?” the Archimandrite asked. “How did you manage 
that?” 
“I just walked right through it. It seemed to vanish, and I thought I had burst 
it, but when I left the bowl, and looked back, it was still there.” Scall 
frowned. “I think you can only see it from the outside, if that makes any 
sense. When you’re inside it, it’s invisible.” 
Amaurn’s eyes were bright with curiosity. Clearly, he couldn’t wait to 
investigate. “Come on,” he said, and slithered down into the bowl, 
beckoning to the rest to follow. 
To Aethon, there was something vaguely familiar about all this; but if the 
details did exist in the memories of the Dragonfolk, they came from the very 
distant past, and were difficult to call up. Amaurn didn’t hesitate, but pushed 
straight through the wall of the bubble, with the others following after him a 
little more circumspectly. Aethon, coming last with Zavahl, noticed that as 
each of them passed through the wall of the sphere, it seemed to grow in size 
to encompass them all, even the firedrake. Once he himself had joined his 
companions on the inside, however, he could see nothing of the walls at all. 
In the very center of the bowl was a slender, waist-high plinth of the same 
silvery material. “This is where I found those things,” Scall said. 
Aethon felt a stir of interest. “Zavahl, will you go up close and look at the 
plinth?” he asked. As he had expected, there was a narrow slot in the top of 
the waist-high column. He concentrated as hard as he could, trying to 
summon the fleeting, phantom memory, but it remained hazy and indistinct. 
“Something goes in that slot,” he said to his host. “I think—I think it’s the 
device that looks like some sort of mirror.” 
Zavahl passed on the message, and Dark knelt at once to remove the artifact 
from his pack. He took out the thin, silvery disc with the rim of figured gold, 
and gave it to Zavahl. Aethon used his companion’s hands to position it 
correctly, pushing its edge into the slot. About an inch or so of the device 
fitted into the narrow aperture, and it rested there, standing upright on its 
edge. There was a sharp click, and a series of stylized diagrams began to 
move slowly across the dark face of the disc, outlined against the black 
background in shining green light. 

Veldan bent close. “These must be rooms,” she said. “See? Here’s where we 
are now, with all those weird things growing up out of the floor, and this 
silvery dip in the middle, with the columns of light all around.” 
“And—great Myrial!” Zavahl said excitedly. “There’s the Holy of Holies in 
the Temple, with the high platform, and the Eye beyond.” Then he frowned. 
“And there it is again— but it’s a different place. See? There’s another high 
platform, but there’s no bridge. There’s a metal walkway going across the 
room, instead. And there’s another huge Eye, much bigger than the one that I 
know—but it seems to be set against a wall instead of suspended in midair.” 
He reached out to point, and accidentally brushed the screen with his finger. 
The diagram of the unknown room grew brighter for a moment then 
vanished, and three short lines of symbols appeared. Again, they almost 
seemed to convey a meaning to Aethon that, frustratingly, lay just beyond 
his reach. Then Scall called out, drawing his attention away from the artifact. 
“The bubble has come back!” 
It was true. The view of the massive chamber was obscured by the 
translucent, iridescent walls of the shimmering sphere that enclosed them all. 
Scall made as if to run, but Toulac grabbed a handful of his tunic and held 
him fast. “Just wait a moment, sonny. Let’s check that it’s still safe to go 
through there.” She pulled a leather gauntlet from the deep pocket of her 
sheepskin coat, and threw it at the wall of the sphere. There was a blinding 
flash in the place where it hit, and a crackle of energy. The glove dropped to 
the floor—not burned, but smoking gently. The firedrake looked at it with 
startled eyes, and hastily tucked his tail underneath his body, out of harm’s 
way. 
Before anyone could speak, there was a single, resonant chime, like the deep 
sound of a bell, and everything seemed to move in an odd, sideways wrench 
that sent them clutching at one another to keep their feet. Then the walls of 
the enclosing bubble melted away, and Aethon realized that the silver, bowlshaped 
concavity in which they stood was no longer where it had formerly 
been but, apparently, had moved to a new location. The great cavern had 
vanished, and they now stood in the corner of another vast chamber of 
polished black stone. 
Scall immediately recognized his surroundings from the diagram that 
remained on the screen of the mirrorlike device. It was the place that Zavahl 
had described as being similar to the Holy of Holies in the Temple far above, 
but not the same. There, on the far wall, was the thing that Zavahl had 
referred to as the Eye—a massive circle, outlined in low red light, its center 
like a black hole into nothingness. Scall tore his eyes from it with a shudder 
and noticed a platform on the floor near the front of the chamber, formed 
from what looked like gleaming white marble, and standing a few inches 
above the black stone with which it was surrounded. It glowed with its own 
inner radiance and—apart from the red circle of the Eye, and the six tall 

columns of light that still glowed in their changing colors on the periphery of 
the silver depression in the floor—it was the only source of illumination in 
the room. 
Suddenly, his attention was torn away from the ground by Toulac’s voice. 
“Myrial in a thunderstorm! Look up there!” 
High above was a long metal walkway that stretched across the vast room 
from wall to wall, just about at the level of the center of the Eye, looking 
perilously slender and fragile from that distance. In the center a short 
extension stuck out at right angles, with a circular platform on the end of it. 
A spiral of metal steps led up to the walkway from the ground at each side, 
and at either end of it there seemed to be an open archway in the wall, 
leading out of the chamber. Three figures were on the lofty perch, and 
Toulac’s yell had stopped them in their tracks about halfway across. 
Scall stared in disbelief. There, up on the gantry, was a man dragging a little 
girl roughly along by the arm, and grasping a knife in the other hand—and 
beside them, stumbling with weariness, a slender girl with pale blond hair. 
Though the walkway was far above the light, in the shadowy upper vaults, 
Scall recognized them instantly. “Myrial save us!” he gasped. “It’s Presvel, 
and Tormon’s little girl. And there’s Rochalla!” 
Then his eyes caught a stir of movement to his right, and the golden flicker 
of a torch appeared in the exit at the end of the walkway. There stood 
Tormon in the archway, frozen with horror. Presvel swept Annas up in his 
left arm and put the knife to her throat. “Get away from me, Tormon,” he 
yelled. “Don’t come any closer, or she’s dead!” 
At the sound of the trader’s name, Amaurn felt a chill go through him. Since 
he had taken over the role of Archimandrite, it seemed that all of his past 
mistakes were coming back to haunt him. Here in this room was the child he 
had orphaned when, acting on Zavahl’s instructions, he had ordered his men 
to kill Tormon’s wife. And there was the trader himself, forced to carry on 
alone. 
Just as I was, when I lost my Aveole. 
All at once, Amaurn understood how much pain he had inflicted on the other 
man, and felt a surge of self-revulsion. 
How could I have done that? What possessed me, all those years, that I 
could have let myself become such a monster? 
Suddenly he remembered what Veldan had said to him the day he had 
wrested the Archimandrite’s authority from Cergorn: 
“There’s no undoing those dreadful deeds, and you’ll pay for them all 
eventually, in one way or another. So you should. But if you really seek 
redemption... Everyone should have at least one chance to atone for their 
past.” 

He looked at Zavahl, and saw the same guilt mirrored in the other’s eyes, 
then he looked back up at the gantry. The man that he now recognized as 
Presvel, formerly the assistant to the Lady Seriema, had been alerted by the 
sound of Toulac’s voice, and was looking down at them, as well as along the 
walkway at Tormon, turning his head from side to side like a beast at bay, 
afraid to take his eyes off either threat. His knife, still held against the child’s 
throat, flashed in the torchlight as the hand that held it shook. “Stay away 
from me—all of you!” he shrieked. 
“Dark?” Amaurn said softly. “Didn’t you tell me that Presvel was the one 
who murdered Grim?” 
“He did,” Dark replied, his voice harsh with anger. “Seriema and Presvel 
were with Tormon and Scall, here, when they all took refuge with the 
reivers. Presvel was threatening Scall with that knife, and Grim got in the 
way.” 
Two birds with one stone. Perfect. Not only do I have a chance to make some 
sort of atonement to Tormon, but at the same time, I can avenge my old 
friend. 
Amaurn looked at Zavahl, with Blade’s chilling smile. Understanding passed 
between them. “You distract him,” he told the former Hierarch. “I’ll take 
care of the rest.” 
“Wait—I can help distract him, too,” Dark said. From his pack he produced 
the Summoner’s skull mask and put it on. “From that distance, he won’t be 
able to tell whether it’s me—or the spirit of Grim, come back to haunt him.” 
He looked at Amaurn. “Just make damn sure you kill that bastard, will you?” 
“Don’t worry, Dark. I loved Grim too.” With that, Amaurn wishing the 
weapon from his shoulder and melted into the shadows, keeping one eye and 
ear on the little scene that was unfolding behind him. 
Zavahl spoke. “Stay back in the shadows, Scall. You and Dark should try not 
to attract his notice—at least at first.” With that, he strode out into the center 
of the floor, standing on the glowing slab so that he was clearly illuminated. 
“Presvel?” he called. “Do you believe in ghosts?” 
Presvel started, but recovered quickly. “There’s no such thing as a ghost,” he 
said, but his voice lacked conviction. 
“You’re gambling a lot on being right,” Zavahl replied. “Otherwise, you 
wouldn’t be looking to add another to your list of innocent victims.” 
Amaurn, creeping around the walls of the room, heard the little girl cry out 
and looked up quickly in alarm, but it seemed that Presvel was just clutching 
her too tightly. 
Good. He’s rattled. 
He reached the bottom of the spiral staircase on the opposite side of the 
room from Tormon’s entranceway. Presvel’s attention was on the arch along 
the walkway to his left and the folk on the ground below him. It was 
doubtful that he’d have much chance to worry about his right-hand side. The 

Archimandrite began to climb, moving slowly and stealthily as Dark stepped 
forward. He had pulled up the hood of his black cloak and was wearing the 
spectral mask of bone. “Did you really think you could kill a Summoner and 
escape so easily? No grave can hold my kind.” 
As he spoke, a shiver went down Amaurn’s spine. Somehow, Dark had 
changed his voice to sound exactly like his mentor. Presvel stared in horror 
at the apparition, and Grim’s voice spoke again, with an irresistible ring of 
authority. “It’s time to pay your reckoning, Presvel. You can’t escape. Put 
the child down and come to me.” 
For a moment, it looked as if the ruse might actually succeed. Presvel 
hesitated, and the hand that held the knife wavered, and dropped to his side. 
On the ground, Dark took a step forward. “Let her go, Presvel,” he repeated 
in Grim’s voice. “Put her down. Don’t add to what you owe.” 
Amaurn had reached the top of the staircase. He lifted the weapon to his 
shoulder, but with Presvel still clutching the child, he couldn’t get a clear 
line of fire. Then it happened. Apparently, Tormon’s patience snapped. With 
a roar, he came charging out of the arch and along the gantry. “No!” Presvel 
howled. “Not another step!” Lifting the child high he dangled her over the 
railing, holding her in position with one hand clutching tightly to the loose 
material at the back of her tunic. In his other hand, the knife was once more 
against her throat. 
Tormon, his face white, skidded to a halt. At the same instant, Zavahl 
shouted up to Amaurn. “Fire!” 
There was no time for hesitation. The madman was holding the little girl 
away from him. Zavahl was already running forward. Amaurn had a clear 
shot at last. Lifting the weapon, he fired. 
CHAPTER 37 
Act of Vengeance 
Elion’s memories had been haunting him ever since Vifang had first 
ventured into the lair of the Ak’Zahar. When he heard her cry out in 
farewell, his past rose up to overwhelm him. For an instant his surroundings 
vanished, submerged in the vision of Melnyth being swarmed by hordes of 
voracious predators, while he was powerless to help her. He was assailed by 
the same panic, the same helplessness, the same wrenching sense of loss. 
Events had come full circle. History was repeating itself... 
It damn well won’t. Not if I can prevent it! 

