RAYMOND E. FEIST
MAGICIAN’S END

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.com

Published by HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

Copyright © Raymond E. Feist 2013

Raymond E. Feist asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Source ISBN: 9780007264797

Ebook Edition © May 2013 ISBN: 9780007290192

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Map designed by Ralph M. Askren, D.V.M.

Version: 2018-09-20

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Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Maps

Chapter One: Shattered

Chapter Two: Confrontation

Chapter Three: Journey I

Chapter Four: Homeward

Chapter Five: E’bar

Chapter Six: Assassins

Chapter Seven: Journey II

Chapter Eight: Storm

Chapter Nine: Journey III

Chapter Ten: Skirmish

Chapter Eleven: Trapped

Chapter Twelve: Journey IV

Chapter Thirteen: Elvandar

Chapter Fourteen: Clash

Chapter Fifteen: Silden

Chapter Sixteen: Journey V

Chapter Seventeen: Northlands

Chapter Eighteen: Travel

Chapter Nineteen: Magic

Chapter Twenty: Plans

Chapter Twenty-One: Unveiling

Chapter Twenty-Two: Revelation

Chapter Twenty-Three: Encounters

Chapter Twenty-Four: Battles

Chapter Twenty-Five: Conflict

Chapter Twenty-Six: Attack

Chapter Twenty-Seven: War

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Destruction

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Obliteration

Chapter Thirty: Aftermath

Chapter Thirty-One: Renaissance

Epilogue: Crydee

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same Author

About the Publisher

This final book in the Riftwar Cycle, after thirty successful years of writing, is dedicated to you, the reader. Without your support and enthusiasm, I never would have achieved this milestone.

• CHAPTER ONE •
Shattered

CHAOS ERUPTED.

A light so brilliant it was painful bathed Pug as he instinctively threw all his magic into the protective shell Magnus had erected around them just a moment before. Only Magnus’s anticipation of the trap had prevented them all from being instantly vaporized. Energy so intense it could hardly be comprehended now destroyed everything at hand, reducing even the most iron-hard granite to its fundamental particles, dispersing them into the fiery vortex forming around them.

The light pierced Pug’s tightly shut eyelids, rendering his vision an angry red-orange, with afterimages of green-blue. His instinct was to shield his face, but he knew the gesture would be useless. He willed himself to keep his hands moving in the pattern necessary to support Magnus’s efforts. Only magic protected them from conditions no mortal could withstand for even the barest tick of time. The very stuff of the universe was being distorted on all sides.

They were in what appeared to be the heart of a sun. In his studies, Pug knew this to be the fifth state of matter, beyond earth, air, water, and fire, called different names by various magicians: among them, flux, plasma, and excited fire. Energy so powerful that it tore the very essentials of all matter down to their very atoms and recombined them, repeating the process until at some point the plasma fell below a threshold of destruction and creation and was able finally to cease its fury.

Years of perfecting his art had gifted him with myriad skills, some talents deployed reflexively without conscious effort. The magic tools he used to assess and evaluate were overloaded with sensations he had never experienced in his very long lifetime. Obviously, whoever had constructed this trap had hoped it would be beyond his ability to withstand. He suspected it was the work of several artisans of magic.

In his mind, Pug heard Miranda asking, Is everyone safe?

Nakor’s voice spoke aloud: ‘There’s air. We can talk. Magnus, Pug, don’t look. It will blind you. Miranda, we can look.’

‘Describe what you see,’ Magnus said to the two demons in human form.

Miranda said, ‘It’s an inferno hotter than anything witnessed in the demon realm. It has destroyed a hundred feet of rock and soil below us and we are afloat in a bubble of energy. Farther out from where we stand, it’s turning sand to glass. A wall of super-heated air is expanding outward at incredible speed, and whatever it touches is incinerated in moments. As far as my eye can discern, all is flame, smoke, and ash.’

Less than a minute ago, the four of them had been examining a matrix of magic, which was obviously a lock, but had turned out to be a trap.

Ancient beings of energy, the Sven-ga’ri, had been protected in a quiet glade atop a massive building built by a peaceful tribe of the Pantathians, a race of serpent-men created by the ancient Dragon Lord, Alma-Lodaka. Unlike their more violent brethren, these beings had been gentle, scholarly, and very much like humans.

Now that peaceful race had been obliterated. It didn’t matter to Pug that they had been created by the mad vanity of a long-dead Dragon Lord as pets and servants: they had evolved into something much finer and he knew he would mourn their loss.

‘It’s fading,’ said Nakor. ‘Don’t look.’

Pug kept his eyes closed, focusing on his son’s protective shell. ‘You anticipated—’

Magnus finished his sentence for him: ‘—the trap. It was just one of those moments, Father. The hair on my neck and arms started to tingle, and before I knew it the protective spell was cast. I had created a word-trigger, a power word. I just had no idea the trap would be so massive. Without your help and Moth— Miranda’s …’ He let the thought go unfinished.

Pug and Miranda both chose to ignore his slip. She wasn’t his mother. She was a demon named Child who was in possession of all his mother’s memories, but Child seemed completely contained within Miranda. It was easy to forget she wasn’t Miranda; the experience was unnerving for all of them.

Only Belog the demon, now to outward appearances Nakor, seemed untroubled by his situation, and that was wholly in keeping with who Nakor had been in life: a man of unlimited curiosity and a delight in all mysteries. His voice held a note of awe. ‘This was an unspeakably brilliant trap, Pug.’

Keeping his eyes tightly shut, Pug said, ‘I tend to agree. What’s your thinking?’

‘Whoever fashioned this understood it could be investigated only by a very limited number of people,’ said Nakor. ‘First they would have to get past the Pantathians, either by winning their confidence or by brute force. If they reached the matrix, few magic-using demons or lesser magicians, or even very well schooled priests, could have begun to understand the complexities of this lock, or trap, or however you think of it.’

Miranda said, ‘Only Pug.’

Pug was silent for a moment, then said, ‘No. It was Magnus. I sensed the lock, but only assumed there was a trap involved. By the time I returned from the Academy, he had already easily won past barriers that would have proved a challenge to me.’

Magnus began, ‘I’m not certain—’

Miranda cut him off. ‘That was no hollow praise. I have all your mother’s memories and skills, Magnus, but you … you are the best of both of us, I mean both your mother and father.’

Nakor chuckled. ‘You’ve long denied it, boy, but in the end, you are beyond us. All you need is a little more experience and age.’

‘I find it incongruous to be laughing in the midst of all this chaos,’ said Magnus.

Suddenly there was an explosion of sound, as if they were being slammed by a hurricane of wind. ‘Don’t look,’ reminded Nakor.

‘What was that?’ asked Pug.

‘I think that was air returning.’ After a moment, Nakor added, ‘The explosion … I don’t know if I can describe what I’m seeing, Pug. Miranda?’

After a pause she said, ‘It was more than just light and heat. I felt … shifts, changes … displacement. I’ve never encountered its like. I’m not certain if it’s even what we would call magic.’

Nakor said, ‘It’s not a trick, or at least not one I can imagine. Everything changed.’

‘How?’ Pug asked.

‘You can open your eyes now, but slowly.’

Pug did so and at first his eyes watered and everything was blurred. A strange vibration, high-pitched and fast, almost a buzzing, could be felt through the soles of his sandals. He blinked away tears and found himself semi-crouched within the energy bubble his son had erected an instant before the explosion.

Beyond the shell everything was white to the point of there being no horizon, no sky above or ground below, nor sea beyond a shore. As his eyes adapted to the brilliance he could see faint hints of variation, and after another moment faint shifts in the whiteness, as if colours were present beyond the boundary of the bubble.

They floated above the bottom of a crater thirty or forty feet below them. The only remnants of earth and rock were beneath their feet, encased in Magnus’s sphere.

‘Are you holding us up, son?’

‘The spell is, and we’d better be ready for a rude landing when it releases. I can’t keep this sphere intact and move it.’

‘Maybe I can help,’ said Miranda. She closed her eyes and the sphere slowly settled to the bottom of the crater.

Everything was still confounding to the senses as energies continued to cascade around them, every visible spectrum shifting madly outside the bubble. Pug pushed Magnus’s protective sphere gently and it expanded enough that they could all stand easily. After a few more minutes passed, details in the crater wall became recognizable. Slowly, the blinding light faded and varying hues of ivory, palest gold, a hint of blue emerged. At last the brilliance disappeared.

They blinked as their eyes adjusted to natural daylight, which was dark in comparison to what they had just endured.

Pug looked around. They were perhaps fifty feet below the surface, surrounded by what appeared to be glass.

‘What happened?’ asked Miranda.

‘Someone tried to kill us,’ answered Nakor, without his usually cheerful tone. ‘We need to get out of this hole and look around.’

‘Is it safe by now?’ asked Magnus.

‘Be ready to protect yourself and we’ll find out,’ said Nakor. ‘I think it’s going to be very hot for you two.’

Magnus studied the little man for a moment, nodded once, and glanced at his father. Pug tilted his head slightly, indicating that he understood the warning and both men encased themselves in protective spells without a word exchanged.

Magnus closed his eyes for a brief moment and the sphere around them vanished. Pug knelt and touched the glass beneath his feet. ‘Odd …’

‘What?’ asked Miranda.

‘The energy … I expected it to be more … I’m not sure.’ He looked from his son to Miranda. ‘Both of you are more adept at sensing the nature of a given spell. Does this feel like just an explosion to you?’

Miranda knelt next to Pug. ‘Feel like an explosion? We lived through it; it was massive and loud.’ She touched the glass beneath them. ‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean.’

Magnus did likewise. ‘This … the explosion was the by-product.’

Nakor looked at the three kneeling magicians and said, ‘Please?’

‘The energy released was the result of a spell that wasn’t just some spell of massive destruction,’ said Magnus, standing. ‘We need to go.’

Pug waved his hands without comment. All four rose upward and floated towards the edge of the crater.

Magnus said to Nakor, ‘As best I can tell, that spell did two things. Besides obliterating everything within a fairly large radius, it also moved us to … I’m not sure where we are, but it’s not where we were when the spell was triggered.’

They reached the lip of the crater and Pug said, ‘You are right, Magnus. We are not where we were minutes ago.’

‘Where’s the sea?’ asked Miranda.

They looked to the south and where waves had lapped the shore just minutes before, only a long, sloping plain remained. To their rear there was a rising bluff and hills beyond that roughly resembled what they would have seen on the Isle of the Snake Men, but these hills were denuded of any plant life – no trees, no brush, not even a blade of grass could be seen.

The devastation was complete: nothing moved save by force of the wind. There was sand everywhere: years past this land had turned to desert. They were at the edge of a vast, deep crater, and like the crater, the land around had been fused by the blast, its surface nothing but glass of coruscating colours, as smoke, ash, and dust swirled upward, admitting narrow shafts of sunlight. The wind was blowing the smoke northward, clearing it away quickly. On this world nothing burned, for there was nothing to burn, and the rocks and sand that had been turned molten were rapidly cooling.

‘I think we’re still in the same place,’ said Nakor. ‘I mean, an analogous place, as when we travelled to Kosidri.’ Pug, Magnus, and Nakor had discovered that on the other planes of reality the worlds were identical, or at least as much as the variant conditions of that reality permitted. So wherever they were was a world similar in geography to Midkemia. ‘But I think the energy state here is going to prove troublesome soon.’

Pug nodded.

Miranda said, ‘I feel a little odd.’

Magnus said, ‘I remember how we adapted when we travelled to the Dasati realm, father.’

‘But this time it feels … different, obverse?’ said Pug.

‘A higher state than either the demon realm or Midkemia,’ agreed Miranda. ‘As if there’s too much air?’

Nakor grimaced. ‘We could be overwhelmed by it if we do not tread cautiously.’

Each fashioned a protective spell that returned a tiny bubble of protective energy around themselves, reducing the more intense energies in this world to a level their own bodies could accommodate.

‘If it’s a higher energy state,’ said Magnus, ‘we did not go into a lower realm. But a higher one. Which means—’

‘We’re in the first realm of heaven?’ suggested Miranda.

Contemplating the desolate landscape, Nakor quipped, ‘It’s obviously overrated. There’s more to offer in the demon realm.’

They were silent for a moment as they contemplated the barren world around them.

Pug looked at his son and said quietly, ‘I neglected to say thank you. Had you not returned …’

Magnus embraced him. ‘You’re my father. No matter how much I may disagree with … what we talked about … I will never leave you when you need me.’

Father and son held each other for a moment, then separated, returning their attention to the moment. Glancing at Miranda, they saw she had tears on her cheeks. She reached up and wiped them away and in an angry tone they both knew well, said, ‘Damn these memories. I know they are not mine! I know it!’ She crossed her arms across her chest. A bitter chuckle was followed by her observing, ‘Part of me remembers a time I’d have happily torn your heads from your shoulders and devoured your still-beating hearts.’ Then she glanced up and in softer tones said, ‘And part of me feels that I’ve never loved anyone more than I’ve loved you two. Only Caleb was your equal.’ This last came out a hoarse whisper.

Magnus understood his father well enough to know Pug was fighting an impulse to reach out and embrace the form of his former wife, to comfort a person who wasn’t really there. Softly he said, ‘I can’t call you Mother.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘But I never understood until now just how difficult this must be for you.’ In what was an impulsive act for the usually stoic magician, he took a step, slipped his arms around the demon in human form and held her closely for a brief moment.

When he stepped away, he saw more tears streaming down the face of the first person in life he had beheld. Powerful emotions tore through him, and he fought back the urge to say more. No matter how much he wished his mother back, alive and before him, it was nothing compared to what his father must feel. He put his hand on Pug’s shoulder and said, ‘We must make the best of a terribly confusing and awkward situation, and if we focus on what is before us, perhaps what is behind us will distance itself enough that we may develop new ways of seeing each other.’

Nakor grinned. ‘That’s very nice, but have you noticed someone is coming towards us?’

All looked in the direction Nakor indicated and saw the landscape was starting to resolve itself. Approaching them was a familiar figure clad in a black robe, wearing sandals bound upon his legs with whipcord, and using a staff as a walking stick. His hair was black, his posture youthful and his stride vigorous, as he had been in his prime.

All four were momentarily stunned and finally Pug put voice to their incredulity. ‘Macros!’

The figure held up his hand. ‘No, though I resemble him, no doubt.’

Miranda and Nakor exchanged glances and the short gambler asked, ‘You have Macros’s memories?’

‘No,’ said the figure.

‘Who are you?’ asked Magnus.

‘I have no name. You may think of me as a guide.’

‘Why do you look like my father?’ asked Miranda.

The guide shrugged slightly, in a perfect mimicry of Macros. ‘That is a mystery, for I am by nature formless in the mortal realm. I can only speculate, but my conclusion is that I appear to be who you expected me to be. I am sent by One whose Will is Action, but I needed to be in a form with which you could converse.’

The four exchanged quick glances, then Nakor laughed. ‘It is true that for most of the last hundred or more years I’ve expected to see that rascal’s hand behind every turn and twist of our existence.’

The others nodded slowly. Pug said, ‘Well, then, guide. What should we call you?’

‘Guide serves well enough,’ he answered.

‘Where exactly are we?’ asked Magnus.

‘The world of Kolgen.’ Guide pointed to the south. ‘Once a majestic ocean lapped these shores, now there is only blight and desolation.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Pug.

‘Walk, for we have a long journey if you are ever to return home,’ said the likeness of Macros.

‘Before we begin,’ said Miranda, ‘can you explain how you resemble my father down to the tiniest detail?’

Guide paused, and smiled exactly as the now-dead Black Sorcerer had in life. ‘Certainly,’ he said with another pause, again exactly as Macros would have. ‘We exist in a realm of energy, we who serve the One. We are forever in the Bliss, part of the One until we are needed and we are then given form and substance, given an identity commensurate with our purpose; to ensure efficiency, all memories of previous service in that role are returned. So, currently, I think of myself as “I”, a single entity, but that will dissipate when I rejoin the One in the Bliss.

‘I am only an abstraction of energy, a being of light and heat if you will, a thing of mind alone. Hence, the One gives me the ability to … suggest to your mortal minds any shape and quality suitable to sustain communications.’

‘But we are not mortal,’ said Nakor, indicating Miranda and himself.

‘You are more mortal than you might guess,’ returned Guide, ‘for it is of the mind I speak, and while your fundamental being is demonic, your minds are human, more so each day. Moreover, your demonic bodies are things of flux energy, imperfect imitations of beings of the higher plane.

‘And you are becoming that which you appear to me, with limits, of course. You would never mate with humans and produce offspring, nor would you be subject to their illnesses and injuries, and those who battle demon-kind can still destroy you, returning your essence to the Fifth Circle.’ He lowered his voice and seemed to be attempting kindness. ‘Nor do you have a mortal soul. Those beings whose memories you possess have travelled on to the place where they have been judged and are now on their path to the next state of existence, or have returned to the Wheel of Life for another turn.

‘In short, you will never truly be Miranda and Nakor. But you’re as close as any being will ever get.’

Turning, he began to walk away. ‘Please, we must travel far and while time here is not measured as it is in the mortal realm, it is still passing and the longer you are away from Midkemia, the more the One’s Adversary stands to gain.’

Pug and the others fell in next to Guide and Pug said, ‘Then I believe you had best tell us in your own fashion what it is we need to know, but could you begin with why we are here?’

‘That’s the simple part,’ said Guide. ‘You fell into a trap. The Adversary has been waiting a very long time to rid Midkemia of the four of you. To do it in one moment, that approaches genius.’

‘This Adversary you speak of,’ said Nakor. ‘Who or what is it?’

The guide paused. ‘It will be easier if we wait on questions until I finish explaining to you what has befallen you. You are vital to what transpires, but still just a tiny part of the whole. To leap to attempting the larger picture might confuse.