Without warning, he snatched Kher’s arcane weapon down from the branch 
on which it hung. The other Loremasters were taken by surprise, and by the 
time they had gathered their wits and realized what was happening, he was 
already halfway across the Esplanade, running faster than he had ever run in 
his life. Last time, Veldan had stopped him. This time, no one was going to 
get the chance. “Hold on, Vifang! I’m coming,” he called to the Takur in 
mind-speech. He didn’t have enough breath to shout aloud. 
“No! Get back!” 
Elion could sense that she was too beset to answer him further. For an 
instant, he touched her mind, felt her panic and pain, and caught a fleeting 
glimpse of talons and teeth and wings—and a multitude of gleaming eyes. 
No way would he go back. Better to die fighting to save a companion than 
go through that guilt and torment once again. He gained the tunnel mouth, 
and the darkness swallowed him. 
For a moment Kher and his Loremasters were frozen in shock and confusion, 
then Alsive and Elysa collected themselves and set off after Elion. “No, stay 
here! That’s an order!” Kher roared. “It’s too late.” 
Though they were clearly astonished, at least they had the sense to realize 
that he was right. Reluctantly, they returned to him, looking back over their 
shoulders at Elion vanishing into the black maw of the tunnel. As they 
turned back, Elysa wiped tears from her eyes, and Alsive began to protest, 
but Kher forestalled them both. “I was afraid of this,” he said. “Elion has 
been unstable ever since Melnyth’s death. There’s nothing we can do—and 
I’m not letting anyone else get killed because of him.” 
He squatted beside the fuse. “I’ll give them a moment or two—that’s all I 
can do. Then I’m setting off the charges.” Privately, he was upbraiding 
himself for being sentimental, for taking risks and jeopardizing the mission. 
He knew he should detonate the explosives straightaway. Elion and Vifang 
were as good as dead already, but if they had disturbed the Ak’Zahar 
sufficiently to make them leave the tunnel, then all would be lost. 
Nevertheless, he was determined to give his companions that one last 
chance. 
Under his breath, Kher counted to two hundred. Then, with shaking hands, 
he reached out and lit the fuse. 
Beneath the plateau, Tormon, frozen in horror, could only watch as the 
drama unfolded on the walkway. Everything seemed to happen so slowly, as 
Amaurn fired the plasma weapon, and Presvel’s head exploded in a burst of 
flame. The knife went flying, in an arc of glittering silver. 

Screaming, Annas dropped, plummeting toward the ground. Below her, both 
Zavahl and Dark darted forward, but Zavahl got there first. Just in time, he 
grabbed her out of the air, staggering beneath her weight and collapsing on 
the ground with her on top of him. There was a moment’s silence, then a 
loud wail from Annas proved that she was very much in one piece. 
It was as if a spell had been broken. With a cry, Tormon rushed to the 
nearest spiral staircase and all but flung himself down it. He ran across the 
floor of the chamber and knelt, snatching his little girl up into his arms. 
“Annas! Oh, Annas!” 
Zavahl rolled over and got to his knees, clearly winded, gasping and 
clutching himself around the ribs. Other folk were clustering around, but 
neither father nor daughter paid them any heed. She clung to him, sobbing. 
“You’re safe now,” he kept saying to her. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’re 
quite safe.” He couldn’t believe how close she had come to dying. How 
close he had come to killing her. If it hadn’t been for... 
Tormon looked up at Zavahl, who had caught his child, and saved her life. 
He looked beyond him at Lord Blade, who had slain Annas’s abductor as 
he’d been about to cut her throat. Blade had reached the bottom of the spiral 
staircase and was walking across the vast chamber, a wary, inscrutable 
expression on his face. At the sight of the two men, the trader felt all the old 
hatreds came boiling back. He thought of Kanella, helpless and terrified in 
the brooding Godsword Citadel, dying in agony on the Hierarch’s orders, 
and at the hands of Blade’s soldiers. 
Then he looked down at Annas. She was trembling, her face was smudged 
and tear-stained—but she was very much alive, thanks to these same two 
individuals. The trader felt his hands begin to shake. He was so torn apart by 
the conflicts within him that he felt dizzy, and physically sick. 
They had killed his lifemate. 
They had saved his daughter. 
He tore his eyes away—from Amaurn, from Zavahl, from Annas—seeking a 
brief moment of respite from the confusion. And there on the ground, within 
reach of Tormon’s hand, was the knife that Presvel had dropped from high 
above in the moment of his death. There, within striking distance of the 
knife, if he were to snatch it up and use it, was Kanella’s killer. He looked at 
the glittering blade and imagined it sinking into Zavahl’s flesh. 
At least that would be one less of them to plague the world. 
Almost of its own volition, one hand freed itself from Annas and snatched 
up the weapon. 
Out of nowhere, a hand came down and gripped his shoulder. “Don’t be daft, 
sonny,” a gruff old voice said softly. “Killing Zavahl won’t bring Kanella 
back. Nothing you can do will alter the past. It’s the future you’ve got to 
think about now—for you and for that little girl.” Tormon looked up into the 
shrewd blue eyes of Toulac, who had once owned the sawmill on the 
Snaketail Pass—the last stopping place, in happier times, for his gaudy 

wagon before he and his family settled down in Tiarond for the winter. 
Dazedly, he wondered how she had come to be here. “Anyway, these two 
aren’t the same men who ordered your lifemate to be killed,” she said, 
puzzling him still more. “The men who did that are dead now. The two you 
see before you may look the same, but they’re not—they’ve learned 
compassion, and contrition, and common sense. That doesn’t justify what 
they did, and I don’t expect you’ll ever forgive them—in your position, I 
certainly wouldn’t—but please, Tormon, let the killing stop now. They may 
have slain your lifemate, but they saved your daughter. At least there’s a sort 
of balance in that.” 
There was truth in her words, and a man as fundamentally honest and decent 
as Tormon couldn’t fail to see that. For a moment he found himself 
wavering, still torn between gratitude and hatred. Then Lord Blade, with a 
look of regret and compassion that the trader would never have thought to 
find in a man with such a reputation as a cold-blooded killer, opened his 
mouth to speak. In that instant Tormon knew. 
If Blade utters one word—if he dares to try to apologize, or make excuses, 
or he attempts to justify his actions in any way, then I’ll use this knife in my 
hand and everything will end in a nightmare of blood, hatred, and revenge 
that will not only reach into my existence, but will blight the future of my 
daughter, too. 
Still holding Annas, he got to his feet. “Shut up!” he snarled. “Don’t you 
dare try to speak to me—either of you!” Glaring, he looked from Blade to 
Zavahl and back again. “Whatever Toulac may say, you are the same 
monsters who killed an innocent, helpless woman. Much as you might try to 
bury your deeds in the past, they’ll stay with you for the rest of your lives. 
There’s no way that either of you will ever begin to comprehend what 
you’ve taken from me and Annas, and I want you to understand that I’ll hold 
you in contempt and loathing to the end of my days.” He took a deep breath. 
“But you saved the life of my little girl and, as Mistress Toulac says, there is 
a kind of balance there. So I’ll leave it to fate to mete out the punishment 
you deserve. Just as long as I never see your miserable faces again after 
today, I’ll leave it at that and get on with trying to live my life alone.” 
“You don’t have to be alone, Tormon.” Scall stood there with his arm 
around Rochalla. “We’ll be coming with you, if that’s all right. I know it 
won’t be the same as the family you lost, but we all seem to fit together, 
somehow, and at least you won’t have to be alone anymore.” 
Tormon stared at the youth—no, the young man—in astonishment. When 
had Scall found time to grow up? Where had he been, following this 
disappearance? What had he been doing to bring about this new confidence 
and maturity? The trader was delighted by their offer to join him. He was 
fond of them both, and Annas loved Rochalla. Suddenly, he felt as if a 
weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Even Annas had stopped crying, 
and was scrutinizing Scall and Rochalla with great curiosity. “Are you two 
going to be lifemates now?” she demanded. 

Scall turned crimson, and it was left to Rochalla to speak. “Yes,” she said 
firmly. “Yes, we are.” 
“And you’re going to stay with me and my dad?” 
“That’s the idea.” 
“Good,” said Annas firmly. “It’s a very good idea. Can we go home now?” 
“Yes, let’s find the others and get out of here.” Tormon turned back to 
Toulac, studiously refusing to look at Amaurn and Zavahl. “We can find our 
own way out, the same way we got in, and we’ll be taking Scall with us.” He 
turned without another word and began to walk back toward the staircase. 
Before he got there, however, he heard Seriema calling his name. Looking 
up, he saw her emerging from the arch at the end of the walkway. To his 
surprise, there were a number of extra people with her, including the 
Godsword, Galveron. 
Now how in Myrial’s name did he get down here? 
But before he could open his mouth to hail them, there came a loud roaring, 
and a wind came out of nowhere, strong enough to snatch the breath from 
him and blow him off his feet. Pressed flat to the floor and trying his best to 
shield Annas, he turned to see the scar-faced girl he’d noticed in the 
background running in front of Blade with a look of terror on her face. The 
sound of her scream was loud enough to be heard even above the deafening 
howl of the gale: 
“Thirishri! No!” 
As Elion ran into the tunnel, the noise was deafening. Screeches and shrieks 
echoed and reechoed, the volume almost painful in this constricted space. 
The farther behind he left the entrance, the darker it became, and he 
suddenly realized that he wasn’t going to be able to see a thing. Also, if 
Vifang had kept the form of the Ak’Zahar, how could he help her? He 
wouldn’t dare kill any of them, in case it might be her. He kept on going, 
however, and found, to his relief, that only the very center of the tunnel was 
pitch-black. On the edge of the colony, where all the commotion was taking 
place, there was the faintest glimmer of light— just enough to let him see the 
predators swooping and striking at something on the ground, where a whole 
mass of them were clustered. Good. Now he knew where the shapeshifter 
must be. 
“Vifang, hold on. I’m here!” 
“Elion! Get away!” Even in mind-speech, the voice was faint and stifled, and 
filled with pain. 
“No chance.” The Loremaster raised the plasma weapon, and fired a short 
burst toward the ceiling. A blue-white bolt of energy leapt forth, sizzling, 
and several of the winged monstrosities turned into balls of flame and 
plunged to the ground. The reek of burning flesh joined the stench of the 

guano, and oily black smoke began to fill the tunnel. 
Elion’s triumph was tinged with bitterness. 
If Cergorn had let us take this into the Ak’Zahar labyrinths of Ghariad, 
Melnyth needn’t have lost her life. 
The rest of the Ak’Zahar had fallen back in a shrieking mob, blinded by the 
brilliance of the beam. Only one was left—a small, huddled heap on the 
bloodstained ground. 
Firing one more burst with the weapon for good measure, Elion crouched by 
the body of the predator. “Vifang? Is that you?” 
“Yes.” The mental voice was very faint. 
Suddenly, he heard the faintest rustle, and caught a sight of furtive 
movement from the corner of his eye. Glancing upward, he turned cold. The 
Ak’Zahar were stalking him again, making the most of his preoccupation 
with the Takur to creep up on him across the roof. Swearing, Elion leapt to 
his feet and moved away from Vifang to get a clearer shot. As the predators 
came swarming toward him, he lifted the weapon to his shoulder again and 
fired—and nothing happened. Frantically, he pressed the lever again and 
again, but the ancient artifact had chosen the worst possible moment to 
malfunction. Panic seized the Loremaster. He ran, trying to buy himself 
time, frantically hammering and wrenching at the weapon as he went, but to 
no avail. He had only managed a few strides before the predators caught 
him. Claws ripped at his clothing, and long fangs snapped at exposed flesh, 
making him cry out in pain as he was borne to the ground by the winged 
horrors. 
All this time, Elion had wondered what Melnyth had really gone through the 
day she died. Now he was experiencing for himself the stench, the terror, the 
pain as claws sank into his flesh. He could not fight them off—there were 
too many. All he could do was curl into a ball, to try to protect his vital 
organs for as long as possible, and pray for a miracle. 
Then all at once there was a deafening bellow, and a jet of flame went 
searing over his head. Again, the stench of burning flesh filled the tunnel as 
a number of the predators fell writhing to the ground. Shrieking in pain and 
fear, the remainder fled. 
Elion opened his eyes to see the dim form of a firedrake. “Kaz?” he said 
muzzily. 
“No, me. Get up, quick.” The voice belonged to Vifang. 
Somehow he found himself on the firedrake’s back, still clutching the 
accursed weapon, and they were hurtling toward the tunnel mouth, and 
safety. Then, to his horror he saw a spot of light in the darkness, racing 
toward him along the floor, and showering sparks as it went. Kher had lit the 

fuse! 
They had scant seconds to reach safety before the charges ignited. 
With no thought for her own injuries, the firedrake hurled herself at the spot 
of daylight up ahead, leaping forward with every muscle straining. Daylight 
burst forth around Elion as they cleared the tunnel mouth, brilliantly bright 
after the darkness. He was almost unseated as the shapeshifter wrenched her 
body around, out of direct line of the tunnel mouth, and leapt to one side, 
staying close to the cliff. He clutched the wounded Takur tightly, determined 
not to let her go. 
We’re going to make it! We’re going to... 
There was a deafening boom from behind him, and both man and 
shapeshifter were knocked off their feet by a blast of scorching air. They hit 
the cobbles hard, as smoke and flame billowed out of the tunnel mouth, and 
the earth shook with the force of the blast. A huge crack snaked right up the 
face of the cliff, and Elion could hear the rumbling, grinding roar as the 
tunnel collapsed. Then everything went quiet, except for the ringing in his 
ears, and the uneven sound of Kher’s feet, limping across the Esplanade 
toward him, with the other two Loremasters racing ahead. 
Far below the city, Thirishri erupted into the underground chamber of the 
Eye with a howl of rage. *Amaurn! Renegade! Usurper! You dared to 
destroy my partner—and now it is your turn to face destruction!* 
A blast of wind caught and buffeted them. When Tormon lost his balance 
and fell, so did Rochalla and Scall. Zavahl, who had been climbing to his 
feet, went down again hard. Veldan reacted quicker than Amaurn, who 
clearly was still caught up in regretful thoughts. “Thirishri—no!” There was 
no time to think. She ran forward, acting on pure impulse, putting herself 
between her father and the threat, but another blast of wind caught her, 
knocking her off her feet and sending her sliding back along the floor, to 
collide with Amaurn, who went down too. 
*Die Amaurn!* the Wind-Sprite roared. Far above, Veldan saw the telltale 
shimmer in the air. Shree was right above them, about to crush them with 
another deadly hammer-blow of wind. 
Then there was another roar, loud enough to drown the howling of the wind, 
and Kaz was there, standing over his fallen partner. “You leave my Veldan 
alone, you overgrown fart!” Stretching his neck, he sent a long jet of flame 
scorching upward, but it was dispersed and blown away by another powerful 
blast from the Wind-Sprite. Then it happened. Thirishri turned her anger on 
the new defender of her prey. Kaz was picked up bodily and hurled through 
the air, right across the chamber, to smash against the farther wall. 
In her mind, Veldan heard the sharp, dry sound of snapping bones, and was 
overwhelmed by the explosion of her partner’s pain as his agony raced like 

fire along her own nerves. All at once there was silence, and the buffeting 
wind fell still, as though even the Wind-Sprite was overwhelmed by the 
mindless violence of her act. Then Veldan was on her feet and running. She 
heard the pounding of boots on stone as someone followed, but her anguish 
was too deep to spare a thought for whoever might be coming after her. 
Everything had happened so quickly—how could it have happened so 
quickly? Within the space of a few heartbeats, her life had been shattered. 
The firedrake lay beside the wall, a twisted, distorted mass of abraded flesh 
and broken bone. A creature of his weight, hitting a solid object with such 
tremendous force, was certain to have suffered irreparable damage. Veldan 
threw herself down beside him, tears streaming down her face. “Kaz—oh, 
Kaz!” 
“Don’t worry, sweetie—a couple of days’ rest and I’ll be fine.” His mindspeech 
was faint and fading. The shared pain in Veldan’s mind had almost 
gone now. Was Kaz managing to shield it from her, or was he, too, unable to 
feel it because he was dying? 
Then Dark was kneeling at Veldan’s side, touching the firedrake’s body with 
gentle hands. Shaking his head, he looked up at the Loremaster. “I’m sorry,” 
he said, “there’s all sorts of damage. I don’t know if there’s anything that 
can be done—maybe there’s another of those healing beam devices down 
here that they had in Gendival. I can hold him to this world a little longer, to 
give us time to think, but...” Now there were tears on his face too. “Oh, 
Veldan, I wish I could do more!” 
Across the chamber, Toulac, sick at heart, had scrambled to her feet. She 
was heading straight to Kaz and Veldan when a movement in her peripheral 
vision stopped her dead. Abruptly, she turned and ran toward the place 
where Amaurn and Thirishri were confronting one another. The veteran had 
heard a good deal about Cergorn’s former partner but, somehow, she had 
never imagined that an elemental creature of air could be capable of such 
power and violence. Clearly, she would have to be stopped before she hurt 
anyone else—though Myrial only knew how. 
At any moment, the storm was going to break again. The earlier fit of 
berserk rage had left the Wind-Sprite. The dreadful thing she had done had 
apparently shocked her back into an icy calmness. She seemed, for the 
moment, to have exhausted all her violence in her attack on Kaz, and now, it 
was to be hoped, remorse was setting in—but Toulac could see the faint 
distortion in the air as she hovered lower than before, closer to Amaurn, and 
could feel the dreadful tension in the air as they faced one another. The 
Archimandrite, white and shaking with rage, lifted the plasma weapon to his 
shoulder. In a flash of prescience, Toulac saw that, if either of these two 
killed the other, the resulting schism between the supporters of the old and 
the new would rip the Shadowleague apart beyond all repairing. Though she 
was afire with the urge for her own revenge, for her love of Kaz and for the 

anguish of her friend Veldan, she knew that it couldn’t be allowed to 
happen. 
Taking a deep breath, she stepped between Amaurn and Thirishri. “Well,” 
she said, both aloud and in mind-speech, in a voice that shook with grief and 
anger. “There’s your revenge, Wind-Sprite. But why Kaz? Why? He was 
only one of his kind at large in the world: he was unique. And Veldan wasn’t 
the one who memory-wiped Cergorn, but you’ve just blighted her life 
beyond all repairing. Just as you and Cergorn wrecked Amaurn’s life so long 
ago, when he was condemned to death and forced to live in exile, and his 
Aveole died. Just as Amaurn blighted Cergorn’s life by deposing him, and 
yours, by robbing you of your partner.” Her voice grew stronger, more 
forceful, more urgent. She only had this one chance to stop them—she 
would have to make the most of it. “Don’t you think it ought to stop, 
Thirishri? Amaurn? Don’t you think it’s time? Or will you destroy the 
Shadowleague by taking this senseless feud any further?” 
For a moment, nothing happened. It was as though neither of them had heard 
a word she’d said. “Look,” she pleaded with them. “Just postpone your 
damned hostilities, at least. We’re supposed to be down here to find out 
what’s wrong with the Curtain Walls—at least that was the idea, Thirishri. 
Myrial knows what you’re doing down here, but it doesn’t matter right now, 
and I suppose we’ll make sense of it all eventually—if we live that long. But 
first of all, you ought to be concentrating on your task as agents of the 
Shadowleague, which is putting the world to rights. That should be enough 
of a problem, without complicating things any further by trying to slaughter 
one another. Once this is all over, you can have a long talk. Try to 
understand each other. Then you can kill each other, if that’s still what you 
really want.” 
Again, nothing happened at first—then slowly, the Wind-Sprite backed 
away. *I agree,* she said. *And I—I deeply regret what happened to 
Kazairl.* 
Amaurn lowered the weapon. “Fine, we’ll have a truce for now,” he snarled, 
“but I’ll never forgive you for killing Kaz and breaking my daughter’s heart. 
This isn’t over yet, Wind-Sprite.” 
Oh, wonderful! 
The problem was, that Toulac sympathized with him completely. But she 
was wise enough to see that this was not the time to allow personal feelings 
to get in the way of doing what was right. She went to Amaurn, put both 
hands on his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. “What about Tormon’s 
lifemate?” she said softly, and saw him flinch. “The two situations aren’t 
that different, you know.” And then, leaving him to work it out, she went to 
comfort Veldan. 
CHAPTER 38 