‘You are stranded in a reality that is not your own, and have no easy means of returning. You are, not to put too fine a point on it, marooned here.’

He kept walking and as the four companions glanced at one another, they hurried to keep up with his brisk pace. Pug overtook him in three strides and said, ‘If we are marooned, where are we going?’

‘To find one who may facilitate your release from this place.’

‘But I thought you said this world was naught but blight and desolation?’

In a perfect duplication of Macros’s smile, Guide said, ‘This is true, but that doesn’t mean it’s unoccupied.’

Pug considered that for a moment, but decided that among the thousands of questions demanding answers, the meaning of that riddle was one he could wait for.

They forged across the bed of a long-absent sea. As they trudged across the rough channels and gullies, Miranda asked, ‘Why are we walking?’

Guide said, ‘You have a better alternative?’

With an all-too-familiar smug smile, she glanced at Pug, then vanished.

A hundred yards ahead they heard her scream.

Scrambling as best they could across the broken, sun-baked sands of the dry sea bottom, they reached her quickly, finding her sitting up, a look of confusion on her face as she held her hands to her temples.

‘That which you call magic,’ said Guide, ‘does not respond here as it would in your own world.’

‘But what of the protective spells we employed?’ asked Magnus.

‘Did it not occur to you that it was surprisingly easy to create those protections against this world’s energy states?’

Magnus nodded. ‘Now that you mention it, it was easy.’

Nakor chuckled as he and Pug helped Miranda to her feet. ‘Different energy states, my friends,’ said the bandy-legged little man. ‘If you light a small pot of oil, you get a flame to read by. If you refine and distil that same oil and light it, you get a really big, hot flame.’

‘In time you should be able to learn to temper your arts to transport yourself from place to place,’ said Guide. ‘But we do not have the time for you to learn. Rather, you do not have that time. So, we walk.’ With that he began walking again.

Pug asked Miranda, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Besides feeling supremely foolish, yes.’ She glanced up and saw the concern in his eyes. ‘Sorry.’

Pug felt conflicting urges to say different things at once, paused, then nodded.

Time passed and they forged on. Guide provided illumination as they traversed the broken seabed. He created bridges as they crossed massive trenches in the former ocean’s floor, and seemingly kept them alive by some magic that rid them of need for food or water.

But they did need to rest, even if only for short periods, while they regained strength rapidly in this high-energy-state universe.

During one such rest, Pug asked, ‘Are we to know why you’re here?’

Guide answered, ‘I am here as willed by One.’

Pug couldn’t help but laugh. ‘When I was a Tsurani Great One on Kelewan, my every command was answered by “Your Will, Great One”, ah … for some reason this strikes me as humorous.’

A great wave of sadness swept over Pug as he remembered Kelewan. Since his actions had destroyed that world and countless lives on it, he had effectively walled off the profoundly deep sorrow and guilt associated with that terrible decision. Yet from time to time, usually when he was alone, it would return to haunt him.

‘How are you able to keep hunger and thirst at bay for us?’ asked Nakor. ‘It’s a very good trick.’

Guide shrugged. ‘The universe is aware, on many levels. My perceptions and knowledge are vastly different to your own. What I need to know, I know. What I do not know, I do not know.’ He shrugged. ‘You are mortals, and in need of food and water, so I provide such …’ He waved his hand as if the concept was alien to him and difficult to explain. ‘I just make it so, you are fed; you have drunk … what is needed.’ Then he opened his eyes slightly and said, ‘Ah, curiosity!’

‘You have none?’ asked Magnus.

‘I am created for a purpose,’ said Guide.

Nakor laughed. ‘We all are.’

‘But my purpose is unique and short-lived. Once I start you on your way home, I will have completed my task and cease to exist in this form,’ said Guide. ‘I will return to the One and rejoin the Bliss.’

‘Who sent you to find us?’ asked Magnus.

‘The One,’ said Guide with a tone that suggested it was obvious.

‘Why here?’ asked Nakor, fixing Guide with a narrow gaze. ‘Why not on Midkemia before we destroyed an entire city and the best part of a race?’

Guide cocked his head for a second as if considering. ‘I do not know.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and said, ‘Rider.’

‘What rider?’ asked Miranda.

‘Rider. She was sent by the One to warn you.’ He pointed at Pug. ‘But she was … prevented.’ His face became a mask of confusion. He stood up. ‘Come. We must hurry. Time grows short.’

‘How much farther?’ asked Magnus.

‘Why the sudden hurry?’ asked Miranda.

‘I can only know what I am to know.’ Guide now looked completely confused. ‘Your questions will … be answered as it is … as the One …’ Frustration overcame him and he almost shouted, ‘I do not know why these things are so! I am only a means of …’ He continued in an almost alien voice, ‘I am only a means of expression, an interpreter if you will, of a higher mind which must carefully choose how to touch you without harm. Your lack of belief in the form your minds chose … it is wearing on me. Come, I will take you to someone who may be better able to answer these and other questions.’

They trudged along and Pug said, ‘When we pulled Macros back from his attempted ascension into godhood, I remember him describing his experience as seeing all of vast creation through the knothole of a fence, and as we pulled him back his perspective shifted and he saw less and less.’

‘Yes?’ asked Miranda.

‘He later explained that the other aspect of the experience was that the closer he got to that fence, the less of his “self” remained; as he ascended to godhood, identity faded as consciousness expanded.’

Guide said, ‘Yes. The One could simply impart knowledge, but it would overwhelm you. For you to know, but to be squatting on the side of a hill, unable to move because your mind was damaged, that would serve no one.’

‘That’s hard to deny!’ said Nakor.

They moved as best they could over the broken terrain and at times found themselves facing seemingly insurmountable obstacles, for they were moving down a miles-long slope that wended its way through once-undersea mountains. Yet Guide always seemed to find a way, even if it was treacherous.

Finally they crested a rise and he pointed. ‘There!’

In the distance they could see a vast table of land, surrounded by deep trenches. Pug said, ‘Those crevasses are vast. Can you fashion us a bridge that far?’

Before Guide could answer, Magnus said, ‘I think I can get us there.’

Miranda looked at him. ‘Are you certain? I found the short excursion I attempted very painful.’

‘I’ve been attuning myself as best I’m able to the energy states here …’ Magnus paused and they both knew he had almost called her ‘Mother’, and a smile was exchanged. ‘I doubt it will be pain-free, but I think I can manage this one attempt without incapacitating myself. As I can see our destination, much of the risk is abated.’

Pug and Miranda glanced at one another, then at Nakor, who nodded. ‘It’s been a long time since I tried to forbid you a risk,’ said Pug. He took Magnus’s hand as Miranda and Nakor joined hands, and Nakor grabbed Magnus’s arm. Pug gripped Guide’s arm with his free hand and found it unexpectedly cold.

Suddenly they were standing on a plateau miles from where they had been a moment before. Pug looked at his son and saw Magnus’s expression was pained, and perspiration was beading on his forehead. His pale complexion was drained of what little colour he normally possessed. He shook his head slightly and said, ‘I’ll be fine in a moment. If we have to do it again, I can adjust. This is not the easiest adjustment I’ve made, but it’s not the most difficult either.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Nakor, then he pointed past Guide. ‘Who’s that?’

Guide didn’t look, but said, ‘That is Pepan the Thrice-cursed.’ Then he vanished without a word.

The being left before them was as alien a creature as any of them had met, and in demonic form Nakor and Miranda had met many. He, if gender could be determined, was as miserable-looking a creature as any had seen. His head was three times the size of a normal man’s, but the body was slender and seemed barely able to hold it up. A bulbous stomach protruded so far that only the lower portions of spindly legs where it sat could be seen, and the arms were almost withered.

His face was long, from an almost hairless pate to a long, broad jaw, and a nose covered in pustules and scabs was at its centre. Rheumy eyes of pale blue surrounded by jaundiced yellow shed a constant stream of tears and heavy lips generated a constant flow of froth and bubbles.

Miranda said softly, ‘I’ve seen worse.’

Nakor said, ‘I’m older than you. No you haven’t.’

The creature seemed unaware of them until Pug ventured closer. ‘You are Pepan?’

‘That’s what Guide said,’ snapped the creature angrily. ‘Do you see anyone else here?’

Nakor pressed forward, his insatiable curiosity pushing aside other considerations. ‘Tell us why you are called the Thrice-cursed.’

‘Listen and be wiser for it, mortal!’ shouted the creature. ‘In this world once was I a man among men, a king among kings, a being of power and wealth, wisdom and beauty. Did I sit upon thrones and did subjects tremble at my beauty? Yes! Did I possess all that any man might desire? Yes!’

Pug saw Miranda about to interrupt and slightly shook his head to indicate he wanted to hear this tale: perhaps there was knowledge to be gained here.

‘In my arrogance I did conspire to elevate myself beyond the wealth and power I had, to rise to the heavens and seek a place among the gods.’

Nakor grinned, and nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘In my vanity, I did create engines of destruction unmatched in the history of my people. Nations I conquered to gather mighty armies around me: those who were vanquished served or died.

‘Then in the tenth age of my reign, I came here to the Tent of Heaven, and led my hordes up the Path of the Gods, to the top of the tallest mountain on this world!’

Nakor glanced around, for they were on what had once been an undersea plateau. ‘I see no mountain, Pepan.’

‘Washed away by the ocean, for no sooner had I approached the Gates of Heaven to demand my due as the newest of the gods, they picked up the entire mountain and thousands of my soldiers fell screaming to their deaths. Then, for my vanity, the gods cursed me by washing away all knowledge of me, sweeping my people into the sea with me, while I was chained to that very mountain. I listened to their screams of terror and pleas for mercy, until there was only silence.

‘Then I knew the price of vanity, perhaps the worst of all sins, for alone I waited, eons passing as the waters wore away the very rocks to which I was chained. The sea became my home and I abided.

‘Above, time passed; I had but scant knowledge of it, only suggestions carried to me on fickle tides. A strange scrap of fabric, unlike any I had beheld, drifted close and I seized it. I wondered who had woven it and what manner of creature now walked in the world above me. I treasured that fabric until the salt of the water had faded it and the very fabric wore away.

‘Once a ship passed directly above, blocking out the faint light of the sun as it passed. I wondered who voyaged upon it, from whence they came and where they were bound.

‘As the mountain wore away, sections sheared off and I was carried deeper into the depths, until no light reached me from above.’

Miranda said, ‘That is far more than three curses; that’s damnation without ending.’

‘But there you are wrong, mortal!’ shouted Pepan. ‘For after a time I found peace, an acceptance of my lot. I was content to let my mind go void, to simply be in harmony with the rhythms of the sea.

‘Angry gods at last took note of my peace, and chose then to inflict the second of my curses. A day, a month, mere moments, I do not know how long passed, for time had become meaningless to one dwelling blind in the depths of the sea, but suddenly the waters receded and I was again in the light and air! Fire rained down from above, and majestic clouds of flame and ash tore across the heavens as war on a scale unimagined by mortals raged across the land. Engines of destruction vast beyond my imagining, making my proud fleet seem like mere toys, cruised the skies, delivering obliteration to all below.

‘Mortals in armour unlike any seen before hurried across broken lands with lances of red light and fire-belching engines on treads, destroying all before them.

‘Then hordes of demons appeared, sweeping mortals away as a scythe shears grain, and answering them was a host of angels, swords aflame, horns sounding notes so pure that I was reduced to weeping at the first note.

‘This world was torn asunder and oceans vanished as energies hotter than a star burned across the lands. And yet I abided.’

He fell silent for a moment, and to the four travellers it was unclear if he was merely organizing his thoughts or experiencing some emotion at the memory of this unbelievable narrative.

‘So, in sum, my second curse was to watch any shred of a thing I might have loved destroyed in the war between gods and men.’ His voice softened. ‘A war I began. Ages passed and my third curse was made apparent.’

‘What is that?’ asked Nakor.

‘Upon this world remain scattered remnants of nations, which I gathered.’ He pointed to the assembled bits and scraps he had cobbled together to make a shelter. A bit of something served as a chair; there was also an ancient-looking table. Shreds of fabric had been woven together into a quilt. Pepan himself wore a simple breechclout that was revealed when he finally stood up.

‘For uncounted days I wandered, gathering what I could find, always to return here.’

‘Why here?’ asked Magnus. ‘There must be more hospitable places on this world.’

‘Not really,’ answered Pepan. ‘And this is where the gods left me. This is where I am to abide. I no longer rebel but I do question.’ Raising his eyes to the sky, he shouted, ‘I was a sinner, All Father! I admit my transgressions, All Mother! I sinned most of my days!’ His voice broke. ‘But not every day. I lived but a few score years, yet I have paid for my sins for an eternity.’ With a sob, he whispered, ‘Enough, please.’

Just as Pug and the others were verging on sympathy for the abject creature, Pepan erupted in a howl of rage. ‘And my third curse, most hateful of all, making me the gatekeeper!’

‘Gatekeeper?’ asked Nakor.

‘See you then, mortal, that the ultimate jest piled upon me by the gods is that when those who wander this destroyed world, or who fall here from some other realm, when at last they find their way here, I am obliged to help them on their way. I cannot, even out of lonely spite, keep them here to mitigate my endless sorrow through pleasant discourse, nor may I exchange tales of lives spent in other realms, but rather I must endure solitude.

‘For upon your arrival, I began to feel pain, and with each passing minute the pain increases. It will not cease until I send you on your way, returning to my isolation. I may not end the suffering by my own hand or the hand of another,’ he sobbed. ‘Alone on this world I am immortal and indestructible.’

‘Why endure the pain?’ asked Magnus. ‘Why tell us your tale? Why not just hurry us along?’

‘The pain is a price worth paying to interrupt my loneliness,’ Pepan said, weeping openly. ‘Now it must end.’

He waved his hands in precise pattern and a vortex appeared in the air. It was obviously an opening of some sort, but as they readied themselves to leap through it, Pepan held up his hand. ‘Wait!’

‘What?’ asked Pug.

Pepan closed his eyes, tears now streaming down his cheeks. ‘Each of you must follow a different path.’

‘We must split up?’ asked Miranda, obviously not happy with the idea.

‘Apparently,’ said Pug. ‘If someone laid a trap for the four of us, then it’s literally set for the four of us.’

‘It waits for all of us,’ said Nakor. ‘Yes!’ His expression turned gleeful. ‘You do not spring a trap on soldiers when only the scout is there: you wait for all of them to gather.’

Pepan’s expression now contorted into one of abject pain. He waved a hand and the size and colour of the vortex changed, growing smaller and tinged with orange energy. ‘You!’ he said, pointing at Nakor.

Without a word, Nakor leapt into the vortex.

Again Pepan waved his hand and the colour of the vortex changed to a faint, shimmering blue. ‘You,’ he said, pointing at Miranda.

She glanced at Pug and Magnus, hesitating for a brief moment, then with a quick nod she leaped into the swirling air and vanished.

Again the colour changed, this time to a brilliant white, and Pepan pointed at Magnus. Without hesitation, Pug’s son jumped into the magic portal.

One more wave and Pepan said, ‘I am to tell you one thing, magician.’

‘What?’ asked Pug. He watched the vortex turn dark until it became a black maw.

‘This is the beginning of the end. You will meet your companions again, but only at the most dire moment, when you must all be ready to sacrifice everything to save everything.’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘Go!’ commanded the wretched creature, and Pug obeyed.

He ran and jumped, crouching as he entered a cone of darkness.

• CHAPTER TWO •
Confrontation

SHIPS DOTTED THE HORIZON.

Hal stood on the battlements of the royal palace at Rillanon, at its heart still a castle, but one which had not seen conflict for centuries. This portion of the ancient rampart, a large, flat rooftop of thick stonework, had once supported war engines defending outer walls long torn down to expand the royal demesne. A fortification that once hosted massive ballista had been converted to a garden, one lush with flowers as summer faded. The stone merlons had been replaced in centuries past with a stone balustrade cleverly carved to be both strong and graceful. Yet the footing beneath Hal’s boots felt as solid as the palisades of Crydee Castle had. And given the forces gathering below, he wished those long-gone outer walls were once again in place here in Rillanon, with ballistas and trebuchets instead of fading blooms.

He let out a slow breath. It was hard to find ease, despite the rigours of the past few weeks fading into memory as troubles associated with fleeing Roldem with the Princess Stephané had been replaced by troubles on a far grander scale. His personal distress over knowing he would never have the woman he loved had been made to seem a petty concern in the face of the threats now confronting his nation.

Yet he was constantly haunted by her memory, along with his friend Ty Hawkins, who had spirited her away from her home and brought her safely to the Kingdom. All of it seemed unreal at times, yet other times it was vivid. Every detail of Stephané was etched in his memory: the grace of her movement, the laughter as she found delight in small things, her worry for those she loved. He struggled to let go, even though he knew that to wallow was to prolong the pain.

He glanced around, and saw his brother Martin was looking his way. Martin inclined his head: a wordless gesture asking if he was all right. Hal returned a slight nod. Their brother Brendan, standing beside Martin, had his attention fixed on the ships in the harbour. Hal turned his attention that way as well. Nearby stood Lord James, Duke of Rillanon, and his grandson Jim Dasher.

Rillanon’s harbour was south of the palace, at the bottom of the hill. Sails had been appearing on all quarters of the horizon for days: hundreds of ships from every port on the Sea of Kingdoms. This ancient island nation had seen fleets such as these, but not in living memory. War had not touched this soil, the ancient home of Hal’s ancestors, in centuries. The prime motive for conquering the surrounding islands and nearby coasts for Hal’s forebears had been fatigue from continuous clashes with minor warlords and raiding clans across these waters. The constant need to defend the home island had turned a relatively peaceful community of fishermen and farmers into the most effective army north of the Empire, creating the second largest nation on this world.