Within the Eye 
All this time, Helverien had been watching from her vantage point on the 
walkway, letting matters settle down before she intervened. She had been 
astounded to see a firedrake, and shocked and sickened by his fate. She was 
appalled that Thirishri had done such a thing—and disgusted with herself for 
not noticing the Wind-Sprite’s distress and anger sooner, and finding out the 
cause. 
There must have been something I could have done to forestall this tragedy! 
But at least there was something she could do now. She turned to Seriema 
and the other humans, who were gathered in the archway, looking down in 
puzzlement at the events below. She didn’t blame them for being confused. 
They didn’t possess mind-speech and, not being able to see the Wind-Sprite, 
they had no idea that she existed. As far as they were concerned, the 
firedrake—a creature that, in itself, was alien enough to give them 
pause—had been flung through the air by some unseen force, and Toulac, 
who definitely had been addressing her words to two people, had only been 
talking to one. 
And that one ... Looking down at him, Helverien felt her pulse quicken with 
excitement. He wasn’t... He couldn’t be... She knew very well that he was. 
Even after all this time, like called to like, and she could still recognize one 
of her own race. This man they called Amaurn was a Mage, as she was. But 
why was he here? How had he escaped? The discovery was enough to 
galvanize Helverien into action. “Stay here,” she barked at her human 
companions. “It’s too dangerous for you ordinary humans to be wandering 
around down there—yes, even you, Galveron and Cetain. I’ll go down and 
find out what’s happening.” 
Before they could question her, or raise any protest, she was gone, speeding 
down the spiral staircase as fast as her legs could carry her. Halfway down 
the metal steps she stopped and came speeding back again. “Give me that 
ring,” she ordered. Aliana, surprised into obedience, promptly handed over 
the Hierarch’s ring with its glowing red stone. Jamming it on her finger with 
scant regard for ceremony, Helverien set off down the staircase once more. 
When she reached the floor of the chamber, the Mage was piqued to 
discover that everyone seemed so wrapped up in the fate of the firedrake that 
no one took any notice of her. Even Shree seemed too upset to speak. 
She singled out a man with brown hair and an ascetic, serious face, who was 
standing a little apart from the others. “Hey, you! What’s happening here?” 
There was surprise in his eyes, followed by a flash of anger. “I don’t know 
who in perdition you are, Lady, but you ought to show a little respect. One 
of our friends is dying.” 

Helverien took a deep breath. Dammit, had all those aeons spent alone made 
her forget entirely how to deal with people? “I’m sorry,” she said. “My name 
is Helverien, and I was simply wondering if I could do anything to help.” 
He shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, but there’s noth...” Suddenly he 
tilted his head slightly, as though he were listening. Then his eyes widened. 
“Did you say Helverien? The Helverien?” Then he seemed to collect 
himself. “No, no— of course it couldn’t be. That was so very long ago, you 
couldn’t be—” 
“Oh, it’s me all right,” the Magewoman said grimly. “I mean, I’m her. I’ve 
been imprisoned out of time down here for so long... But how did you 
know? How could you possibly have recognized me? And who are you, 
anyway?” 
His name was Zavahl—but he was more than a man. Briefly, he told her his 
story, and it seemed to be as incredible as her own. How could it be possible 
that he shared his body with the mind and spirit of one of the Dragonfolk? 
And a Seer, at that? It was the Dragon, of course, who had recognized her 
from his memories. Then all at once, she realized what his presence 
signified. “Aethon?” she addressed him directly. “This might be the miracle 
we’re looking for. Between us, with my knowledge and your memories, we 
might just be able to find a way to fix the malfunction in the Curtain Walls.” 
Aethon was filled with excitement. At the sight of this woman’s face, the 
memories—first experienced by some long-gone predecessor—had come 
rushing back. Helverien of the Magefolk, the one who had betrayed her own 
kind to stop them from getting out of control and overrunning the world. Her 
people had paid an appalling price for her actions, and so had she; but to the 
Dragonfolk she was a hero nonetheless. How she should have come to him 
now, out of the mists of ancient history, he had no idea, but this was not the 
time for such questions. They didn’t have much time to spare. Just maybe, if 
they could find a way to put right the malfunctioning systems that controlled 
this world, they could also find a way to help the firedrake. If Kaz could 
cling to life for long enough to let them try. 
The main problem, of course, was that Zavahl had no mind-speech, so 
everything would have to be passed through the human, and spoken out 
loud. But they could manage that, though it was cumbersome, and Zavahl, 
who had been keeping in close contact with Aethon during these new 
developments, was more than willing. “Kaz saved my life when I was going 
to be sacrificed, and at the time, I didn’t even have the decency to thank him. 
Of course I’ll do anything in my power to help save him. Just tell me what 
you want, and I’ll do it.” 
Aethon decided that it wasn’t a good moment to remind him that the main 
priority was the restoration of the Curtain Walls, and saving the firedrake 
was a forlorn hope at best. Instead, he directed Zavahl back to the silvery 

area with the colored pillars of light that somehow had transported them to 
this chamber. “Quickly! We must fetch that disc-shaped device that Scall 
found. We’ll need it—I don’t know why, but we will.” 
Helverien, in the meantime, was already climbing the spiral stairs that led to 
the walkway, though she had chosen the staircase on the other side this time, 
so as not to pass the humans who waited for her above. This was not the 
time to be bothering with their trivial concerns and answering their endless 
questions. She only hoped they would have the sense to stay out of it. When 
she had nearly reached the top, she was aware of Zavahl pounding up behind 
her, his footfalls making the delicate, twisting metal structure vibrate and 
ring like a bell. By the time she had reached the center of the walkway, he 
had caught up with her, clutching a disc-shaped artifact in his hand. “Here,” 
he said. “You’ll need this.” She looked at him questioningly, and he 
shrugged. “Aethon says the memories tell him so. He doesn’t know exactly 
how it’ll work, but it’s certainly a way to communicate with the Eye—or 
whatever lies behind it.” 
“Thank you.” Helverien felt relief wash over her. She had known where she 
had to go, but she hadn’t been too sure of what to do when she got there. 
Maybe, between them, she and the dragon would be able to work it out. 
“Come on.” Beckoning to him to follow, she led the way out to the long, 
slender gantry that sprang out at right angles from the center of the walkway, 
extending in the direction of the great Eye. At the end of it was a platform, 
with another waist-high plinth of silvery metal—except that this one was 
broader, about three feet in width with a slightly angled top. Zavahl ran his 
hands over the sloping surface. “Look,” he said, indicating a shallow, 
circular depression on the far left. “This looks as though it would fit Scall’s 
mysterious disc. But what are all these symbols next to it?” There were 
maybe a couple of dozen of them, arranged in neat rows and columns and 
slightly raised against the background. Each of them glowed with a faint red 
light against the silver surface. 
Helverien took a closer look. “They’re runes,” she said. “The same runes the 
Ancients used.” 
“Can you read them?” Though the words were uttered in Zavahl’s voice, she 
was somehow aware that it was Aethon who was speaking now, through his 
intermediary. She shrugged. “I was the Archivist and Recorder for my 
people. Of course I can read them.” 
Zavahl—or was it Aethon?—shot her a reproving look before continuing to 
examine the top of the plinth. To the right of the runes was a smaller, deeper 
depression, not made to take a disc-shaped item, but deeper, and its bottom 
curved to fit a different object entirely. Zavahl’s voice shook with 
excitement—and this time, he was definitely speaking for himself. “This 
looks similar to the one beneath the Temple. It’s a place to put the 
Hierarch’s ring.” His face fell. “If only we had the ring, of course.” 

Helverien couldn’t resist. “What, this ring?” she said casually. Slipping it 
from her finger, she dropped it into his shaking hand. 
He stared at it, openmouthed. “Where in Myrial’s name did you get this?” he 
shouted. 
“It’s a long story. Do you know how to use it?” 
“Of course I do,” Zavahl snapped. He placed the ring in its proper position in 
the plinth, and the huge red stone clicked into place. Immediately, the 
chamber darkened. A low, thrumming vibration, so deep that Helverien 
could feel it in her very bones, breathed a single organ note into the air. The 
dark, smoky red of the ring began to brighten to copper, to gold, to glowing 
flame, to searing, incandescent white. 
Zavahl was muttering, half to himself. “It’s just like before, except then the 
center of the Eye stayed dark and dead ... Oh, Myrial, don’t let it be dead this 
time.” 
For a moment, it seemed as if his prayer was about to be answered. The 
formless void in the center of the Eye began to pulse with the rhythm of a 
heartbeat, and with each pulse a faint, blue spark of light within it 
brightened. Zavahl was holding his breath, and Helverien realized that she 
was doing the same. The spark grew in brightness until the entire center of 
the Eye was suffused with a vivid, blue-violet light. 
Zavahl’s fingers were clenched tightly round the edge of the plinth, the 
knuckles showing bone-white through his skin. “Now, speak to us,” he was 
murmuring. “Please, please speak to us!” 
But it seemed that the Eye could go so far, and no further. A discordant 
sound began to grind at the edges of that profound and lovely note, setting 
the Magewoman’s teeth on edge, and the blue interior of the ring became 
marred by ugly bursts of nothingness, like bolts and streaks of black 
lightning running across its surface. The blinding white exterior of the ring 
was splintered into rainbow sparks. 
“It’s breaking up!” Zavahl cried. “Stop it! Don’t let it slip away again!” 
Then he grew unnaturally calm, as the Dragon spoke. “Helverien, use the 
disc! If the normal channels of communication aren’t functioning, you still 
can use the disc.” 
Damn! She had forgotten. Quickly, Helverien took the artifact, and 
positioned it in its own depression in the top of the plinth. Immediately, the 
colors of the Eye stabilized once more, as the small dark screen lit up in its 
center with the same blue as the center of the Eye, and the outer ring blazed 
with incandescent light. Helverien squinted at it with watering eyes. 
Well, not even the Ancients were free of their conceits. This might look very 
impressive, and I’m sure it’s very symbolic, but as Packrat might say, it’s 
going to be a bugger to read. 
Be that as it may, there were words forming on the screen even as she 
looked, in letters that stood out white against the glowing blue background. 

Though they were in the runic symbols of the Ancients, she could read the 
words quite clearly: 
SYSTEM MALFUNCTION Helverien cast her eyes to the heavens. “Well, 
tell me something I don’t know!” 
Experimentally, she touched the glowing runes upon the plinth, and as her 
fingers brushed each one, the corresponding symbol appeared on the screen: 
IDENTIFY Once again, words materialized on the screen—and she caught 
her breath in horror. 
COMPLETE SYSTEM FAILURE. BURNOUT IN CORE CEREBRAL 
PROCESSOR. RUNNING ON EMERGENCY SYSTEMS AND 
PERIPHERALS ONLY Helverien clung to the edge of the plinth to stop her 
knees from buckling. Emergency systems and peripherals— whatever they 
might be—wouldn’t be able to run an entire world for long. The enigmatic 
screen had just pronounced a death sentence on Myrial and all its 
inhabitants. 
In desperation, not knowing what else to do, the Mage abandoned all 
attempts at the stilted phrasing of the Ancients. Her fingers flew across the 
symbols on the plinth, and new words, a plea straight from her heart, 
appeared on the screen: 
HOW DO I FIX IT? 
No one was more surprised than she to get a reply. Her eyes widened as, step 
by detailed step, it told her. 
Ever since the Wind-Sprite’s attack on Kaz, Amaurn’s chief concern had 
been for his grieving daughter, who sat huddled beside the firedrake with 
Dark, as the two of them strove with all their might to hold him to the world 
by pure force of will. It was increasingly clear that they were failing. 
According to the Summoner, there were serious internal injuries as well as 
broken bones, and bit by bit Kaz was slipping away. Finally, the 
Archimandrite got to his feet, unable to bear the sight of Veldan’s anguish 
any longer. His eyes fell on the plasma weapon, discarded on the ground, 
and despite Toulac’s warnings, he wondered longingly whether it would be 
possible to blast the accursed Wind-Sprite into oblivion. 
Why didn’t she take me? At least there would have been some twisted and 
ironic sense of justice in that. After all, it’s my fault that the Curtain Walls 
are failing in the first place. I got us into this mess. Why should Kaz be her 
victim, instead of me? 
It would almost be better if I used that damn weapon on myself! 
Reluctantly he tore his eyes away from the weapon—and that was the first 
time he noticed what was going on above him, on the walkway. Zavahl was 
up there, out on the platform, with ... “Shree, who in perdition is that woman 
you came with?” 

*Her name is Helverien.* The Wind-Sprite sounded very subdued. *She is 
one of the ancient Magefolk. I met her when you trapped me within your 
accursed device. She too had been imprisoned, and had been there for 
thousands of years.* 
Amaurn reeled as though she had hit him. Helverien? Helverien? He knew 
the story, of course. Her name was still reviled among the Magefolk. But 
really, were her crimes any worse than his own? She had only put her own 
people at risk, not the entire world. And, on the other hand, if she knew what 
she was doing ... He damn well hoped that she did. She had activated the 
Eye, and Providence only knew what she was doing now. Amaurn started to 
run, heading for the spiral stairs. 
When he reached them, he was out of breath from his rapid ascent. “What 
the blazes is going on here? What are you doing?” he gasped. 
Slowly, Zavahl turned to face him, his eyes dark with shock in a face as 
white as chalk. “Helverien got the Eye to tell us how the world can be 
restored,” he said, in an oddly toneless voice. Clearly Aethon was speaking 
through him. “Think of this world as a being—an artificial version of a 
living being, crafted with infinite skill. It’s the same as a body. It has a heart, 
in other words a power source to run its systems, and methods of exchanging 
energy, and of healing itself. It also had a brain, but somehow, that has been 
destroyed. And that’s why our world is dying too.” 
“But you said that it can be restored?” Amaurn demanded urgently. 
“Oh, yes.” Zavahl—or Aethon—sighed. “All it will take is for one of us to 
Sacrifice ourselves and merge with Myrial, so that its body becomes our 
body, and our minds become the great Mind that runs and maintains all the 
systems, including the climate, and the Curtain Walls. Whoever volunteers 
will cease to be what they were. Whole generations will pass in an eyeblink, 
to the eternal Mind. It will be omnipotent, but changed forever—and isolated 
and lonely beyond all imagining.” He hesitated, then Zavahl was back 
behind his eyes. “It isn’t fair to ask Helverien to do this. She’s been 
imprisoned for aeons as it is. She’s suffered enough—if suffering this will 
be. The thing is, we just don’t know what it will be like.” He hesitated, and 
the Archimandrite could see him gathering his courage. “Look, Amaurn” he 
said. “I’ll do it. I was supposed to have been Sacrificed anyway—at least 
this is better than being burned alive. I am—I was—the Hierarch. It’s my 
responsibility. I’ve talked to Aethon and he agrees. At least that way, the 
memories of the Dragonfolk won’t be lost for good.” 
Amaurn felt sick. For a moment, he was tempted just to let Zavahl get on 
with it, and Sacrifice himself—but he couldn’t. 
I was the one who caused this disaster by exchanging the Hierarch’s ring for 
a facsimile. It’s not Zavahl’s responsibility—it’s mine. I’m the one who has 
to go. 
But what about Veldan? I’ve only just found her—I’ve hardly got to know 
her! And how can I leave her now, when this terrible thing has happened to 

Kaz? 
Yet it’s her world I’ll be saving too. She’ll understand. And she has other 
friends who’ll help her get through her loss. Elion will understand what 
she’s going through, and Toulac will always be there. And if I’m not much 
mistaken, young Dark will be the greatest solace of all to her—far more 
than I would ever be. 
He turned to Zavahl, while he still had the courage, before he could change 
his mind again. “No, Zavahl. You go back to Ailie and have a happy life. 
You don’t have to sacrifice yourself again. I’m the one who should go.” He 
took a deep breath. “Say goodbye to Veldan for me, will you? Ask her to 
forgive me.” Then he turned to Helverien. “Right,” he said. “Let’s not waste 
any more time. How do I do this?” 
She gave him a look that was filled with compassion. “Farewell, Amaurn. I 
salute your courage. I’m sorry I never got the chance to know you—I should 
have liked to talk with one of my own people again. I’ll show you how to 
extend the gantry, then Zavahl and I will leave. The gantry will elongate, 
taking the platform—and you with it—into the center of the Eye. The 
platform will then return to its old position, but you ... You will be 
incorporated into Myrial.” 
Amaurn sighed. “Well, I suppose there are worse fates than immortality. 
After all, I’ve been living on borrowed time ever since Cergorn sentenced 
me to death all those years ago. Goodbye, Helverien, goodbye, Zavahl and 
Aethon. I’ll try my best to do a good job, I promise. And be sure to tell Dark 
and Toulac to take care of Veldan—not that they’ll need any telling.” All at 
once, he realized that he was stalling. “Now, Helverien, show me how to ...” 
*Wait!* The voice came from Thirishri. *You don’t have to go, Amaurn. I 
will. Let’s face it,* she added wryly, *I will not be troubled by the loss of a 
body, as you would. And I realize now that Cergorn is lost to me forever.* 
She sighed, as only a Wind-Sprite could. *Besides, I could never go back to 
Gendival and face Veldan again after what I did today. I must go, Amaurn. I 
must volunteer to be the new Mind of Myrial. Perhaps, by saving a world, I 
can atone for what I did.* 
And with that, she left them. Before they could object or argue, Shree had 
departed, with only a shimmering disturbance in the air to show that she was 
streaking toward the Eye. She plunged into the center—and was gone, 
leaving no trace of her passing. 
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, once again, the resonant note 
began—growing, swelling, soaring to a triumphant climax. The menacing 
black lightning vanished from the center of the Eye, and it cleared to the 
soft, calm blue of a twilight sky. In the glorious, celestial music, the sound of 
the Wind-Sprite’s voice could be heard. *Ahhh—now I see. I see it all: the 
entire world of Myrial in its infinitely complex wonder.* She laughed. *I’m 
so glad I did this instead of you, Amaurn. You still exist in your fragile form 
of flesh, but I... I am a whole world.* 
“And can you fix the Curtain Walls?” the Archimandrite demanded 

waspishly. He was glad he wouldn’t have to talk to her on a regular basis. 
All this showing off was starting to grate on him already. 
*I am learning how to repair them as we speak, and it will be done by the 
time you are back above ground.* 
Well, with that sort of efficiency, I suppose she has a right to a certain 
amount of conceit. 
He supposed he ought to be relieved that the problem was solved and the 
world was saved, but right now all he could think of was his grieving 
daughter and the dying firedrake. 
I had better get back to Veldan and poor Kaz... 
But Amaurn was disturbed from his thoughts by Thirishri’s voice. *Amaurn! 
I may have the answer. The firedrake might have a chance after all!* 
* * * 
Kher stumbled to a halt beside Elion and Vifang. “By my life, but I’m glad 
to see you two! I didn’t think you stood a chance! Are you all right?” 
Am I? 
For a moment, Elion wasn’t sure. Thick dust hung in the air, mingling with 
the smoke from the explosion, and he had started to wheeze and cough. His 
skin tingled and smarted from the heat of the explosion, but as far as he 
could tell, he had escaped any serious burns. The surge of desperate energy 
that had supported him through the last few moments was dying away, and 
now that he was aware of them, his wounds had started to hurt like perdition. 
He glared at Kher. “Don’t be bloody stupid! Do we look all right?” Then all 
at once he was struck by the realization that, against all the odds, he and 
Vifang had survived. Relief and amazement washed over him, and he started 
to laugh helplessly, the tears running down his cheeks and cutting tracks 
through all the dirt and blood. 
“You’re all right,” Kher said disgustedly, “which, after those antics, is more 
than you deserve.” He sent Alsive back to the garden to fetch his pack, 
which contained the basic medications that Loremasters carried at all times. 
Elysa, in the meantime, had been investigating the tunnel. “It looks like it’s 
collapsed completely,” she called. “I can’t get any farther than a few feet in, 
and even that part is very unstable. I can’t imagine that any of our winged 
friends could have survived that.” 
Elion nodded. “Now we only have to take care of the ones that left the city.” 
“We’ve destroyed the main nest.” Kher nodded toward the ancient weapon. 
“And with that little beauty, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem to pick 
off the others.” 
With a grimace of disgust, Elion thrust the artifact back at Kher. “If I were 
you, I wouldn’t be so ready to abandon our good, old-fashioned crossbows. 
This bloody thing went dead on me right at the most crucial moment.” 