It had been a triumph of the Kingdom of the Isles that this city and the king’s palace could do without the massive defence works, as the king’s navy for centuries had become ‘the wall around Rillanon’. Now that navy was divided. No man could look out upon that sea, and the many sails upon it, and judge just who they were defending: Edward, Oliver, or some other faction. That irony was not lost on Hal.

He couldn’t find ease because he could smell war coming on the afternoon breeze. And unlike the struggle against Kesh, this was the war to be most feared by any noble in the Kingdom: a civil war.

Hal knew the Kingdom’s history well. A determined ruler named Dannis had united all the clans of the island, and his descendant, Delong, had been the first conDoin ruler to establish a foothold on the mainland. After the sack of Bas-Tyra – a rival village that had risen in power to challenge Rillanon – he had not returned to the island stronghold, but had forced the ruler of that city state to swear fealty to Rillanon in exchange for his life and the lives of his followers, creating the Kingdom of the Isle’s first mainland duchy and elevating Bas-Tyra to the rank of second most important city after the capital. That first victory had led to many others, as Rillanon and Bas-Tyra’s combined might had overwhelmed Salador and the southern coast. Only the Eastern Kingdoms, with the help of Roldem, had stemmed that early Kingdom expansion.

Now the ruler of that city stood to Hal’s right asking, ‘What is Oliver thinking?’ Duke James of Rillanon looked at both Hal and the man on Hal’s left, James’s grandson, Jim Dasher Jamison, head of the Crown’s Intelligence Service.

‘He’s not thinking,’ Jim said sourly. ‘Or he’s thinking that some here might object to a foreign-born king, so he’s brought along a few friends.’

Hal glanced at his two brothers, and Martin nodded. Hal knew what Martin also understood: somehow the three conDoin brothers were about to take a part in all this, but what that part would be had not yet been revealed.

The ‘friends’ were the bulk of the army of Maladon and Simrick, bolstered by a substantial number of levies and mercenary companies which were now encamped, as they had been for a month, beyond the walls of the city. The old military grounds lay to the east of the harbour, having once been the staging area for Rillanon’s conquering armies waiting to board ship. Not in a generation had they been used as originally intended, having been converted to a shanty town and impromptu market. Oliver had cleared the area, displacing many of the poor and working poor, and had camped his army there.

Many polite messages had been exchanged between those inside and outside the walls, and the longest interregnum in the history of the Kingdom was underway. By tradition, the Congress of Lords met for the election of the new king three days after the dead king’s internment in the vault of his ancestors.

But for the first time in history, more than a month had passed since the death of a king without the Congress of Lords being formally convened. One excuse or another had been provided, and each faction negotiated furiously behind closed doors, over quiet suppers, or in dark back alleys, but everyone knew exactly what was really taking place: every claimant to the throne was desperately seeking a resolution to the succession without losing their position and without plunging the nation into a civil war it could ill afford. And for the time being, those two goals seemed mutually exclusive.

The senior priests of the Temple of Ishap in Rillanon, the most venerated order in the world, would formally conduct the ceremony, but only when summoned by the Congress to do so. Since the ascension of Lyam the First, no dispute had existed in the line of kings from Lyam to his nephew Borric, to Patrick, then Gregory.

Now, no heir had been proclaimed, and no clear ties by blood were forthcoming. Politics had seized the nation by the throat. Three factions had asserted themselves, all with roughly equal and valid claims, none of which was seen as compelling by those gathered on the balcony this afternoon.

The army gathered outside the city was nominally an ‘honour guard’ for Prince Oliver of the Grand Duchies of Maladon and Simrick. In terms of straight bloodline succession to the late king, he was perhaps the most entitled, his mother being the king’s sister, but she had wed the Prince of Simrick and he had been raised in the twin duchies. To most people in the Isles, that made him a foreigner.

The two other factions were the supporters of Chadwick, Duke of Ran, and those of Montgomery, Earl of Rillanon, Lord James’s first counsellor, and Hal’s distant cousin. Neither could counter Oliver’s claim, but together they could confound the Prince of Simrick’s attempt to take the throne.

Lord James sighed, looking his eighty-plus years of age. ‘If the Keshians decide to abandon the truce and sail into any port in the Kingdom save this one, they’d have nothing but a few fishing smacks and rowing boats to oppose them.’

Hal was forced to appreciate the old duke’s observation. Every warship in the royal fleet on the Kingdom Sea was in the harbour, most of the heavy ships armed with ballistae and small catapults had their weapons trained on Oliver’s army, while beyond was every city’s ducal squadron, and other ships flying the banners of noble houses. Many of those ships were contracted, ‘privateers’ barely more than pirates paid by various coastal nobles to create small zones of control in their coastal waters to extort fees from passing merchantmen. That practice over the years had created the need for the deep-water ships now employed by the navies of the Kingdom and Roldem, as well as the major trading houses in both nations. No matter how often the Crown had warned the local nobles this practice was frowned upon, they had persisted.

Hal said, ‘I trust Oliver brought a lot of gold with him, for he will be paying a great deal for those cut-throats he’s hired to leave without sacking the city for booty.’

Lord James grunted in agreement. ‘If Edward’s bunch were here …’ He let the thought go unfinished. Either Oliver would leave with his tail between his legs, or he would be forced to attack with the Prince of Krondor in residence in Rillanon. Had Edward been in the city, the chance of his being elected king as a compromise became too high for Oliver to wait. Edward had no children of his own, nor was he likely to, but he could name the heir and, after things had calmed down, abdicate, and Oliver knew he had no chance of the crown if Edward named anyone else as heir.

Edward and the western lords had ridden from Krondor for the Congress, but once word reached them of Oliver’s landing on the Isle of Rillanon, they had halted, and were now encamped between Malac’s Cross and Salador. Martin and Brendan had elected to leave Prince Edward’s army and continue to the capital, to learn Hal’s fate. Hal was grateful to have them at hand.

Martin and Brendan were housed in an inn not too far from the palace and had arrived in time for Lord James’s calling his grandson and the brothers to this garden. Silence fell as the old duke was lost in thought as he studied the arriving warships, and Hal recalled his reunion with his brothers.

After commiserating for the first time together over their father’s death, talk between the brothers had turned to their various adventures, from Martin’s defence of Crydee and Ylith, and Hal’s escorting the princess to safety. The reunion had been short and bittersweet, for as relieved as Hal was to discover that their mother was alive and well, being cared for by the elves in Elvandar, the narration of their father’s death was hard for him and despite his best efforts, he found tears running down his cheeks by the time Brendan finished. Martin had heard the story before, but his eyes shone with wetness as he watched his brother endure the tale. Hal embraced his brothers for a long moment, then promised that when they could, the three of them would gather for a quiet meal to honour their father, if fate permitted, in their family’s hall in Crydee.

Hal then suffered through an awkward few moments as Martin stood before him professing his love for Lady Bethany of Carse, who returned his affection, and got halfway through a painful pleading of his cause, coupled with a declaration that he was willing to sacrifice it all for the good of the duchy and the kingdom, should Hal insist on marrying Bethany. Hal finally let his love for his younger brother win over the temptation to torment him, and said that he had no problem with Martin marrying Bethany should her father, Earl Robert of Carse, not object. The relief on Martin’s face was almost comic.

Hal did not tell Martin that his heart belonged to another anyway, a woman whom he could never aspire to wed. He just wryly observed that Martin and Bethany were a perfect match, because she did so well those things that Martin lacked skill at, like archery, hunting, and riding. Martin endured the teasing in good humour, being overwhelmed with relief and gratitude at his brother’s reaction to the news. He had left Hal muttering about how he was going to ask Beth’s father for her hand. Her father had been furious with Martin when he discovered Bethany hadn’t left for Elvandar with the other women, but had remained in Crydee to fight. He seemed to ignore his daughter’s part in all of it, and focused his wrath on Martin.

Now Hal and his brothers stood on the rooftop of the palace, contemplating the next move in this game of kingship. Jim said, ‘Everyone’s getting ready for this party. My agents in Salador tell me there’s no shortage of garrisons from the west gathered on the Fields of Albalyn.’ Those fields lay between Malac’s Cross and Salador, and were historically vital for any military conflict in the region. They were athwart the King’s Highway and no other clear passage to the town which marked the boundary between the Eastern and Western Realms was available.

‘Why would the western lords bring their garrisons?’ asked Hal.

Lord James fixed the young Duke of Crydee with an expression that was a mix of amusement and pity. He nodded once to Jim who said, ‘In case there’s a war. Edward ordered the garrisons to accompany him, rather than return home after the truce with Kesh.’ He let out a long sigh, as stress overtook his usual calm. ‘Edward’s many things, but a political fool is not one of them. It may be we need elect kings who have no wish to rule, for Edward would be a near-perfect monarch under which to reforge this cracked kingdom of ours.’

Hal leaned against the balustrade, his knuckles slowly turning white as he gripped harder and harder. ‘Wasn’t the last war enough for a while?’ he said slowly.

Jim glanced at his grandfather, who nodded once, then motioned for the others to leave Jim and Hal alone. When they were alone, Jim said, ‘You really don’t understand, do you?’

Hal felt tired to his bones. Without Stephané he felt empty. She was now safely in her father’s palace on Roldem, once order had been restored in Roldem, and the three conspirators behind the war had been uncovered and removed. Quietly, he said, ‘I know that I’m a duke without a duchy, that the title came to me far too many years too soon, and my mother is far enough away that I may not live to see her again. I know I spent most of the war hiding and fleeing, rather than leading men into battle, and I feel a lesser man for it.’ Jim seemed on the verge of objecting, but Hal shook his head. ‘I know I served, and I would give my life for the princess and for the Kingdom, and I took men’s lives to do it.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Yet it all feels pointless … now.’ He had been about to say ‘without Stephané’, but he knew that sounded like a whiny complaint. Besides, if anyone knew how he felt about her, it was Jim. ‘So now you have something I need to hear,’ Hal continued, ‘because men of ambition wish to rule, and men of character seem significantly absent. And I suspect that you are also about to tell me what I need to do.’

Jim was also quiet for a moment, then said, ‘You’re not a stupid man, Hal. You’re of the blood royal—’ He held up his hand to cut off the young noble. ‘Spare me the oft-repeated history of your ancestor’s pledge to absent his line from succession. It was a pretty speech: I’ve read the transcript of the entire ceremony that put Lyam on the throne, and it was vital then to prevent just the sort of mess that’s happening now, but there is no legal justification for it. I’ve asked both the court historians and the Priests of Ishap, and there is no precedent that permits the renunciation of that blood tie. Martin was free to not claim his cousin Rodric’s crown, but he could not bind unborn heirs to such a burden. You are of royal blood.

‘Had your ancestor Martin rejected his brother’s giving him the title to Crydee, and your father and his father before back to Lord Martin, all remained commoners, perhaps, that would have set a precedent. But he accepted and held the title and passed it along.’ He shrugged.

‘Are you saying I should put myself forward for king?’

‘Hardly, but I’m trying to stress to you that you are not simply a rustic noble without lands to rule, but rather a player with coins in the game.’

‘This is why it is taking Prince Edward such a very long time in getting here? Not just because Oliver’s landed his army?’

‘Edward wishes to be king less than any prince in the history of the Kingdom, but he’s being hard-pressed by the western nobles to claim the crown.’

‘Why?’ asked Hal.

‘It’s as my grandfather said. It would consolidate the western realm’s authority and strip supporters away from Chadwick and Montgomery, perhaps forcing them to broker a deal.’ Jim ran his hand over his face and Hal saw deep fatigue had taken its toll on the duke’s grandson. ‘At worst it holds off a war a while longer; at best it gives a legitimate hope to avoid bloodshed if Chadwick and Montgomery throw their weight behind Edward. With those three combined, even Oliver’s not ambitious enough to risk destroying his twin duchies in a futile attempt to seize the crown without backing. But there are a lot of “ifs” here. And it begins only if Edward can be convinced to take the crown.’ Jim smiled and some of the vigour Hal had taken for granted since first meeting him returned. ‘Edward has no sons, but he has three daughters, married to eastern nobles who could never return to their marriage beds if they didn’t support their wives’ father for the throne. It was one of Gregory’s wiser moves selecting an eastern noble to rule Krondor after the previous disasters. Those three nobles have vassals and allies who will follow them. No one of power would then support Oliver once the move to Edward began. So Edward is the perfect compromise candidate.’

‘What does this have to do with me? I’m a duchyless duke, now that Crydee is occupied by the Empire of Great Kesh.’

‘You’re still a duke,’ said Jim, ‘and you’re related to the crown by blood. Your support of Edward is vital. It will also keep you from being a false banner behind which others might rally to broker better terms for their interests. Not everyone who was trying to find you was an agent of those mad demon servants who were thrusting us into war. There are a few eastern nobles who would love to install you as a guest in their castles until you came to support Oliver, Chadwick, or Montgomery. If Crydee supported their candidate, others in the west might consider it prudent to follow suit.’

‘Father warned me eastern politics was something to be feared as much as war,’ said Hal.

‘Smart man, your father.’

Hal said nothing, still hurting inside every time he found himself asking what his father would have done in his place.

‘We need to be in Salador sooner rather than later,’ said Jim.

‘Why? Can’t I merely announce my support of Edward, then be on my way? I want to travel to Elvandar and find my mother.’

‘She is safely cared for. Nothing short of a global disaster would put her at risk in Aglaranna and Tomas’s court. No, that will have to wait until the situation here is resolved. And to support Edward, you need to journey to his side.’

‘Why does he wait?’ asked Hal.

‘He rests his forces on the Fields of Albalyn, preparing the ground for battle. He hopes for the best but is getting ready for the worst. Edward is neither a warrior nor a tactician, but he surrounds himself with the best in the west. Vanderal of Yabon is the Western Realm’s best commander with the loss of your father. Fredrick of Tyr-Sog is as fine a cavalry commander as you’ll see. If Oliver seeks to answer this question with arms, Edward prefers a battleground of his own choosing. Oliver knows he cannot sit on this island if Edward will not come to him.’ Jim smiled. ‘If he seizes the capital but the Congress does not confirm him as king, that makes him a usurper, nothing more. Edward would control the mainland and Oliver would sit here until he rots or runs out of food. The few farms on the island and all the fishermen here will not sustain that host for long. And he’ll run out of gold: he has an army only as long as he can pay it.

‘And if Edward will not come to Oliver,’ he continued, ‘Oliver must go to Edward, and that will be on the Fields of Albalyn. Edward has soldiers; he needs officers. You and your brothers need to be on your way westward as soon as we put some things here in order.’

‘Going to help Edward?’ asked Hal. ‘And am I safe in assuming people may not wish me to do so?’

‘A fair assumption,’ said Jim. ‘I’ll have men travel with you, and I’d like you to take Ty Hawkins with you, too. He’s a smart lad and may prove handy. I’ve spoken to Ty and Tal, and they’re willing.’

‘Willing?’

‘To prevent war if possible, to end it as quickly as possible, if not.’

Hal crossed his arms and leaned back against the stone balustrade. ‘Ty’s a good friend and the best swordsman I’ve ever seen. He’s no burden.’

‘Good. His patent of Kingdom nobility is a forgery.’

Hal’s eyes widened slightly.

‘But it’s a very good one, created by the best forger my predecessor could buy.’

‘Predecessor?’

Jim pointed off in the direction his grandfather had taken.

‘The duke?’

‘Few know the truth about my family, and how our connections wend their way past rank, class, even nationality,’ said Jim. ‘It seems to be an every-other-generation sort of thing, really. The first Lord James …’ Jim got a far-off look in his eyes and he turned to stare out at the gathering fleet. ‘Did you know he was a thief, just a boy, yet an accomplished rogue by any measure, who was raised by Prince Arutha to become first his squire, but eventually became Duke of Krondor and was then sent off with the prince’s son, King Borric, to rule the nation as Duke of Rillanon?’

‘No,’ said Hal. ‘Most of the history I do know is from books in my father’s library.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Ashes, now, I expect.’ He looked at Jim. ‘Every other generation?’

‘My great-grandfather, named for Prince Arutha, was by all reports an honourable man, resolute and fearless, but by nature much more of an administrator than any sort of blackguard. You really do need to be something of a scoundrel to do what we do, we Jamisons.’

When Jim let out a deep sigh, Hal could feel the fatigue in the older man’s bones. ‘You could use a spot of rest.’

‘I could spend what remains of my life resting,’ said Jim. ‘But that may not come, should Oliver and his friends below take matters in hand. My great-grandfather had a brother a year younger than himself, by the name of Dashel Jamison. He rejected rank and office: some say because he was by nature a very mean-spirited bastard, but we in the family know he did it to honour a pledge to a woman he loved.’ Jim’s expression hovered halfway between fond remembrance and regret. A slight smile moved his lips for a brief instant, then he said, ‘Men do very foolish things for love, don’t they?’

Hal thought of Stephané and felt his heart turn to lead. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘we do.’

‘Dash, as my great uncle was known, became a businessman of some stature and wealth in Krondor, but what was known by few was that he was also the leader of a large gang of thieves known as the Mockers. He bore the title of the Upright Man.’

Hal said, ‘Those names I know. The legend of the Upright Man and the Mockers reaches out to the Far Coast.’

‘His son Dasher, whose name I bear, was another of those generations who was skipped when it came to bloody work. He almost lost control of the Mockers. And as he had no sons, as his nephew I had to step in and act on behalf of the family.’

‘So, you’re the Upright Man of Krondor?’

‘Until recently. I’ve placed another in that position to assume my responsibilities. What turned out to be the same in my great-great-grandfather, the first Lord James’s, time is true today: a gang of thieves can be very handy in the world of spying.’

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ asked Hal.

Jim shrugged. ‘I’m not certain I know.’ He continued to gaze out over the sea. ‘I’ve spent half my life here and half in Krondor and half all over the world.’

Hal chuckled. ‘That’s three halves.’

Jim didn’t smile. ‘I know. That’s how it feels.’ He was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Why am I telling you anything? You’re important, Hal. Maybe not in ways that are clear, but there are things in motion, undertakings by men of ambition and power, and the best I can pray for is we somehow get Edward on the throne. If that happens, from that moment forward his life will be at risk every minute of every day.’

‘Treason?’

Jim nodded. ‘Slip something into Edward’s wine, or have him fall from his horse, before a clear line of succession can be achieved, and Oliver is back out there with his army within a week, and Chadwick and Montgomery are back inside the palace bargaining with anyone who will promise a vote in the Congress of Lords.’

‘What has that to do with me?’

‘As you’ve observed more than once, young Hal, you are a duke without a duchy. Oh, Edward will eventually wrest it back from Kesh, for they have no real use for the Far Coast, and you can go back and try to govern, though with a population of fractious refugees from the Keshian Confederates now herding, farming, and mining your duchy. But that may prove more of a challenge than herding cats. Send one of your brothers and as much of a garrison as you can scrape together, and go very light on taxes and in a generation or so you’ll have something resembling organization in the region. I’ll try to have Edward forgo Crown taxes for a while so you can feed your brother’s little army.’

‘Martin’s little army? Shouldn’t it be my little army?’

‘No, you need to stay close to Edward.’

‘Why? He’s got your grandfather and you, and there must be others loyal to the Crown, no matter who wears it.’

‘There are, but my grandfather may not be here much longer. It’s hard to know in my family; as often as not we conspire to get ourselves killed before we meet a quiet death in bed. And I …’ Jim closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I am used up. The burden of trying to live up to a family legend that grows with each passing generation, I guess. Truth to tell, I do not know how talented the original Lord James was. By any objective measure he was a genius, but was he the genius portrayed in the histories?

‘My burden, my flaw of character, is to match myself against him. As a child, when my father couldn’t hear, I’d call myself “Jimmyhand” because I could never remember the “the”.’ He leaned forward, both hands on the balustrade, and took a deep breath. ‘Oceans smell different, you know?’

Hal nodded. ‘Far Coast is … damp: the wind comes from the west constantly and we get that salt-and-fish smell. Here …’

Jim laughed. ‘A lot of flowers in these gardens.’

Hal laughed with him. ‘But down in the city it’s still sweet.’

‘Which one is better?’

Hal thought. ‘This one, but not here.’

‘Roldem?’

Hal stayed silent.

Jim put his hand on Hal’s shoulder. ‘There’s someone in Roldem I miss as well.’

‘Lady Franciezka?’

Jim nodded.

‘A remarkable woman,’ said Hal. He and Ty had sheltered for a while under the lady’s protection as they got ready to smuggle Princess Stephané out of Roldem and away from a forced marriage. ‘What is this all going to come to?’ he wondered.

Jim said, ‘If we play our part, we shall gather on the Fields of Albalyn soon, where a truce can be forged that will permit Edward to enter this city safely, and he can be acclaimed by the Congress of Lords as king. And then we can set about restoring order in the Kingdom. And that’s what you need to concern yourself with, my lord Duke of Crydee. There are few men of rank in this nation I would hand a sword and ask them to stand behind the king, but you are one of them. If Edward survives more than a few months before someone decides his rule has lasted too long, then we may look to the future.’ Jim lowered his head.

‘There’s something else? What?’

‘Everything,’ answered Jim. ‘Those three murderous creatures that plunged us into wholesale war with Kesh, had but one ambition: to create chaos, and in that they succeeded in grand fashion. In all things in this life, magic gives me the most to fear, for you need other magic to battle it. We’ve long allied ourselves with people who seem to be of good heart and intent, but I …’

‘You hate leaving things to others,’ finished Hal.

‘Yes,’ admitted Jim. ‘Another flaw of character, and probably why I’m so sick at heart and worn out by all this; I would wager there’s no man alive who has travelled more between Krondor, Rillanon, and Roldem than me.’ He released his hold on the balustrade. ‘We have more to discuss, but some other time. I could do with a meal before tackling the more prickly matter of politics. Join me?’

‘Certainly. Can my brothers come as well?’

‘Of course. There’s much we need to keep between ourselves, but there are many things it would be well for all the conDoin brothers to know.’

Hal smiled.

Jim put his hand on Hal’s shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘You realize that you are the only three males left alive who bear that name.’ He conveniently neglected to include the magician, Pug, who was a conDoin by adoption, but who had renounced his allegiance to the Kingdom years before.

Hal said, ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way.’

‘For reasons that will become clear, I am having the officials in the court refer to you as Duke Henry, but your brothers will henceforth be called Princes Martin and Brendan. I want these conniving nobles to be reminded of just who you are.’

Hal said nothing, but as he and Jim entered the palace, he wondered, But who are we?

It was a sombre meal despite repeated attempts on the part of Duke James to liven the mood with a series of humorous anecdotes and stories. People would chuckle at the appropriate moments, smile and nod, then fall back into silence. Finally, as the meal drew to an end, silence engulfed the room.

The three brothers from the Far Coast were seated at the table with Lord James, Jim, several of the duke’s closest advisors, various ladies of the court, and attendants. The other addition to the table was Ty Hawkins, son of Talwin Hawkins, a former tribesman from the mountains called the High Fastness in the Eastern Kingdoms. History and circumstance had propelled young Talon of the Silver Hawk into the cauldron that was international politics, and he had emerged a man of many identities.

As had his son. Ty Hawkins, son of Eye of the Blue-Winged Teal and a nameless soldier of Olasko, adopted by Tal and loved as his own, was by nature and training his father’s son. By an odd quirk of circumstance, he resembled his adopted father, with vivid blue eyes and a lithe frame and whipcord strength. The most striking difference was his sandy-blonde hair, contrasting with his father’s near-black. But like many boys, he had adopted so many of his father’s mannerisms and expressions. At times it was impossible to remember Tal was not his true father.

Jim watched Ty in conversation with Hal and found it ironic that the man he most trusted to protect the royal cousin was not even a true citizen of the Kingdom. Still, both father and son had provided valuable service to the Kingdom, Roldem, and occasionally the Conclave of Shadows.

It was the duke who spoke loud enough for the entire table to hear clearly. ‘If I may …’ Everyone fell silent. He looked around the table and said, ‘It dawns on me that with the exception of young Hawkins here, our families are intimately linked, while we are still relative strangers to one another.’ He raised his goblet of wine in the direction of the three brothers. ‘You three are the last of the conDoin line. While others have royal blood, only you three carry the name. My grandson and I descend from a name far less noble – Jamison – founded by a rogue and scoundrel, raised up to nobility by your many-greats-uncle. Both put two things above all else: duty and honour. Let us drink to their memory. Prince Arutha conDoin and James – the only man in history to be both Duke of Krondor and Rillanon; Jimmy the Hand!’

They drank and then the duke said, ‘This may be the end of us all, but not of the Kingdom if I have a damn thing to say about it.’

Ty nodded and shouted, ‘Hear! Hear!’

Hal looked at the old duke, glanced at his grandson, then simply asked, ‘What would you have us do?’

‘Many things, young Hal,’ said Lord James. ‘Eventually you’ll need to get married and father some sons, so that your name will continue. And perhaps one of them will rule here one day.’ He held up his hand. ‘And, one last time, Hal: no more mention of Lord Martin’s foolish, if noble, claim. It has no validity. And you need to retake your duchy. The Far Coast may be in chaos, but it is still king’s land. As I told you on the day of Gregory’s funeral, you need to find an ally, either Chadwick or Montgomery, and convince him of your loyalty to his cause in exchange for his loyalty to yours – the retaking of Crydee.’ James paused. ‘You’ll be lying, of course, because since the day that Crydee was lost, so much has changed.’ He glanced at a window, and everyone in the room knew he was speaking of Oliver’s army camped beyond the city. They had expected Prince Oliver to arrive with a retinue to press his claim, not an army. That changed everything.

As if reading their collective minds, James added, ‘And you must ensure that somehow Edward is crowned here, not that snake Oliver. We may have to persuade Edward to put himself forward as king, rather than backing Chadwick or Montgomery.’ He pointed at Hal. ‘You may be the deciding factor if he knows the fate of the Far Coast and probably much of Yabon, rests on this. You may very well be the one to tip the balance and save this nation.’

He sat back and sighed. ‘But to do any of that, you must, of course, stay alive.’

Jim nodded. ‘I’ll see that he does, Grandfather.’

Duke James put down his goblet and stood up. ‘Then I’ll bid you a good night and advise you this: outside this room there are few you can trust. Ensure you take wise counsel and be cautious of honeyed words laced with poison.’ He nodded to the brothers and Ty, then left the room.

As if by silent instruction, the other guests rose and one by one bid Hal, his brothers, and Jim good night. When the last was gone, only those five and the servants remained.

Jim looked around. ‘Another drink?’

No one objected, so the servants filled their goblets, and they partook of a particularly good wine, but the mood in the room could hardly be called festive.

Jim waved for the servants to depart. When they had gone, he said, ‘Ty knows what I’m about to share with you three.’ He glanced from face to face. ‘I am a loyal servant of the Crown, but I also work with the Conclave of Shadows, and you’d never heard of them until Ruffio told you of them for a reason. What I know, what I’m telling you, is because my loyalty, and yours at the moment, must extend beyond the borders of our nation. I tell you this because I trust the woman in charge of Roldem’s intelligence apparatus more at this moment than half the nobles in our Congress of Lords. I trust a few Keshians as well. But mostly I trust the dedication of the Conclave to the preservation of our entire world.

‘The recent conflict with Kesh was pointless.’

Martin seemed to be on the verge of speaking, but thought better of it.

‘It’s easy to get caught up in events without considering real causes. Kesh and the Kingdom had been at peace for a very long time, since a misguided adventure when they sought to take control of Krondor after the invasion of the Emerald Queen’s army. Since then there’s been the usual poking around in the Vale of Dreams and the occasional ship battle when one captain got a little too ambitious. But today we have half the Keshian army spread out along the Far Coast and mustered along their northern border to protect against a Kingdom retaliation; the Kingdom army either here on Rillanon protecting this very palace, or in Salador, or mustered in the Fields of Albalyn; most of the Kingdom fleet surrounding this island; the Keshian fleet at the bottom of the ocean; and Roldem’s fleet in a defensive position around their island. What do you think that means?’

Martin said, ‘That we went through a pointless exercise?’

Jim nodded. ‘Yes. What else?’

It was Brendan who answered. ‘No one is where they’re supposed to be.’

‘Exactly.’

Hal said, ‘So if another threat materializes, no one is in the correct position to deal with it.’

Martin calculated, then said, ‘The West.’

Jim nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I need to get back to Crydee!’ said Hal.

‘No,’ said Jim. ‘You need to stay here until my grandfather tells you to go somewhere else. Most likely to Prince Edward.’ He looked at Martin and Brendan. ‘You must return to Ylith and explain to the Keshian commander that he’s in the way and you need to go poking around. My intelligence tells me you’ve got a reasonable chance to have him agree for the right bribe – he is Keshian, after all, as long as you only go with a small patrol. If he doesn’t, you need to find a clever way to get around his objections without starting another war out there. Sneaking past his line should prove little trouble to a couple of bright lads like you.

‘But you need to get into the Far Coast, north of the garrisons at Carse and Tulan, so my best guess is somewhere near the taredhel and that city they’re building, perhaps near the dwarves.’

‘Who?’ asked Brendan. ‘Besides Keshian Dog Soldiers and elves and dwarves, who would be there?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jim. ‘That’s what I need your brother and you to find out.’

The brothers spent a long night with Jim Dasher discussing as much of the political situation with Great Kesh as could be extrapolated from what Martin and Brendan had seen during the defence of the city and after. They matched what they had seen with reports from the West that had reached the king’s court, which in this case meant Jim Dasher’s personal attention.

The long and short of it was that it was a mess. Kesh had withdrawn to the ancient borders of Bosania, so a few miles of road to the west of the City of Ylith were open to the crest of the foothills of the Grey Towers Mountains, as well as the southwest highway, leading to the Free Cities which were still currently occupied by Kesh.

By the time they were finished examining all their options and what needed to be done, the sun was rising in the east. Martin was convinced Jim Dasher was perhaps the cleverest man he had ever met, or at least the most cunning. And Martin was also convinced that Jim was correct: the entire war with Kesh and the plot behind it was designed to put both the Kingdom of the Isles and the Empire of Great Kesh at a military disadvantage in the Far West.

No military action of any kind could quickly be mounted should a threat arise in the Duchy of Crydee or the Free Cities, or the Grey Towers Mountains. It might take days, or even weeks, for news of any outbreak of trouble in the west to reach Prince Edward on the Fields of Albalyn, and if he instantly dispatched some of the western lords’ commands to answer, it would be weeks before they reached any site of trouble. And that was dependent on being able to spare men with the possibility of a military confrontation with Prince Oliver looming. By sunrise, Jim and the brothers were convinced the Far Coast and the Western Realm were as defenceless as a day-old kitten.

Martin was a student of history and it didn’t take him more than an hour of looking at suggested Keshian deployment in the Far Coast and Free Cities to come to the same conclusion as Jim. The safest location from any counterattacks from the combined armies of the Kingdom of the Isles and the Empire of Great Kesh that wasn’t on the bottom of some ocean or one of the moons, was in the centre of the Grey Towers Mountains; very close to the site of the original Tsurani rift into Midkemia.

As the cock crowed in the distance, the three looked at the now-empty carafe of coffee and wordlessly exchanged the shared opinion that they had reached a conclusion. ‘The Grey Towers,’ said Martin. ‘Neither Kesh nor the Kingdom nor the Free Cities can answer the kind of threat the Tsurani posed when they arrived …’

‘Where the Star Elves are building their city,’ continued Brendan.

Jim rose. ‘Well, the sun’s up and we’ve beaten this topic to death. It’s time to move and I think we’d best be getting on with it. It’s still before dawn in Krondor so you—’ he indicated Martin and Brendan, ‘—can still be leaving there at sunrise, once we get you there.’ To Hal he said, ‘You need some rest. You’re going to have to withstand a lot of charm, guile, and bald-faced lies before we’re done, but I’ll be at your side most of the time and your best course of action is to nod and say you’ll consider what’s been suggested. Edward’s enemies are not all on the field under arms. There are a lot of poisoned tongues still in the palace.’

Hal embraced his brothers and bade them a safe journey.

Jim took Martin and Brendan with him through a palace that was never truly asleep, as servants scurried to ensure that every resident’s needs were met before dawn.

Reaching Jim’s personal quarters, they entered a tidy office adjacent to his sleeping room and he quickly set about penning a travel document. He signed it with a flourish, poured wax and applied a seal to it.

‘Isn’t that the duke’s signet?’ asked Brendan.

‘It’s a twin,’ said Jim. ‘My grandfather gave it to me to reduce his own need to sign things; he finds it annoying.’

‘And did you just sign his name?’ said Martin.

‘Of course,’ said Jim as if this was quite normal. ‘Wait here.’

A short time later, he returned with a woman of middle years, with greying dark hair, and a no-nonsense demeanour. ‘This is Gretchen. She will take you where you need to go.’

Before Martin or Brendan could speak, Gretchen reached out and seized their wrists and suddenly they were in a different room. ‘Krondor,’ she said, and vanished.

Apparently the comings and goings of magicians in what was revealed as Jim Dasher’s private suite in Krondor were commonplace enough that the palace guards did not react when two men unexpectedly walked out of a room that had been empty only moments before.

The brothers had been in Krondor only twice before: a leisurely visit to Prince Edward’s court when Martin had been small (Brendan had still been a baby), and their hurried visit on the way to Rillanon just weeks before.

‘What now?’ said Brendan.

Martin shrugged. ‘Find someone in charge, I suppose.’

It took the better part of an hour to find the acting city commander, a man named Falston Jennings, hastily elevated from the rank of prince’s squire to baronet of the court, so that he could lawfully be considered a noble. He was obviously in over his head and anxious to see if what he said made sense to the brothers from Crydee, especially as they had introduced themselves as ‘Princes Martin and Brendan, the late king’s cousins’.

They had endured Jennings’s near-babbling conversation over as informal a break fast meal as the palace had likely seen in a century, for many of the key servants had travelled east with Prince Edward, attending his baggage-train and pavilion to ensure his comfort on the journey to Rillanon.

Martin left that meal with a jumble of facts he could barely make sense of, let alone organize into coherent intelligence. Brendan had been amused by the entire course of events, but of the three brothers he was the one most easily amused.

From what they could get from Jennings’s ramble, Kesh had withdrawn her ships to a point behind an imaginary line extending from a point halfway between Land’s End and Durbin in the south to the border between the Free Cities and the Kingdom, in the north. Kingdom ships were given free passage up to Sarth, but no captain dared sail farther north as the island kingdom of Queg had declared a state of emergency – a pretext for them to board and seize any ship that sailed ‘too close’ to their imagined ‘sphere of influence’, which at the moment meant from their beach to ankle-deep water on the Kingdom shore north of Sarth.

The Free Cities were essentially Keshian garrisons at the moment, and no ship had arrived from there since the truce had been declared. Also, no Free Cities ship in Krondor or Port Vykor was willing to attempt a run home, as their captains had no idea what to expect from their new masters. In sum, three fleets choked the waterways of the Bitter Sea, all ready for a fight at a moment’s notice, so Martin’s only recourse had been horseback.

After their hasty meal, Jennings led Martin and Brendan to the marshalling yard, where a patrol of Krondorian regulars waited. ‘Sergeant Oaks,’ said Jennings, ‘this is Prince Martin, the late king’s cousin.’