Kher’s face fell. “You broke it? This thing has existed for hundreds of 
centuries, and you broke it? What’s Amaurn going to say?” 
“Well, he can say what he likes, but there’s nothing I can do about it. It only 
existed for hundreds of centuries because no one was trying to use it. Either 
way, it’s not much good, is it? If Cergorn is right and we keep the thing 
locked up in a museum, it’s useless to us. If we do use it, it malfunctions. 
Maybe there’s a lesson in that. Maybe there’s a third way, between 
Cergorn’s views and those of Amaurn. Maybe we’d be better off developing 
our own new methods, and let the Ancients go hang.” 
All the time he had been speaking to Kher, Elion had been watching the 
Takur. Somewhere in all the confusion, Vifang had changed back into her 
normal form, and he could see that she was beginning to heal herself. 
Already she seemed better, though the rents of her injuries still could be seen 
in the indeterminate darkness of her body. Though Kher was still fussing 
around Elion, trying to clean his wounds, the Loremaster ignored him. It was 
as though he and the shapeshifter were all alone. “I thought I was too late,” 
he told her. “I thought you were dead.” 
“It takes a lot to kill one of my race,” Vifang told him. “But if you hadn’t 
come for me, either the Ak’Zahar or the explosion would have finished me 
for sure. You lured them off me long enough for me to change form into 
something more ... suitable.” 
“Why a firedrake?” Elion asked curiously. “For a moment, I thought Kaz 
and Veldan had come for me.” 
“I thought the flames might come in useful,” the Takur said wryly. “Besides, 
that was one of the forms I used when I was trying to kill Amaurn. I already 
had the image fixed in my mind, so it was easy to make the change. Then I 
could come to your aid.” Within the nebulous, many-limbed form, the bright 
eyes glittered. “Why?” she asked softly. “Why did you take such a risk for 
one of the reviled Takuru?” 
Why did I? 
As Elion looked at the weird, disquieting being who had engendered such 
strong liking and respect in so brief a space of time, a jumble of thoughts and 
feelings whirled through his mind—and suddenly he knew the answer. 
“Because I didn’t want to lose another partner,” he said firmly. 
There was a long moment of silence before Vifang answered. “But... But I’m 
barely a member of the Shadowleague. I can’t be your partner.” 
Elion smiled at her and held out his hand. “You can if you want to be.” 
CHAPTER 39 
Returning 

Far underground, Dark’s strength was failing. Veldan could see the strain 
and effort clearly on his face as he tried to hold her dying partner to the 
world. It was no use. Though her heart was breaking and she didn’t know 
how she could face the future without Kaz, she knew that it was pointless to 
put them all through any further suffering. Blinded by tears, she reached out 
and touched the Summoner on the arm. “Let him go, Dark. Help him to 
sleep.” 
Dark darted a glance at her in which she saw concern and compassion 
mingled—and something more. “Are you sure?” he said. “Veldan, are you 
certain? I can hold on a little longer...” 
“No.” Veldan’s voice broke on a sob. “He doesn’t even know we’re here 
anymore, and he’s dying by slow inches. Help him to go, Dark. Set him 
free.” 
“I...” But whatever the Summoner had meant to say, he never got the chance 
to finish. Suddenly Amaurn erupted into their midst and, seizing Veldan’s 
hands, pulled her up from the floor. “Veldan, there’s no time to explain. Just 
trust me, that’s all. Just trust me.” He looked up at the Eye, high above them 
on the chamber wall. “All right, Shree,” he called aloud. “Go!” 
Before Veldan’s eyes, the twisted body of the firedrake rose up from the 
floor, supported on what seemed to be a column of shimmering air. 
“Amaurn!” she shrieked. “What’s happening?” 
He gripped her hands tightly. “It’s all right, Veldan. Hope and pray that it 
will be all right. Shree has amalgamated with the Eye and become the 
consciousness of Myrial. She thinks she knows a way to heal Kaz...” 
It was too much for Veldan to take in. “But Shree nearly killed him already. 
Stop her, Amaurn—it has to be a trick. Don’t let her take him!” 
“Hush.” He put his arms around her and held her tightly. “You’re 
overwrought, my love, and understandably so, but you don’t understand 
what’s been happening. This is your partner’s only chance.” 
This time, his words got through to her, and she understood what he was 
saying—though not how such a miracle could come to be. Even as she 
watched, the firedrake reached the center of the Eye, and vanished into its 
depths. 
Veldan was aware that Amaurn had let her go, but was still keeping one arm 
around her shoulders. She was aware that Dark was holding her other hand. 
She was aware of Toulac beside her, stalwart and strong as ever, though the 
veteran was looking up at the Eye with a worried frown. 
Time passed. And more time. Veldan remembered their childhood; how she 
and Kaz had grown up together. The little lizardlike creature who had 
hatched out of the strange-looking egg had grown up into such a magnificent 
creature; large and clever and strong. All through the years, he had been 

Veldan’s protector, her comforter, her friend, and she had been his. They had 
taken care of one another through the good times and the bad. She thought of 
the gleam of mischief in his opalescent eyes, his wicked tongue, and that 
irritating snicker that usually meant that he intended to have the last word. 
How can I live without him? It would be like losing half of me! Now I know 
how Elion felt. At last, I know. 
And all this time, the Eye had continued unchanged, without any indication 
that anything was happening within its depths. After a time, Veldan began to 
doubt that anything would. The group of people above, on the walkway, 
were beginning to get restless, and she could hear a low murmur of puzzled 
voices coming from that direction. Her nerves were so tight-strung that she 
wanted to kill them, just to shut them up. 
How dare they stand there muttering while Kaz’s life and mine hang in the 
balance? 
Veldan thought she couldn’t stand to wait a moment longer. She must move, 
scream, weep ... And then she saw it. A long, dark shape drifting deep within 
from the enigmatic blue. A few moments more, and Kaz emerged from the 
center of the Eye, but there was no spark of consciousness to greet her 
worried calls. And while she couldn’t see it properly from where she stood, 
his silhouette still looked oddly misshapen. Veldan’s heart sank, and 
bitterness overwhelmed her. 
Shree failed, dammit! For a brief time she let me hope— and then she failed. 
It was just too cruel. Veldan didn’t know how she could bear it. She closed 
her eyes to shut away the dreadful sight and let the darkness of despair 
surround her. Then she felt Dark’s hand squeezing hers, very tightly. 
“Veldan,” he said urgently, “don’t look like that! Open your eyes. He’s 
alive. Kaz is alive. He isn’t conscious, but he’s alive! I can feel the life 
within him.” 
Then, and only then, did Veldan dare look. He was closer—she could see 
him breathing, beginning to stir. And as the firedrake was lowered to the 
ground, her spirits soared. But that peculiar shape ... Her eyes widened as he 
settled to the floor. “Dark—look! Amaurn and Toulac— look at him!” She 
ran to Kaz, and as she knelt beside him, he opened his eyes. 
“Hello, sweetie.” The voice was faint, but already growing stronger. “I just 
had the strangest dream. I dreamed that Myrial gave me ...” Suddenly his 
head shot up, and snapped around on his long neck to look behind him. 
“Wings?” In his excitement, his voice rose to a bellow. “VELDAN! I HAVE 
WINGS!” 
The Loremaster hugged him, and the tears streaming down her face now 
were tears of joy. “I’m happy for you, Kaz. You always wanted them, and 
you deserve them. But most of all, I’m happy just to have you back.” 
The firedrake gave her an injured look. “Have me back? Bat crap! I wasn’t 
going anywhere, Boss. You don’t get rid of me that easily.” 
Veldan looked up at the Eye. “Thank you, Shree,” she called. “Thank you 

for giving him back to me. And thank you for the wings. He’s always 
wanted them.” 
The chamber reverberated to the sound of the Wind-Sprite’s laugh. *I’m 
glad I could do it, Veldan. And I’m glad my modifications meet with your 
approval. To restore Kazairl, I had to access the original template of the 
firedrakes that Myrial had stored in its memory when they first came to this 
world. No one was more surprised than me to discover that they had wings! 
If Kaz is anything to go by, they must have lost them somewhere through the 
aeons— but no matter. They seemed like a good idea to me, and I thought he 
might like to have them back.* 
By this time, all of Veldan’s other companions were clustering around Kaz, 
telling him how glad they were to see him, asking him how he felt, 
congratulating him on his beautiful new wings, and telling him how brave 
he’d been, and how worried they had been. Veldan could see that Kaz was 
basking in all the attention, standing in the middle of the floor and spreading 
his elegant, gleaming wings in all their new magnificence. He was looking 
more smug by the minute. “Oh dear,” she murmured to Dark. “He used to be 
conceited enough before this happened. Now he’ll be impossible.” 
The Summoner put an arm around her once more. Between them, it seemed 
to have become the most natural gesture in the world. “Don’t worry. We can 
cope with him.” 
Though it sounded like a statement, Veldan heard the lilt of a question in his 
voice. She looked into his brown eyes and smiled. “We most certainly can.” 
Kaz nudged Veldan with his nose. “Hey!” he said peevishly, “I’m supposed 
to be the one who’s the center of attention here.” He looked at Dark with a 
leer. “You can damn well wait your turn till later.” 
At this point—luckily—Shree interrupted them. Her voice had changed; had 
become more resonant, somehow, and more impersonal. *And now, I think 
you all should go back home. I have a very great deal to do here, and a lot to 
learn. Already, I feel my old self fading and becoming part of this world. If 
you want me, however, you know where to find me—although I think you 
should block off all access to this place. We don’t want more folk wandering 
down here accidentally. If anybody needs to communicate,* she continued, 
*they can reach me through the Holy of Holies, below the Temple in 
Tiarond. The Hierarch’s ring will activate the Eye there, just as it always 
did—though I think perhaps you’ll find that the position of Hierarch has just 
become obsolete. But I’m sure that Galveron and Aliana can work 
something out. He’ll make a perfect leader for Callisiora, and so will she. I 
shall watch their progress with interest.* 
“That may be your opinion,” said a deep masculine voice, “but Hierarch 
Gilarra might have something to say in the matter. Indeed, now that Zavahl 
has returned, the situation has become even more complex.” 
Veldan looked up in surprise. She had forgotten all about the other intruders, 
who were still clustered on the edge of the walkway, standing very close to 
one another for support. She noticed that Tormon and his companions had 