Oaks nodded a greeting and then Martin said, ‘My brother Brendan.’

‘Highness,’ said Oaks in greeting.

‘I think it better to have some proven soldiers rather than a pretty palace guard,’ said Jennings. ‘Sergeant, the princes need an escort to Ylith. Please see they arrive there without difficulties.’ He beat a hasty retreat, obviously relieved to see the brothers depart.

‘Without difficulties?’ said Oaks in neutral tones.

‘I think he means alive,’ said Brendan with a grin.

Oaks returned the smile. ‘We’ll do our best, Highness.’ He turned to his company of riders and shouted, ‘Mount up!’

The twenty soldiers of Oaks’s patrol mounted in orderly fashion, obviously a battle-trained company.

‘Well,’ said Brendan. ‘At least we don’t have to walk.’

‘There is that,’ said Martin. He signalled for the sergeant to lead the company out of the palace yard in Krondor and toward the northern gate, which would put them on the King’s Highway to Ylith.

• CHAPTER THREE •
Journey I

PUG TUMBLED ACROSS THE GROUND.

Quickly coming to his feet, he stood ready to answer any threat that might be awaiting him. The passage through the vortex had been a new experience, something that was almost welcome, given his age.

It had been like sliding through a tunnel that was slippery but not wet, with cascading lights and colours on all sides. He had been neither warm nor cold. If anything, there had been an absence of tactile sensation. Time also seemed suspended, so he couldn’t judge if he had been moving through the vortex for seconds, minutes, or hours.

He shook his head to clear it and glanced around. He was in what appeared to be an alpine forest, at the edge of a meadow. Above him, the sides of a mountain reared up, so he judged he was at the highest point of foothills he would likely traverse without magic. Looking beyond the meadow, he made out a range of mountains receding away. He glanced at the position of the sun in the sky and judged that was south.

He attempted a minor spell to see what conditions he would encounter and discovered the energy state was still not quite what he would expect as ‘normal’ on Midkemia. He was somewhere else and apparently alone. He closed his eyes and attempted to reach out to the demon Child, in her Miranda form, and Magnus, as he had always been able to contact his wife and son that way.

Silence.

He waited in case they might be longer in reaching this planet than he had been. Nothing occurred for long moments until Pug was certain within himself he was alone, his companions elsewhere, perhaps even on different worlds.

He took a deep breath, gauged the downhill slope and began walking.

He made his way slowly down to the floor of the meadow. By any measure this was one of the most peaceful and lovely spots he had visited in a very long time. The air was not quite still, a breath of something not quite a breeze stirred the leaves in the trees and birds called out infrequently. A distant crack, perhaps a tree branch falling, was followed soon after by a bellowing challenge as some animal, perhaps something stag-like, demanded others honour his territory.

Pug took a deep breath. A hint of fragrance told him that flowers were blooming. Wherever he was, it was surely spring.

He chose not to use his magic to transport himself to the other side of the meadow, preferring to wring whatever peace he could from this moment. He knew that conflict was only a matter of time and this tiny bit of tranquillity might be his last.

As he walked across the meadow, he saw a tiny tendril of smoke rising from the trees below. Reaching the edge of the meadow, he found a steep downslope leading to a flatter terrain a hundred feet down. What looked like a game trail presented itself nearby and he followed that down to what looked to be an old cart path. He followed that in the general direction of the smoke until another, smaller clearing appeared, and when he saw the source of the smoke he stopped.

The cottage was identical to the one his mentor, Kulgan, occupied in the woods near Castle Crydee, when he wanted to be alone to contemplate, study, or just enjoy a little solitude with his companion Meecham.

Pug found strong emotions rising, for he was certain that this was another accommodation to his senses, that the structure he observed was somewhat like the cottage he remembered, and that these woods were somewhat like the Green Heart and Forest of Crydee, but that his mind was allowed to manipulate them a little to put him more at ease.

Part of Pug’s mind was captivated by the subtle, nuanced quality to this type of magic, and again he realized that the magic of conjuration and illusion were two areas of magic he had always intended to study more, but never seemed to find the time for it.

He closed his eyes for a moment, used an old calming of the mind exercise he’d learned as a Tsurani Great One, used his skills to dispel illusions, then opened his eyes.

Nothing had changed.

He chuckled. Apparently the mind wants what it wants; no matter how much you think you’re controlling it, it’s controlling you. He knew he’d put that in a lesson to young magicians some years before, but had thought he was beyond that. He reminded himself ruefully of the last time he had blindly assumed he knew what he was doing, when he had attacked the demon Jakan and almost died as a result.

That memory triggered the one following, where he had been forced to make a choice by Lims-Kragma, the Goddess of Death, that he would suffer through the deaths of everyone he loved as a price for returning to the land of the living and ending the threat from the Emerald Queen’s invading army.

His mood no longer lifted by the pastoral beauty around him, he gave in to a moment of pique and willed himself to the threshold of the cottage. Raising his hand, he knocked three times.

A familiar voice he had not heard in ages, but recognized instantly said, ‘Come in.’

Pug could hardly believe his senses as he pushed open the door and immediately recognized the pungent aroma of tabac, a particular blend of mountain-grown aromatic from the foothills of Kesh. A portly figure in a grey homespun robe sat before a table upon which rested an open book. Blue eyes seemed to twinkle above a thick grey beard. ‘Well, you haven’t changed much in all these years, have you, Pug?’

‘Kulgan,’ Pug whispered. Something told him this was no magic likeness before him, no creature of the mind fashioned to resemble someone he trusted, but somehow his old teacher, dead for more than a century, returned to this little cottage in the woods which so resembled where they had first met.

Emotions long absent rushed up within Pug and his eyes welled up. A lifetime of the impossible had not prepared him for this, seeing again his first master, the man who had taken an orphaned kitchen boy and begun the education which had evolved Pug into the most powerful practitioner of magic on two worlds.

Smiling, the old man rose and indicated a pot of water on an iron hook overhanging the fireplace. ‘Fetch that while I get us some tea.’ As he moved away, he added, ‘We have a great deal to discuss, my old friend, and I’m sorry to say, little time in which to discuss it.’

Pug stood rooted for a moment as he struggled with the urge to rush and embrace his boyhood teacher, or start asking questions. Then he smiled, nodded, and just did as he had been asked.

Kulgan chuckled as he put the tea to steep. ‘I take it you are as surprised as I am,’ he began, glancing over his shoulder at his former pupil.

‘A great deal has occurred since …’

‘I died,’ supplied Kulgan. ‘Yes, exactly how long has it been?’

‘Over a century,’ said Pug.

‘Hmmm,’ mused the teacher. ‘So, continue.’

Pug took a moment to breathe deeply. ‘I need help,’ he said at last.

‘Ah,’ said Kulgan.

The cottage was not exactly as Pug remembered it, but he was at a loss to know if that was due to an imperfect replication or his own faulty memory. He asked, ‘Where are we? This is not your cottage in the woods south of the keep at Crydee.’

Kulgan shrugged again. ‘I’m not certain. For here’s the thing, Pug: my last memory is lying sick abed in Stardock, Meecham hovering like a mother hen as he always did, having said my goodbye to you. Age weighed heavily on my soul and I was tired to the core of my being. Your generosity with the healing priests was appreciated: I was free of pain, but I knew my time had come.’ He paused, a bemused expression crossing his wrinkled old visage. ‘I closed my eyes, then this odd thing … As I was drifting into darkness there was this momentary …’ He shrugged. ‘I am not sure how to describe it, but a cut, as cold as the coldest ice or stone, slicing through my being, then suddenly it was gone, the pain vanishing before it registered, but so vivid that in the fading of life, it was my first recollection as, instead of arising in the halls of Lims-Kragma, I found myself there.’ He pointed to the oversized bed in the corner of the room. ‘Apparently three or four hours ago.’

He picked up the pot and poured Pug’s tea and his own, then indicated with a wave a small pot of honey. Pug shook his head, and Kulgan went on, ‘I felt wonderful. There is no looking-glass, but I suspect I am now a great deal younger than when I died.’ He laughed. ‘It is an odd thing to say, isn’t it? My favourite robe was folded at the foot of the bed.’ He plucked at the fabric. ‘My sandals, my staff too. After I had dressed, I wandered about a little, trying to determine where I was, and shouted, but no one answered.’ He sat down opposite Pug and said, ‘When I returned, I found a lovely meal to break my fast and must admit to relishing every bite.’ He pointed to a small washbasin of stone next to the stove. A tidy pile of dishes rested within. ‘I have no idea who prepared it for me. I had a faint hope it might have been my man Meecham, but I knew by then this was not Crydee. This is not Midkemia, is it?’

Pug shook his head.

Sighing, Kulgan said, ‘I really knew that. I feel too good, Pug. I don’t mean relative to my dying or even the last few years of life. I feel invigorated here in a way I haven’t since years before I met you, and while I’ve resisted the temptation to use any of my arts, I suspect they will prove effective beyond my expectation.’

Pug smiled. Kulgan had had as quick an intuitive grasp of the underlying nature of magic as any being he had ever known. ‘There’s a heightened energy state in this world. We are in a different realm of magic, I think, than Midkemia. I suspect if you tried that trick of lighting your tabac pipe with a flame from your finger you might burn this cottage down.’

Kulgan laughed and Pug was suddenly struck by how much he had missed that sound. A bittersweet pang followed that recognition, for as certain as Pug was about anything else, he knew this visit with his old mentor would be brief. He said, his voice heavy with emotion, ‘I have lost so many beloved friends, and you were first among them. It’s so good to see you again.’

Kulgan’s blue eyes misted. He reached out and took Pug’s hand for a moment. ‘I suppose a summary of the past hundred years is impossible.’

Pug laughed.

‘So, perhaps if there’s time later we might speak of what happened after I died. Though waking up here and finding you …’ He peered at Pug for a moment, then smiled. ‘Slightly more grey than last I saw you was not something I expected.’ He reached absently for the pouch where he kept his pipe and tabac and found it absent. ‘Ah,’ he said in an aggrieved tone. ‘Not perfect!’

Pug smiled. ‘The older I get, the less I know, Kulgan.’

‘It’s always thus,’ answered the greybeard. ‘Still, our paths hardly crossed by chance, and one supposes in these circumstances that there’s little logic in having us flail about wondering why we’re here. What are you about these days and how do you require help?’

‘I am trying to save Midkemia,’ said Pug, ‘and apparently a large chunk of the universe along with it. And I am far from home and uncertain how to return there.’

Kulgan tapped his fingers absently. ‘It would be easier to think had I my pipe.’

Suddenly his pipe and a bag of tabac appeared on the table.

Both Pug and Kulgan looked around the cottage. ‘We are being observed,’ Kulgan said. He opened the pouch eagerly, took a long sniff, then said in satisfied tones, ‘That’s the very thing!’

Pug watched with an unexpected pleasure as his old teacher filled the bowl, and looked around for a taper, and saw one next to the small fire he had used for heating water for the tea. He reached over and with a wave of his hand caused the taper to come flying across the room. It smacked his palm hard enough that he recoiled. ‘That hurt!’ he yelped.

‘I told you magic here would be … more intense,’ said Pug.

Leaning over to retrieve the taper, Kulgan said, ‘I’m glad I heeded you enough not to light it with my finger.’ They both laughed.

Kulgan lit his pipe and drew in a mouthful of pungent smoke, then let it out. ‘Ah!’ Taking another, quicker pull, he blew out smoke and said, ‘So, let us be about this quickly, for I suspect our time together is limited.’

Pug paused. So much was woven together in his own mind, going back to his very first encounter with the Dread when he and Tomas were searching for Macros the Black at the end of the Great Uprising. Quickly, he discarded all superfluous information and guided Kulgan through the evolution of his awareness of the various forces at play.

‘What I know and what I find highly probable is that an agency of vast destruction seeks entrance into our universe.’ He briefly recounted his discovery of the Dasati world and what he had encountered there, and what he had learned from Nakor and Miranda about the demon realm, and concluded, ‘Apparently this universe or universes is an intertwined, organic thing, but like an onion, has many layers. So, to anticipate you, Kulgan, I have far more questions than I have answers. But I do know that something for many years has been trying to neutralize threats to its plan, through agencies brutal as well as subtle, on scales that defy understanding, but all with one aim: to enter Midkemia and either conquer or destroy it.’ Pug continued his narrative, leading up to the discovery of the matrix on the Island of the Serpent Men and the trap that had apparently blown him into this world, wherever it was.

Finishing, he said, ‘At first we of the Conclave assumed it was the Nameless One behind all that was underway, but logic dictates his madness is beyond understanding if he sought to enable the Dread’s entrance into our universe.’

Kulgan nodded. ‘I’ve only heard of the Dread in legend, as some monstrous larger kind of Children of the Void.’ He shook his head. ‘And of those I’ve only encountered one, the wraith who separated Tomas from us in the Mac Mordain Cadal.’ He feigned a shiver. ‘That creature was dire enough. I can barely imagine what the Dread must be like.’

‘I’ve faced them, Kulgan. They are as bad as you fear, or worse.’ Pug spoke without bravado. ‘What we do know is that the Dread have wandered into our realm in the past, but this time it seems to be something far more coordinated and with purpose. We do not know how many Dread exist, or where they come from – save some unimaginable place within the Void – or what their purpose is, but they are coming. And they are driving an army of demons before them.’

‘Assault troops, as it were,’ supplied Kulgan.

‘It was years before we pieced together that the demons were not coming of their own volition. They were seeking either to escape and hide here, or to conquer at the bidding of false masters …’ He shrugged.

‘One thing,’ said Kulgan. He sighed. ‘I wish Tully were here. He was a wealth of knowledge on all things religious, not just his own order. He could answer this, perhaps?’

‘What?’

Kulgan looked thoughtfully at Pug. ‘Legend says that when a demon enters our realm, unconfined, one that is not summoned by a human and bound, or when a summoned demon escapes his bonds, then an opposing creature of a higher order, called an angel by some, appears somewhere on Midkemia and seeks out that demon. When they meet, they fight, and when one is triumphant,’ Kulgan clapped his hands together, ‘they cancel one another out, returning to their respective realms. But if so many demons have entered Midkemia without summons, where are the opposing angels?’

‘I come seeking answers, and you provide me with another question!’ Pug laughed.

‘Well, then, finish your narrative and I’ll see if there’s something you’ve missed.’

Pug spoke briefly of Nakor and Miranda, omitting their names; Kulgan had briefly met Nakor only days before his death, while Pug’s first wife, Katala, was still alive. He also skipped the complexity of human memories grafted onto demons, merely casting them in the role of improbable demon allies. Given that the demons were being exploited by the Dread, the notion of an intelligent demon allying with humans didn’t seem all that improbable to Kulgan. He finished the narrative with the Pantathian trap and Kulgan sat back.

At last he said, ‘Son?’ His eyes narrowed.

Pug saw that his attempt not to touch on that bit of his history had failed. ‘Years after Katala died, I met someone else. Her name was Miranda. We had two sons. She and my youngest, Caleb, were killed.’ He felt no need to touch upon the subject of the mad necromancer, Leso Varen, also called Sidi, and the demons he had summoned to serve him. ‘Magnus is my older son. He’s quite the prodigy.’

‘Prodigy?’ laughed Kulgan. ‘How old is the “lad”?’

Pug was forced to laugh in turn. ‘Very well. He’s old enough to be a grandfather, but he’s always a boy to me.’

Kulgan nodded. ‘As you were to me. Still,’ he said, ‘you’ve grown to remarkable powers and I judge it safe to assume that since my death you’ve continued to master the magic arts.’

‘I do my best. But I’m at a loss as to how to return home.’

‘I can’t be of any help there, I’m afraid,’ said Kulgan, settling back in his chair as he puffed on his pipe. ‘I’m really not sure why I’m here. Whatever agency snatched me from the brink of death and brought me here at this time must have its reason, but I am ignorant of what it is. Still, one can surmise, can’t one?’

Pug smiled. ‘You used to chide me for leaping to conclusions.’

‘True, but it seems to me there were many different choices as to who met you here to help you, so why me?’

Pug recognized that tone: after more than a few lifetimes, they were once more teacher and student. ‘There is a lesson to learn.’

Kulgan nodded. ‘Given how far you’ve come, I seriously doubt there’s anything I know that you don’t.’ He fixed Pug with the narrow gaze the magician had come to know so well when he was Kulgan’s student. ‘But I may help you to remember something you’ve forgotten.’

‘Such as?’

Kulgan blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘There’s the nub of it.’ He waved around the room. ‘We wouldn’t need all this if it was something easily recalled.’

They chatted for what seemed like an hour when Kulgan tapped out his pipe in a stone tray designed to cradle it and deposit ashes until he could dispose of them. He sat back with a heavy sigh. ‘I am enjoying this, Pug, but I have a feeling creeping up on me, a sort of foreboding. There’s no sense of terror, rather a sense of inevitability. Whatever agency took that tiny little sliver of my life and held it for this meeting ensured that I would be alert and have full command of my faculties, but it’s becoming apparent to me time is running out. We must continue our discussions with more alacrity, Pug.’

‘I’m at a loss to know what it is I’m supposed to remember.’

Kulgan glanced out the window at the failing light. ‘Let us walk, for it appears that a lovely evening is approaching and fresh air might give me that moment of brilliance we sorely require.’

They exited the cottage and began hiking up the gentle path that led to the meadow above. ‘I found myself up there,’ said Pug, pointing to the other side of the meadow.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Kulgan. ‘Let’s go take a look, just in case there is something there you missed on your arrival.’

They crossed the meadow and suddenly Kulgan stopped, tilting his head. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’ asked Pug, having only noticed the sound of the breeze in the branches, and the occasional forest noise – a bird call, or an animal moving through the brush.