joined them, and that Scall had his arm around a slight, blond girl. The man 
who had spoken, presumably Galveron, had come out to the platform and 
was addressing the Eye directly. At his side, looking very determined, was a 
slight young woman with a mop of tawny curls. 
Once again, Shree’s voice was heard. It was difficult to tell whether it came 
from all around them, or directly from the center of the Eye. *You need not 
worry about Gilarra—or Zavahl, if I’m not mistaken. When you get back to 
the Temple, you’ll find that the situation has resolved itself. Now, if you are 
ready,* she added with heavy sarcasm, *I will transport you back to the first 
great cavern. You’ll get out easily from there without spending any more 
time blundering around my corridors, triggering the traps.* 
There seemed little point in lingering, and everyone seemed as anxious to 
leave as Thirishri was to see them go. The others came down from the 
walkway, and they all crammed into the silver depression in the floor, ringed 
by its colored pillars. Once again, it expanded to accommodate them all. As 
the chamber vanished from sight, Veldan expected to hear Shree call out in 
farewell, but there was only silence. Already, it seemed the former Wind- 
Sprite had turned away from her connections with her companions, 
immersing herself in the persona of an entire world. 
Once they had gained the mysterious chamber—still as enigmatic as 
ever—with the peculiar structures and colored, moving lights, it took them 
no time to pass through the tubular corridor, and scramble down the pile of 
rubble into the cliff road tunnel. Veldan leaned against Kaz in their habitual 
position of closeness and comfort. “Thank Providence we’re out of there! I 
never want to see that place again to the end of my days.” 
“Me neither, Boss. Me neither.” Caught off his guard, the firedrake sounded 
very subdued, and his partner knew that his brush with death had affected 
him far more deeply than he would admit. 
Veldan put her arms around his neck, and hugged him. “Come on, you,” she 
said, “Let’s go home.” 
CHAPTER 40 
Afterward 
By the time Toulac took the chestnut mare back to an impatient Scall, the 
worst of winter had passed, and spring was coming round again. As she rode 
Mazal and led the little mare, who was now pregnant with the stallion’s foal, 
up the valley that led to the reiver fortress, there was a hail from the hillside 
above, and Seriema and Cetain came riding toward her. 

Toulac had to smile when she saw the former head of the Merchants’ Guild. 
Seriema, as usual, was wearing the clothing of a reiver warrior, and she 
looked radiant, tanned, and healthy. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up, and her 
dark hair was blowing out behind her in the wind. Though she lived with the 
reivers all the time now, and had given up her great mansion on the 
Esplanade without a backward look, she had not abandoned her business 
ventures completely. Instead she had taken on a partner: Aliana’s brother, 
Alestan. Already, after only a few months, the other merchants trembled in 
their boots to see him coming. 
In the meantime, Seriema and Cetain had spent a busy winter rallying and 
aiding what remained of the other clans. Because they had been unable to get 
through with their warning, the Ak’Zahar had been able to wreak havoc 
among the unsuspecting reivers, leaving so few survivors that the old, 
destructive clan system had been destroyed for good. 
It had taken some considerable time for Arcan’s archers to hunt down and 
destroy the last of the winged fiends that had spread out to the moors, and a 
number of lives had been lost before they had succeeded. Sadly, the chieftain 
himself had been numbered among the slain, and now Lewic, Cetain’s older 
brother, was leader. Luckily, he had been more amenable to Cetain’s 
suggestions for amalgamating the clans than his father would have 
been—with the result that everyone was mingling, and sharing what they 
had. Some of Lewic’s folk had gone to join the refugees in the fortress of the 
adjacent clans, and some of the strangers had come to Lewic’s stronghold. 
Everyone had been so shocked by the extent of the slaughter that there had 
been surprisingly little fighting, apart from the odd broken head, and Lewic, 
Cetain, and Seriema were hoping it would stay that way. In the new spirit of 
friendship that seemed to be abroad, they had also made agreements with 
Galveron, Lord of Tiarond, to trade meat and wool for other goods from the 
city. It seemed that the raiding days of the reivers were gone for good—and 
Toulac, for one, wasn’t sorry. 
“Toulac,” Seriema called as she drew near, “it’s good to see you. And you 
brought Scall’s horse with you—thank Providence for that! He’s been 
growing quite impossible to live with lately because he didn’t think you’d 
get her back to him before they left.” 
“Left?” the veteran asked. “Is Tormon going back on the road, then?” 
“Isn’t he just!” Seriema laughed. “He and Scall have been busy all winter 
long, building and fitting out their new wagon—with the help of Rochalla, of 
course, and Annas, who’s been telling them exactly how it should be done.” 
Toulac laughed. “That child will go far!” 
Seriema nodded. “Rochalla has made a tremendous difference to her. It’s not 
the same, of course, as having her own mother—but Rochalla does a 
marvelous job, and Annas loves her to distraction.” 
“Are your other visitors here yet?” 
“Yes,” Cetain said. “You’re the last, Toulac. That’s why Scall was in such a 

state.” 
“How is Blade—I mean, Amaurn? And how is Zavahl?” Seriema asked. 
“You won’t be wanting to talk about Gendival in front of the others, so I’ll 
get my questions in now.” 
“You wouldn’t recognize Amaurn as that cold, driven monster that we both 
knew,” Toulac told her. “Now that he’s home, and Archimandrite as he 
always wanted to be—and especially because he’s been united with his 
daughter—he’s mellowed considerably. Though if any of the other Senior 
Loremasters is unwise enough to try to cross him, we still see the odd flash 
of the old Lord Blade. And as for Zavahl— well, he’s deliriously happy with 
Ailie, and suffice it to say, he’s a damn sight better at being an innkeeper 
than he ever was as Hierarch!” 
By this time, they were nearing the stronghold, and with a wild yell, Scall 
came running out through the gates to meet them. “Toulac! You brought her! 
You brought Firefly back at last!” He ran up to the mare, hugging and 
patting her, and despite all the pampering she’d had in the Shadowleague 
stables, she looked very pleased to see him. 
Toulac made a face at her. “Ungrateful little wretch!” Then she left them to 
their reunion and went inside with Seriema and Cetain. In the courtyard, a 
dazzling sight met her eyes: a brand-new wagon, somewhat larger than the 
one the trader had previously owned, and twice as gaudy. A smell of fresh 
paint hung in the air, and the sound of hammering came from inside. When 
they went round the back, Tormon’s head popped out of the door. “Toulac! 
You’re a sight for sore eyes. Have you brought Scall’s mare back, then?” 
“Can’t anybody talk about anything but that bloody horse?” Toulac 
grumbled, but she was grinning as she spoke. 
Later, when Scall could be prised from the side of his beloved Firefly, they 
all gathered over supper and a glass of wine in Cetain’s chambers. Rochalla, 
who had joined them with little Annas, looked absolutely blooming. Clearly, 
life as Scall’s partner was suiting her, and the veteran suspected that Annas 
might have a little playmate before too long. 
There were a number of other visitors. As well as bringing the horse, Toulac 
had also come to collect Quave, the Shadowleague healer who had been 
spending the winter in Tiarond with Healer Kaita, teaching her some new 
surgical and diagnostic techniques, and helping her eradicate the last of the 
sickness that had accounted for so many of the refugees. Amaurn was—very 
cautiously—releasing certain knowledge into the world via the Loremasters, 
though he had decided to restrict this to information that would help the 
various races of Myrial put their shattered lives back together. He had 
decided to hold back, however, on materials such as the blasting powder, 
which could so easily be turned into weapons. Galveron, who had used it for 
just such a purpose, and therefore understood the risks, was regulating its use 
very carefully in Callisiora, and Amaurn was determined not to make the 
same mistake with other dangerous substances. 
Kaita had traveled with Quave as far as the reiver fortress, because Shelon, 

who had turned into a very able second-in-command, had taken a firm stance 
about making her take the occasional rest. Her eyes sparkling with 
amusement, she told Toulac about her new assistants: Felyss and Gelina— 
and, to everyone’s surprise, Packrat. These days, clean and tidy and with his 
hair neatly trimmed, he was almost unrecognizable as the scruffy thief who 
had first appeared among the refugees in the Temple. Shelon, who was 
training the new recruits, actually thought he showed some promise—and if 
Kaita noticed the way his eyes kept lingering on Felyss, she wasn’t going to 
say anything. They would have to work that out themselves. 
Agella had come with Kaita to bid farewell to her nephew before he took to 
the road with Tormon for the summer. The Smith and the Healer, who had 
worked together so well and ably during the crisis in Tiarond, were now the 
firmest of friends, and both of them were important and respected members 
of the Working Council of Tiarond, which had been set up by Galveron and 
Aliana to help them restore their ravaged city and the lands beyond. 
The two of them, former Godsword Commander and former thief—now the 
rulers of Callisiora—had also ridden out with Kaita and Agella—at Aliana’s 
insistence, Toulac suspected. Galveron, as conscientious as ever, would have 
worked every single hour of the day and burned himself out within a month, 
had his new lifemate permitted it. She, however, had sufficient influence to 
put a stop to any such notions and made sure that he put some time aside to 
relax with her. Ostensibly, they had come to confer with Cetain and Seriema, 
who had become good friends with them during the winter—though Cetain 
had been heard to remark, on more than one occasion, that he could no 
longer call himself a reiver now that he was making friends with the city folk 
instead of robbing them whenever the opportunity arose. 
They were all delighted to see one another again, and spent a very convivial 
evening talking about that fateful day that had brought them all together 
beneath Myrial’s Temple, and catching up on all the news. There was no 
doubt that a bond had been forged between all the people who’d been 
present on that momentous day, no matter what their reasons had been for 
venturing into the tunnels. Kaita and Agella, who had been in the Temple 
above but had met the adventurers in the aftermath, had also become 
included in that bond. As Toulac pointed out, their coming together seemed 
to have been more than mere coincidence: certainly they were now the ones 
who had taken up the responsibility for the future welfare of the Callisiorans. 
Kaita poured the last drops of wine from the bottle into her glass. “You 
know, Toulac, I’ve often wondered about this business of coincidence,” she 
said. “I’ll never forget that morning, when Gilarra Sacrificed herself to buy 
us a miracle. 
I never was religious in the first place, and we all realize now that Myrial 
doesn’t exist as a deity in the way that the Callisiorans believed he did—but 
I can’t help wondering: was it really a coincidence that we were saved within 
hours of the Hierarch’s Sacrifice? Did Gilarra waste her life to obtain 
something that would have happened anyway? Or somewhere, on some 
unknown level, were her prayers answered, and was her Sacrifice 

redeemed?“ 
Her words were followed by a long moment of silence. The veteran picked 
up the empty bottle, squinted at it, and put it down again. “That,” she said, 
“is the kind of drunken talk that tells me it’s definitely time we went to bed.” 
It was quite late the following morning when Toulac mounted Mazal and set 
off for home, with a remarkably uncommunicative Quave riding alongside 
her. Her head was still throbbing faintly, though Kaita, bless her, had 
produced a concoction of her own devising that seemed to be making her 
feel better by the moment—so much so that she found herself whistling as 
she rode along. It had been nice to catch up on all the news, but she couldn’t 
wait to get back to her friends in the Shadowleague, and these days, 
Gendival was a very pleasant place to be. 
It was astonishing, after all the initial ill feeling and conflict, how the 
Shadowleague at large had settled down and accepted Amaurn as their 
leader. The prompt restoration of the Curtain Walls had silenced the 
doubters very effectively, and since then everyone had been marveling at 
how wise and careful a leader Amaurn the renegade had turned out to be. 
Veldan and Toulac, however, and one or two others, were pretty sure that he 
was lulling them into a false sense of security, and would sooner or later be 
setting them all on their ears once more—whatever he was up to, only time 
would tell. He and Helverien had become great friends, though not in any 
romantic sense. He remained as faithful as ever to the memory of his lost 
Aveole, while she was busy cutting a swath through all the young bucks 
among the Shadowleague—with a few notable exceptions. Helverien, when 
not otherwise occupied in making up for lost time, was working closely with 
the historians and artisans in an attempt to restore as much as possible of the 
lost knowledge of the Ancients. She was often helped by Zavahl/Aethon, 
who could make pertinent contributions from the memories of the 
Dragonfolk— that is, when they could spare the time from running the inn 
with Ailie. In the meantime, Shree was trying to find a way to give the 
Seer’s memories back to the Dragonfolk without destroying Aethon in the 
process, and everyone was hopeful that she would, eventually, succeed. 
Elion and his new partner were very happy together, and though their pairing 
had caused a certain amount of consternation among the more conservative 
Loremasters, the Archimandrite had been firmly in favor, so that was that. 
For Elion, there was never a dull moment. One day his partner might be a 
firedrake like Kaz, another time she might appear as the purple-haired 
woman, or a centaur, or a phoenix, or anything else he could possibly 
imagine. Mostly, however, when they were at home, she tended to stay in 
her own enigmatic Takur shape; an arrangement which seemed to suit them 
both. At present, they were away on assignment in the land of Nemeris, 
making sure that the peninsula and the archipelago were safe for the return 
of the Dobarchu refugees. Since the Curtain Walls had been restored, the 
climates of the various realms had been stabilizing so rapidly that Toulac 
suspected that Thirishri had been working very hard to get everything back 
to normal as fast as possible. The winter just past had been very difficult, 

and the Loremasters had all been kept busy rendering what aid they could in 
all the realms. If things stayed stable during the summer, however, then 
hopefully the survivors of the catastrophe would have a good long season to 
recover themselves and their lands, and would be in much better condition to 
face the following winter. 
All in all, the veteran reflected, things were going pretty well. She wondered 
how it would have been if Cergorn had remained in charge, and shuddered. 
The Curtain Walls would already have failed completely, and the ensuing 
havoc didn’t bear thinking about. No, she wished the former Archimandrite 
well in his new life, but she was extremely glad that he was gone. 
Toulac and Quave made good time across the moors, and passed through the 
newly restored Curtain Walls around about noon. The shimmering sheets of 
pure, iridescent color sang with a clear, humming note, and were barely 
recognizable as the clouded, muddy, discordant formations they had been 
before. In the golden light of afternoon, they reached the wayshelter—and 
found that Veldan, Kazairl, and Dark had come out to meet them. 
“I’ll leave you here,” Quave said. “I’m anxious to get back to the settlement, 
and no doubt you four will want to catch up on all the news.” Skirting the 
foot of the hill on a horse that was distinctly wary of Kaz, he galloped off. 
The veteran waved to her friends, glad to see them once again—even though 
it had only been a couple of days since she had seen them last. With 
Amaurn’s blessing, the four of them had evolved a slightly different and 
unconventional partnership than the usual pairing of the Loremasters: Toulac 
and Dark had become, officially, partners, but in fact they shared a four-way 
partnership with Veldan and Kaz. Amaurn had been so delighted with an 
arrangement that made all four participants—and particularly his beloved 
daughter—so happy, that he had undertaken to assign them all together in 
future. Though they all knew that there had been certain mutterings of 
complaint among the Shadowleague about favoritism, no one had ever dared 
to make any complaints aloud—not with Kaz’s reactions to take into 
account, and certainly not where Amaurn could hear. As both Toulac and 
Kazairl had been expecting, Veldan and Dark had formed a partnership of 
their own, in which they were blissfully happy, though their love 
encompassed the veteran and the firedrake to such an extent that no one ever 
felt neglected or left out. Toulac smiled to herself. 
To think, when winter began, how alone and embittered and bereft I was, 
with nothing to look forward to but death. Nowadays, my life is so 
wonderful, I feel that I could live forever! 
Suddenly, she was forced to pay attention to business, as Mazal shied 
skittishly. Kaz was charging down the hill toward them, with Dark and 
Veldan on his back. “Stop that, you daft bugger,” she scolded the horse. 
“You’ve known Kaz far too long for that kind of nonsense.” 
Kaz came skidding to a halt in front of her, his claws leaving great gouges in 
the turf. He extended his magnificent wings for balance, and Toulac caught 
her breath. Growing out from his shoulders, where they seemed to have 

formed a new, and complex pair of joints, they were ribbed like the wings of 
a bat, and covered with a skin that looked delicate but was extremely tough, 
though soft and satiny to the touch. Like his scales, they were tinted in a 
medley of softly glowing metallic hues that looked at their very best in the 
sunshine. 
The two Loremasters slid to the ground, and Toulac also dismounted as 
Veldan came running across to hug her. “About time you showed up,” the 
firedrake said. “What kept you? I told you we should have gone with you. I 
could have taken you much faster than that walking breakfast.” 
Toulac chuckled. It hadn’t taken long for Kazairl to rediscover all his old 
ebullience after his brush with death. “Our friends might have been all right, 
Kaz, but I don’t think that most of the reiver folk are ready for you.‘* 
“Stupid humans!” the firedrake snorted. “Since Veldan made me give up 
eating them, I can’t think what use they are at all—except for the ones who 
become Loremasters, that is.” 
“What about Zavahl?” Veldan reminded him. 
“Yes, he’s all right,” Kaz said condescendingly, “but of course he has a 
Dragon inside him, and that makes all the difference. Ailie’s worth having, 
too. Now there’s a human with her priorities right.” 
“Just because she always feeds you,” Dark said. “How is everyone in 
Callisiora, Toulac?” 
“All thriving. Cetain sends his best and, of course, he asked if you were sure 
you wouldn’t consider going back and being a Summoner for them again.” 
Dark sighed. “I knew he would. That was one reason I didn’t want to go 
with you.” He looked at Veldan. “And, of course, I don’t have to go very far 
to look for the other reason.” 
Kaz rolled his eyes. “Thank goodness you’re back,” he said to Toulac. “Now 
I can have a decent conversation without having to throw up every five 
minutes.” 
The veteran grinned at him. “You old fraud! You don’t fool me for a minute. 
I know how happy you are that these two got together.” 
“Shhh—don’t tell them that!” The firedrake snickered, then turned to his 
partner. “Come on, Veldan. If you two have finished drooling over each 
other, can we show her now?” 
“Show me what?” said Toulac, though she could guess. The firedrake’s 
wings were magnificent, but she was yet to see him take to the air. However, 
since both he and Veldan had been blithely unconcerned about his being 
earthbound, she suspected that they had been working on the situation. The 
two of them had been disappearing periodically all winter, telling no one 
where they had gone, and both Dark and Toulac had suspected that they 
were sneaking off to practice. Dark, grinning proudly but looking a trifle 
apprehensive, had obviously been let in on the secret already. 
“Ah, Toulac,” Kaz snorted. “You guessed!” 

“We wanted to wait until all four of us were together to show you,” Veldan 
added. 
The veteran suppressed a momentary twinge of disquiet. But of course they 
knew what they were doing. They had been practicing all winter! She took 
Dark’s arm. “Come on then,” she said. “Let’s see you fly!” 
Veldan, beaming all over her face, swung up onto the firedrake’s back, and 
they headed up toward the brow of the hill, where the firedrake crouched and 
spread those glorious wings. Then suddenly he sprang upward, caught the 
wind, and took flight with verve and grace, beating hard until he had gained 
sufficient height, then opening the great sails wide to swoop and glide. 
Far above the watchers, Veldan let out a whoop of joyous abandon, echoed 
by a bellow of triumph from Kazairl. “How about that?” he called down to 
Toulac. “Let’s see that walking picnic of yours match this!” 
“Don’t you listen to him,” Toulac said stoutly, stroking Mazal’s arched neck. 
“I wouldn’t be without you for the world— even if Veldan won’t let you in 
her kitchen.” Nevertheless, she couldn’t take her eyes off the airborne pair 
above her. 
What must it be like to fly like that? 
The veteran watched in wonder as the firedrake soared above her; wheeling, 
dipping, and gliding with joyous abandon. Linking to Veldan’s mind, she 
felt the exhilarating rush of cold wind against her face, and saw the moors 
wheel by below, and her own self and Dark, looking incredibly small and far 
away. It was glorious! She could see for miles—in fact she was certain that 
she could see, so faint and far away that it looked like a twig stuck in the 
ground, the Tower of Tidings in the Loremaster settlement. 
Reluctantly, Toulac came back to herself and turned to Dark, her eyes 
glowing. “Myrial in a handcart! Aren’t they a wonderful sight?” She paused 
thoughtfully. “I can’t wait until they take me up there!” 
ABOUT THE AUTHOR 
Maggie Furey is the author of Aurian, Harp of Winds, Sword of Flame, 
Dhiammara, Heart of Myrial, and Spirit of the Stone. She lives in County 
Wicklow, Ireland, where she is at work on a new novel.