After a moment, Kulgan said, ‘Nothing.’ He looked sad. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘What?’ asked Pug. ‘You don’t look as if it’s nothing.’

‘It’s just an old man’s imagination, but I thought I heard my name called, from far away.’ He let his voice drop. ‘I thought it was Meecham. Of all those I’ve left behind …’ His voice fell to silence.

‘You were together a very long time,’ Pug said quietly.

‘More than forty years.’ He looked at Pug. ‘What became of him after I died?’

Pug tried to be matter-of-fact. ‘He left Stardock. We never had word of him again. I assumed the memories were just too painful.’

Kulgan nodded. ‘That was so like him. I always joked he’d have to die first, because I’d be reasonable about it, but he’d go off and crawl into a cave like a wounded bear and wait to die.’

‘Perhaps nothing so grim,’ said Pug, suddenly feeling guilty for not having done more to locate Kulgan’s companion. He was a franklin, a free man in service, but over the years they had become so much more than master and servant, forging a deeper bond than most Pug had seen. Pug had thought at the time that if it was Meecham’s wish to leave, it wasn’t Pug’s place to stop him. Yet now, all these years later, he wondered if he hadn’t had a duty to Kulgan’s memory at least to keep a watch over the man.

He glanced over and saw Kulgan’s expression and felt, not for the first time, that his old teacher could read his mind. ‘Perhaps nothing so grim,’ he repeated softly.

Kulgan nodded. ‘Let’s move on,’ he said in flat tones.

The silence between them highlighted the deep and oddly conflicted emotions Pug had felt since encountering Kulgan. Since his first confrontation with the demon Jakan, ending with Pug lingering at the point of death, he had been cursed with a prophecy, that he would die in futility, after having seen all he loved lost. During the Riftwar he had lost his boyhood friend, Squire Roland, killed by raiders as he tried to protect a herd of cattle. He hadn’t learned of his death until his return from Kelewan, after a dozen years of war were ended.

Since then he had lost the two women he had loved most in the world, and the appearance of the demon Child in the guise of Miranda had reopened that wound as if it were fresh. Pug’s ability to move forward with the actions necessary to preserve his world only masked the pain that echoed from years gone by. As it had been with the three children he had outlived. No one, save perhaps his son Magnus, would ever see a hint of the pain Pug bore every day.

Kulgan’s death, at least, had been a natural consequence of a mortal’s span. And he had died surrounded by those who loved him; yet now, finding himself in the presence of his old mentor, Pug again revisited that loss.

Glancing around, he realized that the beautiful vista beyond the meadow, the magnificent range of mountains above, were all indifferent reminders of how fleeting life could be and how indifferent the universe was to a single life. Pug felt diminished.

He stopped. ‘Kulgan, I think I understand.’

Kulgan stopped and said, ‘What, Pug?’

‘Perspective,’ said Pug softly. ‘This world is vast, and it is but a tiny part of a much larger universe. I feel humbled.’

Kulgan nodded. He put his hand on his former student’s shoulder. ‘Greatness, smallness, these are relative concepts, Pug, and it is important to remember that. But this doesn’t change the fundamental reality that what stands before you is a challenge that seems trivial compared to the vastness of which you speak.’ He narrowed one eye in an expression Pug had seen a thousand times before, one that showed he was coming to the point of a lesson. ‘But though the task before you seems trivial, the consequences may be anything but trivial in reality.’ He nodded. ‘More than once I’ve taught you the lesson of the keystone, the one brick that when removed can bring the entire building down upon your head.’

He pulled out his unlit pipe, a long churchwarden in style, and tapped Pug on the chest with it. ‘Just be outside the building when you do it,’ he laughed.

Pug tried to enjoy the mirthful tone, but inside he felt darkness gathering. ‘What I’ve lost sight of is the fundamentals of magic.’

‘Probably not,’ suggested Kulgan, ‘but rather the simple roots of even the most complex causality; you look at a chaotic outcome, well, it’s easy to overlook that it may have begun with the simplest cause. A stray spark from this pipe I hold could eventually lead to a conflagration that would destroy this entire forest,’ he added with a sweep of his hand.

‘And amid the chaos,’ Kulgan continued, ‘it’s also easy to lose sight of multiple causes of an event. Consider a storm that lashes the Far Coast. You know from the time you were a boy that often the worst storms are not a single storm, but a convergence of two, one coming down the coast from the frigid north, the other sweeping in from the south-west where it’s warm and turbulent.’ He left his pipe dangling from his mouth as he linked both hands together, fingers intertwined, and twisted his hands in a wrenching motion. ‘Together they combine to be so much more than each was separately.’ He took his pipe from his mouth and tapped Pug on the shoulder with the tip. ‘Which then leads us back to where each storm comes from …’

‘I’m still not seeing this,’ said Pug. ‘But I’m getting a sense of it.’

‘It’s about the fundamentals of things, Pug. What is the nature of a storm?’

‘I’m not sure what you’re asking. It’s a storm?’

Kulgan sighed. ‘It’s all that time on Kelewan. Had you the knack for what those Tsurani call the Lesser Path of Magic …’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, had you studied weather magic—’

Pug remembered a long conversation he had had with an elven Spellweaver named Temar. ‘Equipoise,’ said Pug, and Kulgan stopped talking.

A slow smile spread out over the old teacher’s face. ‘Equipoise? Go on.’

‘Storms are the most extreme examples of nature seeking balance, equipoise. There’s too much energy built up in one place and it seeks …’ He shook his head. ‘The sphere! All different energy states. The difficulty of moving from one to another because of that. The magic needed to survive in higher states or lower states.’

Kulgan nodded. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about specifically, but if I’m guessing right, you’re on the right path.’

‘If you come to a higher energy state place, such as this one—’ Pug waved his hand in a circle, indicating the entire world, ‘you need protection so that you don’t absorb energy too fast, don’t burn up from it. If you go to a lower state world, the entire environment sucks the energy right out of you, like a spider sucks an insect dry in its web.’

‘There you have it, then,’ said Kulgan. ‘Your first clue, I expect. This all has something to do with the energy states of the sphere … whatever that may be.’

‘Ah, Kulgan,’ said Pug with a sad laugh. ‘You have no idea—’

Kulgan interrupted. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘What?’

‘I thought I heard …’ He fell silent, then said, ‘Just an old man’s imagination. Let’s get back. I could use another cup of hot tea and some more of your company, my best student.’

Pug laughed. ‘Your only student! I still recall the look on the other masters’ faces when you claimed me as apprentice on the day of my Choosing.’

Kulgan chuckled. ‘I assume it’s safe to say that all of that is part of all of this. A plan, not of our own choosing, in which we are but pieces?’

Pug nodded. ‘Apparently. For reasons not made clear to me, I was selected to live this life, to be the tool of the gods in this conflict.’

‘It’s a puzzle,’ said Kulgan as he carefully stepped down off a slight rise in the trail and halted for a moment to fuss with his robe. ‘You were, I say with no judgment, a rather unremarkable child. I remember when you were brought to the castle, a foundling. As babies are, you were endearing. We were told that a scullery maid and a wandering soldier were your parents, and she handed you over to a mendicant friar of the Order of Dala, who brought you to Lord Borric. Certainly nothing remarkable was evident in you until that stormy night you came to my cottage in the woods.’ He shook his head in memory. ‘When you sat before that scrying orb fashioned by Althefain of Carse for me, and without effort saw into the kitchen at Crydee Keep …’ He clucked his tongue. ‘That was remarkable.’

‘I don’t remember it as effortless,’ said Pug with a smile. ‘I had quite the headache after.’

‘You are a master, Pug. You know how remarkable it is for any user of magic to just … use it, without instruction and conditioning.’

Pug nodded.

They approached the cottage and Kulgan stopped. ‘Did you hear that? It was Meecham!’

Pug turned and saw no one there. Where Kulgan had stood only a second before was now empty space on the trail, and suddenly he knew that this had been his last visit with his former mentor and that he would never again lay eyes on Kulgan in this life.

He turned to enter the cottage, and before him stood only sparse woods cut through by the narrow game trail on which he stood. Of the cottage no hint remained. Instead, a thick tree stood in its place.

A sudden shift in air pressure and a slight popping sound caused him to turn again, and where Kulgan had stood another vortex hung in the air. Pausing for only a moment as he wondered which agency was moving him towards what end, and deciding that was hopeless speculation and a waste of time, he took a breath and jumped into the vortex.

• CHAPTER FOUR •
Homeward

MARTIN REINED IN HIS MOUNT.

The escort behind him also halted as they crested the rise. To their left squatted the abandoned fortification he had seen burning only short months ago, fired on his brother’s command in order to deny the use of it to the Keshians. Down the road ahead, they could see the distant walls of the city of Ylith.

‘Downright peaceful-looking, Highness,’ observed Sergeant Oaks. The rangy, red-headed commander of the escort was the leader of one of Prince Edward’s best combat-proven patrols. Kesh might be observing the conditions of the truce, but trust was still a far distance away. And he didn’t wish to explain to Prince Edward why two of the last three remaining conDoin brothers were no longer among the living.

Riding down the road, they were spotted by city lookouts long before they reached the south-eastern gate. As the company was clad in the tabards of Krondor and as the cease-fire had been honoured for some weeks now, the gate was opened and a familiar face greeted Martin.

‘Captain Bolton,’ Martin said, with surprise and some pleasure. When they had first met, George Bolton had been an annoying, officious young man, his bluster covering his deep fear of showing himself a fool. Under Martin’s guidance he had turned into a competent officer, eager to do his best. He had even begun to manifest some military talent and a quiet courage before the truce.

Martin and Brendan climbed down from their horses and shook hands with Bolton. ‘What news?’ asked the acting city commander.

Before Martin could answer, he was knocked a half-step backwards as Lady Bethany of Carse threw her arms around his neck in a hug so fierce he could barely breathe. Sergeant Oaks and Captain Bolton exchanged a look that conveyed barely contained amusement, while Brendan laughed openly. Martin held her tightly for a moment, then managed to say, ‘Let me breathe, Beth.’

She loosened her hold on him, then kissed him and said, ‘I missed you so much. You were gone so long.’ She wore the leather trousers, linen shirt, and leather archer’s vest she had taken to wearing on the wall when Martin had last seen her. Her hair was gathered up in an efficient knot behind her head. Even without the usual lip paint and powders, jewellery and gowns of the ladies of the court, he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

He nodded. ‘I’ll explain everything when we’re alone.’ Then he smiled and whispered into her ear.

She stepped back, tears streaming down her face. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’ Turning to Bolton, Martin said, ‘We need to deal with a number of matters.’ He waved in the general direction of the mayor’s home, used by him as a command centre during the assault on the city by Keshian forces. ‘I’ll tell you all the news from the east once we’re seated. What’s the situation here?’

‘Better than when you left,’ said Bolton. He set some of his men to quartering of the escort.

Martin beckoned Sergeant Oaks to accompany them. Brendan said, ‘I’ll get everyone settled and catch up.’ As Bethany clung to his arm and they walked towards the mayor’s house, Martin listened as Bolton reviewed the changes that had occurred since Martin’s departure. Bolton finished by saying, ‘So they’ve held fast to the ridgeline in the hills to the north-west, and down to some imagined line between the Free Cities and Yabon.’ He shook his head as if somewhat confused. ‘They’ve been very quiet, content to do nothing, and if anything they’ve proved to be reasonable neighbours. They sent a message last week telling us that their outriders saw what looked to be a large band of Dark Brothers heading south towards the smaller game trails—’ he looked at Martin as if waiting to be corrected, ‘—heading over the ridges into the Grey Towers and down to the Greenheart.’ Martin merely nodded. ‘They were alerting us to possible raiding.’

‘That’s downright neighbourly,’ Martin said.

Bolton looked a little embarrassed. ‘And there’s been some, well, I guess you could call it “unofficial trading” going on across the lines.’

Now Martin was amused. ‘Keshian belt-buckles?’

Bolton nodded. ‘How did you know?’

‘It’s been going on for years along the southern front.’ He glanced over at Sergeant Oaks.

‘Sir,’ said the veteran. ‘Kesh’s finer units, like those Leopard Guard, get some pretty equipment. They have these enamel-and-bronze belt-buckles.’ He held up his hands with fingers and thumb forming a square about two by three inches and said, ‘Really fancy things with a leopard head. Fetches a nice bit of gold in the bazaar. It’s something of a joke among their sergeants that sooner or later every man loses a belt-buckle, usually after a bad run of luck gambling or after having met a particularly pretty whore.’ Glancing at Bethany, he muttered, ‘Begging your pardon, m’lady.’

Bethany just smiled at him.

‘They’re a novelty up here, I guess,’ said Bolton as they turned the corner. ‘But it’s a bit odd, as we’re also getting reports that some stores heading here are being diverted to the Keshians.’ He glanced at Martin to see if he might have done something wrong.

‘Not much you can do about that,’ Martin reassured him. ‘Short of having patrols up and down every trail and road north and west of here, and that’s hardly practical.’ He fell silent for a moment, then said, ‘As it stands, anything that lowers tension along the frontier is to be welcomed.’ He glanced around to see if anyone might overhear. ‘I’ll have more to say on that when we’re alone, but for the time being consider yourself as having discharged your responsibilities in an admirable fashion.’

Bolton looked visibly relieved.

At the mayor’s house, Martin was greeted by Lily, the mayor’s daughter. ‘We haven’t much to offer by way of hospitality,’ she said brightly.

Glancing around the conference room where he, his brother and Bolton had met so often to discuss the defence of the city, Martin felt a sudden exhaustion. He had missed Bethany every moment he’d been away from her, but had managed to stay busy and keep that longing buried deeply. Now she was at his side, but duty required him to be on his way as soon as the horses were rested and a clear way into the Grey Towers was identified. ‘Whatever you offer is fine, Lily,’ said Martin with fatigue creeping into his voice.

‘Vegetable stew and some hot bread,’ said Lily cheerfully as she left for the kitchen.

‘Only water,’ said Bolton, sitting opposite Martin and Bethany. ‘No ale coming from either Stone Mountain or the Grey Towers, and there hasn’t been a shipment of anything up the coast since the hostilities stopped. I expect that will change in a while. Every tavern and inn is making do. Some of the local stuff—’ He made a face. ‘It won’t kill you, but it might.’

Martin laughed. He said, ‘Water’s fine.’

‘Then a hot bath,’ said Bethany, wrinkling her nose, ‘and some rest.’

Oaks and Bolton exchanged quick glances, but neither said a word.

‘Lily,’ said Martin when the girl returned with a tureen of hot stew. ‘Where is the mayor?’

‘He’s out and about, checking on the outlying farms to see who’s still around, who’s hiding what, trying to get commerce moving again, and get some food flowing into the city once more. It’s getting better, but we’re living on stores usually put up for winter. People are tired of fish stew and boiled potatoes and would welcome a little change. It’s not until goods stop arriving you realize how much of what you take for granted comes from far away. All that fruit from Queg and farther south. I haven’t had a good piece of fruit in months,’ she said wistfully.

She left for the kitchen again and Bolton said, ‘Lots of chaos after you left, Highness. The mayor and a few of the more influential merchants headed up north to see if they could organize some sort of temporary governance while all the nobles were gone. Recruit some local lads to act as a constabulary of sorts, so the farmers would risk bringing their crops into the city.’

Lily returned with bowls, a platter of fresh, hot bread, a pot of butter and spoons.

Just then Brendan arrived and, smelling the stew, exclaimed, ‘Perfect! I’m starved.’ With a grin he added, ‘Hello, Lily!’

She gave him a playful kiss on the cheek and he sat down. As the three hungry travellers began to eat, Martin looked at George and said, ‘What else?’

Bolton quickly resumed his summary. ‘The Keshian commander we faced, and his Leopard Guard, have been withdrawn, either recalled or moved somewhere else along the Far Coast. The fellow they’ve left in charge is some sort of … I’m not sure what to call him. He uses the title “premier”, whatever that means.’

Martin said, ‘Really? That means he’s a military governor, not a soldier.’

Bethany said, ‘I’m impressed.’

‘While you and Brendan were out shooting things with arrows, I was studying.’ He asked Bolton, ‘What’s the disposition of their troops?’

‘Mostly militia, but enough veteran dog soldier infantry that if you’re thinking of retaking Crydee, you’d best wait for the Armies of the West to get back here.’

Martin shook his head. ‘Long wait, I’m afraid. They’re all camped on the Fields of Albalyn.’

Bolton and Oaks exchanged glances, but neither said a word. Finally the old sergeant said, ‘We’ve heard rumours.’

‘I am certain you have,’ said Martin.

Brendan added, ‘It’s no rumour. That’s where Prince Edward is camped.’

Bolton waited and when Martin stayed silent, he said, ‘So, we have had a few stragglers wander out of Crydee … Commander?’

Martin smiled. Bolton was waiting for him to clarify the situation. Was he back in charge and what was his current rank?

‘Under instruction from Lord James of Rillanon, I’m currently “Your Highness”, as I am somehow still considered royalty; but for the sake of all our sanity, Martin will do. You’ll remain in command here, George. In fact, I think it safe to say you’re going to find that the rank of captain isn’t a temporary one now. And I’m going to presume on my royal prerogative to also give you military authority for all of Yabon, should anyone from LaMut or Yabon City presume to question you.’

‘Why would anyone question me?’

‘You’ve a lot to learn about politics, George,’ said Brendan with a grin.

Martin tried to suppress a yawn. ‘Now that a truce is in place, we’re in transition, and out of chaos arises opportunity. I will bet you a golden sovereign that when Lily’s father returns, he’ll report that someone from the north with a self-appointed title and a retinue of scruffy guards has named himself Baron of This, or Earl of That, or someone else will turn up within a few more weeks claiming some privilege or another, and seeing your age will try to browbeat you into accepting their orders.

‘Confidence tricksters, charlatans, minor nobles with ambition, whoever it may be, feel free to toss them into the local gaol and wait for whoever does return from Prince Edward’s encampment.’ He again tried to suppress a yawn. ‘I have to travel into the mountains and do some exploring for Duke James and whoever turns out to be our next king. So, after my men have rested, I’ve got a Keshian premier to bribe and a guide to find, and some back country to scout. But for now, a bath, and some sleep.’ Rising as if his joints were a hundred years older than he was, Martin said, ‘If you need me, feel free to wake me.’

Sergeant Oaks made a half-hearted response that indicated that unless the city was on fire, Martin would sleep through the night.

Brendan said, ‘I’ll quarter with the men.’ He tried to look serious, but could barely contain his mirth; he usually shared quarters with his brother, but he suspected the young lovers might need their privacy.

Martin followed Bethany to the room he had previously occupied with Brendan and found a clawed-foot brass-and-porcelain tub set in the middle of the room. It was filled with steaming hot water. Martin looked at Bethany with a questioning expression.

‘We found it up in the old keep, and Lily convinced George to fetch it down so we wouldn’t have to use that old wooden horror her father has kept here far too long.’

‘Small pleasures are a gift in times like these,’ said Martin, stripping off his clothing.

Wrinkling her nose, Bethany gathered them up and tossed them outside the door. ‘Getting you clean is hardly a small pleasure. You positively reek.’

‘A week’s hard riding.’ A satisfied sigh followed as he lowered himself into the hot water. He lay back and slowly slid down the smooth porcelain tub until his head was completely underwater, then slid back up, his hair soaked. Instantly he felt Bethany’s fingers applying soap to his scalp, a creamy concoction she used. It had a floral fragrance, but Martin was too tired to complain. Besides, it did smell better than the usual harsh soaps his father had stocked at Crydee, composed of lye, tallow or oil, ash, and some attempt at a scent with whatever the soap-maker had at hand. This aromatic soap must be something Lily’s father had bought before the war from one of the finer soap-makers in Queg.

Martin closed his eyes and let the warmth soak into his bones, thinking that whatever else one might say about the Quegans, they knew how to make luxury goods: silken garments to rival the finest in Kesh, wines equal to the best in the Kingdom, jewellery and cut gems without equal. His thoughts drifted off for what seemed a moment, until he felt Bethany push at him gently and whisper in his ear, ‘None of that, now. You’re off to bed for some rest.’

He blinked awake and realized he must have dozed off for the water was cool. ‘I thought about climbing in with you,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘but you’re farther gone than I thought in the kitchen.’

He grinned. ‘I might surprise you.’

‘Get to bed and maybe we’ll find out, but sleep first!’ Her expression was concerned as she handed him a towel. ‘You don’t plan on lingering, do you?’

‘I’ve got my orders,’ he said, drying off. ‘With the nasty business shaping up in the east, Lord James is desperate to know exactly what we face, and everything we can deduce from the madness of this last war tells us that whoever was behind that pointless bloodshed wants the bulk of the Kingdom’s army as far away from the Grey Towers as possible. So that’s where I need to go poke around.’

Bethany tossed Martin an oversized nightshirt, belonging to Lily’s father, most likely, and said, ‘Get some sleep. If you wake for the evening meal, fine; otherwise I’ll let you sleep through.’

‘Don’t let me sleep through the night.’

She came over and sat on the side of the bed. ‘As much as I’ve missed you, my darling, I think rest is what you need most now.’

Bethany wasn’t clear at which precise point Martin had fallen asleep, but he was soundly sleeping by the end of her sentence. She shook her head, torn between slipping between the sheets with him and letting him rest, then let caution overrule desire. He needed whatever respite he could seize during this time in Ylith. Tomorrow he would undoubtedly be away on the Crown’s errand, and she wished him to be in possession of all his wits and resources.

As she started to rise, he reached up and grabbed her belt, yanking her back into bed. She shrieked in surprise. Wrapping his arms around her, he whispered in her ear, ‘I’m not that tired.’

The next morning it was a very refreshed if not entirely rested Martin who came down to break fast. He was pleased to see that the mayor had returned and quickly got brought up to date on conditions north of Ylith. Captain Bolton and Sergeant Oaks were already at the table. Martin looked around them and said, ‘I’m very pleased to see how well you’ve all done since I left.’

The mayor said, ‘We try. Fishing is reasonable, given how far out the boats go – there are a great many warships still on the water – but with all the people who fled when the Keshians arrived, we don’t have as many mouths to feed as before the war.’ He fell silent for a second and Martin realized he was also considering those who had died. ‘Still,’ he added brightly, ‘we’re starting to see some farm produce coming into the city. Higher-than-usual prices have lured farmers previously reluctant to venture from home during the fighting, and while the produce is not of highest quality, it suffices.’

‘Some of the townswomen had vegetable gardens,’ said Lily. ‘Rather than merely store the produce for next winter, they’re selling it at market on Sixthday.’

‘We get along,’ said the mayor.

‘Well, if this peace lasts, we’ll see a return to normality, at least in Yabon,’ said Martin.

‘What of the Far Coast?’ asked the mayor.

‘We don’t know. Earl Robert—’ he glanced at Bethany whose expression turned sombre at mention of her father, ‘—and the other western lords are with Prince Edward. Until the new king is chosen, I don’t see any of them coming back.

‘I was told Carse and Tulan held fast as Crydee fell, so we can hope they’re still secured, but cut off from communication.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Captain Bolton.

Martin paused, then asked, ‘What about the deployment of the Keshians along this front?’

Bolton rose from the table and returned with a map. ‘They’re dug in along a line from here—’ he pointed to a game trail in the forest to the south of the road to Crydee, ‘—to here: just draw a line north and south a bit from their barricade at the rise.’ His finger stopped at another point a mile north of the road. ‘I think it’s for show, as if they were concerned we might mount some sort of offensive back into Crydee. They patrol, but their hearts aren’t in it.’

‘What makes you say that?’ asked Sergeant Oaks.

‘They send one patrol to the south in the morning and it returns by lunch. Then, after lunch, they send the same patrol to the north and it’s back by nightfall.’ He laughed. ‘We can see them from the western wall. It’s got so predicable my men place bets on which Keshians get sent out. My men are convinced it’s some sort of punishment duty, as the patrollers look either dejected or annoyed when picked. My lads have even given them names. There’s Fatty, Droopy, Thunder Gut—’

‘Thunder Gut?’ asked Martin.

Bolton grinned. ‘Apparently he can fart so loud you can hear him on the wall.’

‘No? Really! That’s a quarter mile away!’

Oaks didn’t look convinced. ‘I don’t know about the names, but soldiers get good at reading the mood of other soldiers. If they’re sending out patrols as a matter of punishment, the captain’s right; they’re doing it for show.’

Martin thought about this, then said, ‘I had been instructed by Lord James and his grandson that a cautious approach was needed, a discreet bribe to get a small squad across the frontier on the excuse of needing to return to Crydee to recover some family heirlooms, as if any might not have been plundered already. I always thought a better approach would be for the Keshians to not know we crossed the line at all.’

‘That should be easy enough if you’re careful, Martin,’ said Bolton. ‘If you sneak out at night down the coast toward the Free Cities, just shy of the Keshians’ first checkpoint on the road to Natal, lie low for the day, then head up into the woodlands and find a game trail.’ He shrugged.

‘I think I have a better idea,’ said Martin. ‘How far behind the lines does that old bolt-hole from the castle extend?’

Bolton said, ‘Only a few dozen yards, really. It’s awfully close to the Keshian line, Martin.’

‘But if we come out after their last patrol of the day has returned to their camp, and we’re quiet enough, we can loop around behind their camp and be halfway up the mountain by sunrise.’

‘If those elves up there let you get that close,’ said Bolton. ‘We heard a rumour that a Keshian patrol got too close to their city and were routed. I don’t know how true that is. We heard it from a refugee from Walinor, up in the foothills. He and his family managed to get out when the Keshians turned south towards Hu-sh. Before they left, he said they sent that patrol up into the Grey Towers, and not many of them came back. A few of the Keshian soldiers complained about their commander’s decisions in earshot of some of the townspeople before they left for Hu-sh.’ He looked at Martin and added, ‘It’s your mission, Highness, and it’s a bold plan.’ He smiled. ‘Glad it’s you climbing that pile of rocks, and not me.’

‘You’ll have your hands full enough for a while, George. I suspect it’s going to be some months before the Duke of Yabon or any of his vassals return. You’re going to be in command of what’s left of the military for all of Yabon.’

‘Not that it’s much,’ said Bolton. ‘I can barely scrape together a decent-sized patrol once a week to ride up to LaMut. We only get word from Yabon through LaMut. The Hadati tribes along the northern foothills keep things pretty peaceful up there: they’re not kind to renegades trading with the Brotherhood of the Dark Path, but banditry along the roads south of there is starting to be a problem.’

‘We’ll see what we can do,’ said Martin, ‘once I get back.’

‘You’re not taking all the lads,’ said Oaks. ‘We could take a small patrol up to Yabon and back. Show the colours, as it were.’

Martin calculated. ‘I’ve hunted in those mountains since I was a boy.’

A slight clearing of her throat from Bethany told Martin what she thought of that, given that he was a terrible bowman.

‘I have hunted in the Grey Towers from the Crydee side all my life.’ He turned to Oaks. ‘Ignore her.’

‘Ignoring the lady, Highness,’ said Oaks, his stoic demeanour barely hiding his amusement.

‘I’m not taking any of your men, Oaks. They’re good soldiers, but none of them are mountain-trained.’ Turning to Bolton, Martin said, ‘Get me four of your best hunters or trackers, George. I want lads who know how to move through the woods quietly.’

Bolton nodded and stood up. ‘Best we go at sunset tonight.’

Bethany’s expression revealed she was not happy, but she said nothing.

Martin said, ‘It was suggested we bribe the Keshians to slip past their lines, but I’d rather as few people as possible know what we’re doing. That bolt-hole from the old keep is on the other side of the line.’

Bolton said, ‘That side, but barely.’

‘And if we come out after their last patrol heads back to the camp by the road …?’

‘That assumes they’re being sloppy and not leaving pickets out along the line, Highness,’ said Sergeant Oaks.

Captain Bolton said, ‘They’ve grown lax. My best appraisal is that they’re bored and waiting for orders.’

‘To do what?’ wondered Martin aloud.

Bolton shrugged. ‘Gods know, Highness. I don’t. None of this makes sense.’

Martin explained in brief what Lord James had told the brothers about the pointlessness of the war.

When he finished, Bolton nodded. ‘Well, if the object of the exercise was to throw the region into total chaos, they’ve succeeded. From Yabon City to LaMut, we’ve barely got five hundred of what could reasonably be called fighting men. Mostly old veterans and boys, some town militia who didn’t go marching off under the Duke of Yabon’s banner, and our little garrison here; and, as I’ve said, I’ve barely enough here to mount a decent patrol. Our lads are either watching the Keshians, or getting ready to escort farmers to the city when the mayor says it’s time. The Keshians have also withdrawn the heart of their forces. After that Premier fellow, the highest-ranking soldier I’ve seen up on that barricade when I’ve ridden close, appears to be some sort of sergeant of militia.’ Bolton let out a slow breath. ‘I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, Highness, but I think with your own detachment and the garrison here, we could probably roll over that line up on the ridge.’

Martin nodded. ‘No doubt, but to what end?’ He looked at the map as if trying to see something he’d missed and spoke almost to himself. ‘We might be able to retake Crydee if we hit them hard and fast and they haven’t rebuilt what I destroyed on the way out. But …’ He looked at the others. ‘Our countryside is now populated with Keshians, most of whom I suspect do not speak the King’s Tongue. Shall we ride out, greet them as new subjects and inform them of when the tax roll will be posted and where to gather to give their due to their new lords? If we get true peace with Kesh, it will be years before we hold anything, truly, north of Carse. We can repopulate Crydee Keep and Jonril’s garrison, but beyond that … My grandfather never got around to rebuilding the old garrison at Barran.’ He slowly shook his head. ‘Even if we could hold Crydee and Jonril, everything north of Carse will be as wild as the Northlands, I fear, for years to come.’

He glanced at the faces around him, and smiled. ‘We’ll worry about retaking old territories some other time. Right now we’ve got to find out what’s going on up in those mountains, and I think our best chance to get up there quickly will be to come out of the old keep and straight across the road behind the Keshian line and take the old West Rim game trail.’

He stood up. ‘We’ll head up to the old fortress and rest. After their last evening patrol we’ll head out of the bolt-hole, make straight across the western road and up into the hills. By midnight we’ll be high enough above their position that they’ll never know we passed by.’

Bethany looked at Martin and said, ‘And …?’

Martin smiled and said, ‘Oaks, I’m leaving you here as second to Captain Bolton. George, find those lads I need and have them meet me at the old keep in an hour.’

Bethany smiled, turned and walked towards the stairs without further comment. Martin attempted to look oblivious as he waited for what he hoped would be an appropriate moment to pass; then Bolton said, ‘Sorry, Highness, but it’s probably going to take two hours to organize the scouting party.’

‘Well,’ said Martin, following Bethany. ‘Two hours, then.’

He hurried up the back stairs while Bolton and Oaks stifled their laughter.

• CHAPTER FIVE •
E’bar

MARTIN SIGNALLED.

The four hunters behind him halted. They were two hours past the Keshian roadblock on the highway between Ylith and Crydee. They had easily passed to the west of that position and moved quickly into the foothills of the Grey Towers mountains. They had executed Martin’s plan without a hitch, crossing the King’s Road from Ylith to Crydee and getting high into the mountains. They made a cold camp there and rested until sunrise. Now they’d been hiking for several hours and Martin sensed something was amiss.

He listened to a faint sound from behind them and indicated that the four hunters from Ylith should move to either side of the trail, out of sight. He moved as quietly as he could back the way they had just come. It was nearing noon, so there were few hiding places around the trail. The trees were not particularly dense here, but a few clumps of brush and some tightly packed large boles provided him with cover.

Martin was perhaps half a dozen yards down the trail when a familiar voice said, ‘If I were a Keshian assassin, you’d be dead, my love.’

Slowly turning, his expression one of exasperation, he said, ‘Beth?’

She stepped out from behind a nearby tree trunk. ‘Congratulations on hearing me. I didn’t think you would after I caught up with you, two hours after you passed the roadblock.’

Martin was still tired and already feeling the pressure of leadership. Now he felt close to rage at being disobeyed by the woman he loved. As if reading his mind, she said quietly, ‘Before you make a fool of yourself, listen. You don’t want these lads from Ylith thinking you can’t control a woman. Especially when them obeying you might be the difference between the success of this mission and death. I know you take your duties very seriously, Martin, but there are going to be times you’ll need to listen to me. I really didn’t mean to embarrass you.’

Whispering through clenched teeth, he said, ‘Then why did you put me in this position, Beth?’

‘Because I love you, even though you’re an idiot at times.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘Of the five of you, you’re the only one who’s spent time on the west side of the Grey Towers. These men may be able hunters and trackers, but this is new territory for them. Odds are almost certain you’re the worst bowman and hunter in the band. You don’t have a tenth of my skill and knowledge. While you were studying history and language, my father and I were hunting from the Straits of Darkness to Elvandar.’

Martin knew the last to be an exaggeration, but not by much, so he said nothing.

She moved closer. ‘Martin, I love you with all my heart, but if I can keep you safe, I will do just that, no matter what orders you think I must follow. Now, do we understand each other?’

‘Beth—’ His tone left no doubt that at that moment there was no understanding, just a young man feeling betrayed and embarrassed.

She cut him off. ‘Look, why are you following this trail?’

He blinked, as if he didn’t understand the question. ‘Because it’s leading us up into the peaks, towards where the Star Elves have built their city.’

‘And you call yourself a student of history,’ she said softly.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘The Tsurani invasion. Surely you studied the maps.’

‘Of course I did …’ He let his voice fall off and his anger drained away as he realized what she was saying. ‘This is the crest trail, the false trail, isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘This trail ends five miles ahead at an impassable ravine. It’s why both the Kingdom nobles and the Natalese Rangers left it unguarded. You want the trail a half-mile downslope.’

Feeling foolish, he said, ‘Thank you, but you could have reminded me back in Ylith.’

‘You’d just get lost somewhere else. We have many days of travel ahead, my love, and who knows what will be waiting for us the closer we get to those elves? Either Brendan or I would double your chances to survive, and admit it, I’m a better choice than Brendan; I’ve travelled these trails more and I’m a better archer.’

Finally Martin turned, motioning for her to follow. He whistled and the four hunters from Ylith appeared from cover. ‘Tom, Jack, Will, and Edgar; Lady Bethany of Carse.’

Tom and Jack were brothers, fourteen and fifteen years of age. They had been too young to fight when the Keshians had first arrived in Yabon, but were now keen to do their bit. Will looked to be in his fifties, with his grey hair and a sallow complexion, but his eyes were sharp and focused. Edgar was a slightly stout man with a bald pate, grey beard, dark eyes and the shoulders of a brawler. All held bows and moved like experienced hunters. Tom and Jack exchanged glances, but neither of them spoke.

‘She’ll be taking point,’ Martin told them. ‘Let’s go.’

Beth said, ‘If memory serves, there’s a dry streambed ahead we can use to get downslope to the next trail.’ She spoke as if this was the expected route and no one said a word. The four hunters from Yabon might not know the young prince well enough to say for certain, but all of them were convinced he was in no mood for questions.

Beth set off at a slow trot and the others followed in line.

Days passed quietly. The forest above was thin as they followed the upper game trails. This part of the Grey Towers was below the timberline at the peaks, but still high enough that the foliage was less dense, hence less difficult to pass. It also made it easier to be seen if they weren’t careful, but Bethany was proving to be a skilled trail-breaker.

Martin was still nursing his injured pride five days into the march, but it was fading as he was forced to admit her reasoning was borne out by the ease with which she led the party. Several times she negotiated them around difficult spots that would have confounded him, forcing him to double back and find another path.

They ate trail rations, avoiding campfires at night, so this foray lacked any sense of the fun Martin and Bethany had known hunting with their fathers. There was a quiet urgency and earnestness about the mission that was more sobering than any admonition Martin could have made. Everyone knew lives were at stake, their own and others’.

Bethany would rise at dawn and move off at a distance to relieve herself. She had instructed Martin and the four hunters in ways to relieve themselves leaving as little evidence as possible. At first Martin thought she was showing off her trail skills, but after a few days he realized that their body odour could betray their whereabouts. Bethany had taught them how to bathe in a cold stream and rid their garments of stench, using rocks and some oil pressed out of pine bark. Martin had stood guard while she bathed and the five men had rotated guard duty while cleaning themselves.

On the fifth day of their journey the rains came.

Even in midsummer, the weather on the west side of the Grey Towers could turn suddenly. Driving rain, even hail, was not uncommon. They were on the ‘wet’ side of the mountains, as the trail they followed from the road looped to the west of the peaks; storms off the Endless Sea would drench the west face of the peaks, leaving the east side of the mountains dry. Enough rain got over the peaks that the east faces were replete with rivers and streams, rendering the mountain pastures and lower meadows fertile farm land, providing many of the cash crops shipping from the ports of the Free Cities, but they were less plagued with marsh-like depressions, stagnant pools and mosquitoes. Martin decided that in addition to what the history books said about the Keshian colonization of Bosania, the simple truth was that the east side of the Grey Towers was just a nicer place to live than the west side, which is why it was more densely populated.

The troop was less troubled by the terrain than by keeping dry: for much of that fifth day they all huddled under a granite overhang that provided some shelter. In the last hours of the afternoon the storm blew out, and the late sun found the six members of Martin’s scouting party standing, arms outstretched, catching as much of the sun as they could to accelerate drying out, looking like nothing so much as a group of turkey buzzards trying to warm themselves in the sun.

Martin was concerned, not about the discomforts of the trail, but because so far they had encountered no sign of the elves. From what he had been told, these so-called Star Elves were a city race, unlike their cousins in Elvandar. Their trail-craft and wood-lore was no better than that of most humans, and inferior to that of the Rangers of Natal and the Pathfinders of Krondor. Still, if Martin’s estimation was correct, they were less than two days from their city of E’bar, and should be seeing signs of patrols or sentries.

But there had been nothing.

The dawn of the sixth day saw six tired, hungry, miserable scouts moving up a small draw, which should have emptied out into a woodland meadow just north of the Great Rift Valley, as it had come to be known. Here was where the Tsurani had breached space to invade Midkemia through a magic rift. To the south of that spot the taredhel were reputed to have constructed a remarkable city. Little was known about it, for few humans were known to have survived seeing it. The only reason Martin knew where to look was because of information provided him by Jim Dasher before leaving Rillanon. Apparently those who had visited and survived were members of the mysterious Conclave of Shadows.

Martin knew there were still many things he didn’t know; and having to proceed without a clear plan was bringing him to the limits of frustration. ‘Go there and look around,’ Lord James and Jim Dasher had said. Martin had no idea what it was he was looking for, or even if he’d recognize something important if he blundered across it. More than he would ever admit, he was relieved that Bethany was with him. She possessed an innate sense of how things should be organized and saw details where Martin saw patterns: between the two of them they stood a fair chance of the mission succeeding. What Martin didn’t like was the possibility of failure, especially where she was involved.

Bethany raised her hand.

Martin and the others stopped.

A voice cried out in a language none of them understood, and suddenly they were surrounded by very tall, angry elves. Martin’s sword had barely cleared its scabbard before he was struck by a balled fist across the cheek, and swallowed up by darkness.

Martin awoke with a groan. His head throbbed and he had trouble focusing his eyes for a moment. He found himself a short distance away from a fire, and reckoned he must have been unconscious for at least three hours, for it was clearly just after sunset. Along with Bethany and the others, he lay under a lean-to shelter. Like the others, his hands were tied behind his back, so contriving to sit upright took a little effort and each exertion caused his head to pound, and then he sat up with a grunt. Once he had exchanged silent nods confirming that everyone was more or less intact, Martin took a good look around.

Surrounding them was an encampment of elves, but they looked nothing like those elves who had visited Crydee from Elvandar over the years. These were unusually tall and most were blonde, though there were a few with darker tresses or red hair. At least half seemed to be wearing a uniform of some fashion: a blue tunic over which a cuirass of polished steel was fitted. A few were wearing white lacquered armour and matching helms. All appeared to be sporting injuries of some fashion.

Bethany whispered, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I was about to ask that of you,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘Except for a throbbing head, I’m all right.’ He glanced around. ‘Where are we?’

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘We were ambushed and taken without injury. They seem to want us alive.’ She nodded towards the four hunters who all sat silently. ‘We were bound and blindfolded. I think we’re maybe an hour or less from E’bar, if it’s where we think it is. We’re in the valley.’ With her chin she pointed and Martin could make out a faint glimmer from the setting sun playing off peaks opposite where they rested. The eastern rim of the valley was higher than the rest so while they were quickly entering shadows, there was some illumination still.

‘Has anyone talked to you?’ asked Martin.

‘They seem rather too busy.’

Martin watched the camp and noted that while no one was moving frantically, there was a sense of urgency about these elves. The economy of motion that blessed their race masked an intensity that betrayed itself by glimpses and hints. ‘There’s something going on.’

Bethany nodded towards the south. ‘See anything?’

Martin craned his neck. In the falling twilight he could make out a faint red glow coming from the south. ‘What is that?’ he asked.

‘I have no idea,’ she responded. ‘At first I thought it might be a trick of the light, some reflection of the sunset off a cloud, but as it got darker that glow continued.’

They both looked on in silence, wondering what was in store next.

Time seemed to drag, as none of the elves seemed aware of their presence, let alone concerned with their comfort. Finally, the burly, bald-headed hunter, Edgar, said, ‘If they don’t cut me loose soon, Highness, I’m going to be sitting here in a pool of my own piss.’

One of the elves who was sitting near a fire a dozen yards away turned and looked at the captives. He stood up and slowly walked over to the lean-to and knelt on one knee before Edgar. Pulling out his large belt knife, he cut his bonds and in a slightly accented Common Tongue – the trading language around the Bitter Sea – he said, ‘Go over there.’ He pointed with the dagger and indicated a spot some distance from the camp. ‘We’ve dug a trench.’

Edgar said, ‘Ah … thank you.’ He got up on what were obviously stiff knees after having sat on the ground for hours and hobbled off.

‘Come back when you’re finished, human,’ said the Star Elf. ‘You do not want to be out there in the dark alone and unarmed.’

The elf then looked at Martin. ‘Highness?’

Martin hesitated, then said, ‘I’m Martin conDoin, brother to Duke Henry, cousin to the late King Gregory.’

The elf was silent, then nodded once, stood and walked away. He walked past the spot where he had been sitting, circled around the large campfire and vanished into the gloom in the trees beyond the clearing.

‘What was that?’ asked Bethany.

‘I do not know,’ said Martin.

Edgar returned a little while later and seeing the elves unconcerned with his coming and going, he knelt behind Martin and untied him. Martin’s arms felt as if they were shot through with needles as he moved them slowly, getting his circulation back. Bethany and the others were quickly freed, and when they had all moved enough to regain some sense of comfort, Bethany said, ‘What now?’

Martin said, ‘I don’t know. Look.’ He indicated the large contingent of elves a short way off. ‘No one seems to care we’re unbound.’

Edgar said, ‘I think it’s what that elf said, about being out there unarmed.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Martin.

Edgar said, ‘I’ve been a hunter all my life, Highness. I know when something unseen is nearby; you can hear things, sense things. There are … things out in those woods and I think we don’t want to go there.’

‘So what?’ asked Tom. ‘We wait?’

Martin nodded. ‘We wait. If these elves wanted to harm us, they would have done so by now. I’m getting the distinct impression they see us as something of a nuisance. They’re preoccupied with other matters.’

‘Looks like they’ve come though a pretty nasty fight, Highness,’ said Will.

Occasionally a wounded warrior would appear, either staggering in alone or being helped by another, who would turn and trot back into the forest to the south towards the faint red glow. The elves in the camp attended the wounded, dressing injuries, providing food and water, or simply letting them rest. Once an elf with a bandaged leg rose from his rest, picked up his weapons and hobbled off down the trail leading to the south.

Time passed and suddenly three elves walked purposefully toward them. Martin stood up. The two flanking elves were obviously warriors, bedecked in the white-and-pale-blue uniforms he had seen mixed in with the other warriors, and the one in the centre wore an ornate blue robe, but one now stained with mud and blood. He sported a large bruise on the left cheek as well as a heavily bandaged right arm.

‘You’re a prince of Kesh or the Kingdom?’ he asked Martin.

Fighting back the need to explain, Martin simply said, ‘Kingdom. Yes.’

If the elf had reservations, he kept them to himself. Instead he just said, ‘Come,’ and turned to walk away.

Martin nodded to the others to accompany him and they all followed the elf, who glanced back at them. ‘I am named Tanderae. I am by rank Loremaster of the Clans of the Seven Stars. There is something you must see.’

They followed him into the woods, along a dark path through the boles. There was just enough light from the fires behind and the red glow ahead that they could make their way.

Abruptly the path widened and deepened and they found themselves in a broad down-sloping ramp, hastily cut into the soil to allow quick escape to what Martin decided could only be called a rear-echelon rest area, a place where the wounded could be tended to and exhausted soldiers could eat and sleep as much as circumstances permitted. This route was not hollowed out by tools wielded by hand, driven by muscle and sweat. It was perfectly cut as if by some giant gardener’s trowel, then smoothed by a sculptor. In the alien light it was without seam or flaw, almost as if the rock had been made liquid and fashioned like soft clay, then made hard again.

A soft glow came from a series of stones set upright along the pathway every ten feet or so, a pale-blue light that made travelling up and down the slope easy at night. The distant red light was becoming brighter as they walked down the ramp to a flat terrace, bordering on what had been a ridge line before the magical excavation behind them had moved tons of soil, trees, and boulders.

Suddenly they were out in the open, and they all stopped and gaped.

Miles in the distance, down in the deepest part of the valley stood the city of E’bar, the ancient elven word for ‘home’.

Martin could barely credit his eyes. Even at this distance the city was massive. Rumours had begun to circulate during the war with Kesh that the elven city had been constructed by arts beyond human understanding. Seeing it, Martin counted the rumours as true.

Graceful towers dominated the heart of E’bar, but from what could be seen at this distance, the entire city was a work of art. Looking down at the magically transformed stone beneath their feet, Martin imagined the walls of the city would be smooth and seamless. But it was hard to tell: tantalizing hints of what was awaiting a visitor were masked by a scintillating bubble of energy which surrounded the entire city, starting a few yards beyond the great circular city walls and rising up above the loftiest pinnacle. Intermittently, random glimmers of brilliant white-yellow diamonds seemed to flow across the surface, erupting into lances of blinding light that shot out for dozens of yards before vanishing, leaving the eye blind for a moment from the brilliance. Except for those bursts, the dome was a transparent red shell, pulsing with energy and giving off the ruby light that had illuminated the night sky.

A ring of elves, thousands from what Martin could judge, encircled the massive city. Shafts of light erupted from dozens of points in the line every second and magicians or priests cast magic at that barrier. Where the magic struck, tiny lightning-like bursts rebounded from the surface, then faded.

Tanderae said to Martin, ‘Behold the last home of my people.’

Martin was silent for a moment, then glanced at his companions who looked equally perplexed by the scene before them. At last Martin said, ‘You were driven from your city and now you attack a magic defence?’

Tanderae smiled slightly. ‘We fled from our city, but that energy shell is not that city’s defence. It’s ours. Many of my people are giving their lives to prevent what’s inside from escaping.’

Thinking about the number of exhausted and wounded elves he had seen, Martin began to form a question. But then he saw a tiny breach in the shell surrounding the city. Instantly a score of dark forms exploded from the gap before it closed. Those creatures of inky blackness moved straight for the line of magic-users and silver-and-white-clad soldiers threw themselves before the magicians, slashing frantically.

They were too far from the fight to see details, but eventually the black figures were gone and the elves reformed, a few limping back to their line.

‘What were those?’

‘We call them the Forbidden. They are an ancient species, so hateful they make their demon servants appear benign. They have found a way into our city and if they escape that barrier, life as we know it on this world will rapidly cease.’

Martin was aghast. ‘How long can you hold?’

‘Until the last of us,’ said the loremaster. ‘We brought this horror to our home world and we will die here protecting Midkemia.’

‘Why haven’t you sent for help?’ asked Martin.

‘Because every man, woman, and child not killed in the explosion that brought those horrors here has been fighting them, holding them in.’ Tanderae looked at Martin. ‘So now you are here we don’t have to send a messenger.’ He nodded to Martin. ‘Prince of the Kingdom, we seek help.’

Bethany said quietly, ‘Now we know why someone wanted every army in the west as far from here as they could manoeuvre them.’

Martin could only nod.

The elves provided them with food, though not a great deal of it, and filled their water-skins. Tanderae walked with them to the original clearing in which they had been held and was silent until he reached the large lean-to where they had been left after first being captured. He was impassive, though Martin saw what he thought were hints of fatigue and perhaps even hopelessness in the way he spoke.

The Loremaster of the Clans of the Seven Stars said, ‘Rest here until sunrise, human. The few hours will make no difference and while there is little chance of you encountering any danger, falling down the mountain and breaking your neck would serve neither of our causes. If you move downslope from here for an hour, you’ll find the game trail upon which you were taken.’ He looked at Martin. ‘I know little of you humans. Others among us have visited your cities and understand your politics and might be better able to convince you, but at this time I have nothing more to show than what you’ve already seen, and I can only tell you this:

‘For centuries we of the Clans of the Seven Stars have battled the demon legions across worlds, and only at the end have we come to understand those demons were no more than the servants of a far darker evil. Once we numbered in the millions, more than all your nations of man on Midkemia, but now we are as you see us.

‘It is bitter to say, but we were betrayed by our own leaders. I was a member of the Circle of Light. We were scholars and delvers into mystery, creators of art and magic. Those of us who sought enlightenment and knowledge were at first opposed by those who took power; then we were named traitors to the cause of our people, hunted and killed. When we were offered amnesty we took it, and some like myself even entered the Regent’s Meet. Now I find it was our own leaders who betrayed us to our most bitter enemies. If the death of my race comes, it comes from within.’

‘But why?’ asked Martin.

‘I do not know,’ answered the Loremaster. ‘Madness, offers of survival, faith in a power that corrupted. I can only speculate.’ He sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter. This is what we face. Inside that dome is the true enemy, those behind the demon legions, seeking their way into this world to destroy all they touch. I have already sent word to the north, to the Queen of the Eledhel and her consort, Lord Tomas. But even their magic will not be enough. So, we need human allies.

‘When you return, seek me out, or if I am gone, find Egun, leader of the remaining Sentinels, and if he is gone, whoever may be left.’ He reached out and gripped Martin’s shoulders. ‘Help us.’ Then he turned and headed back to the embattled city.

Will, Tom, Jack, and Edgar said little as they travelled back towards Ylith. They knew without being told they had seen something both majestic and terrible. Even Martin and Bethany had little life experience to put what they had witnessed into any context. The encounters with those supernatural demonic creatures who had appeared during the assault on Ylith, and the response of the magic-users who were in the city, were relatively normal in comparison to what they had seen in the Grey Towers Mountains.

As they approached the Keshian lines, Martin said to the four hunters, ‘Men, I would take it as a personal favour if you said nothing to anyone about what we’ve seen.’

‘Who’d believe us, Highness?’ asked Tom.

The others nodded and Will chuckled, but Martin pressed on. ‘Still, rumours spread like fire on dry straw, and Ylith is barely approaching what we might think of as normal times. There are still plenty of scared, battle-weary folks who don’t need to be told more horror is on the way. All right?’

The four agreed and Bethany said, ‘What are we going to do when we reach the city?’

Martin said, ‘There are some things I need to talk over with George Bolton before I head south.’

She sighed and patted his arm. The idea of him leaving so soon after arriving didn’t please her. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got to get to Krondor as fast as I can, and hope a magician named Ruffio is still there, or someone knows how to reach him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because riding horses until they drop to reach Prince Edward isn’t going to solve anything; because Edward’s not about to leave the Fields of Albalyn with a civil war threatening; and besides, from what we saw, bows and arrows are only so useful. No, we need magicians, and if I can find Ruffio, he can get word to where it needs to go, to the temples, to Stardock …’ He glanced over at the four hunters, and lowered his voice. ‘And to others I’ll tell you about when we’re alone.’

She looked confused and curious, but nodded to say she would wait.

‘Let’s go,’ said Martin. ‘If we’re quick enough we should be able to slip behind the southern patrol and loop around to the main gate of the city. No need to use the old keep tunnel if we’re already back on our side of the line.’

It was an exhausted and filthy band that reached the gates of Ylith an hour after sunrise six days after leaving the elves. By the time the gates of the city were opened, Captain Bolton, Brendan, and the mayor were waiting. Martin outlined the situation as Sergeant Oaks appeared, obviously just awakened. When Martin finished, the old sergeant said, ‘Orders, Highness?’

Martin said, ‘I’m going to need four men to travel with me to Krondor. The rest of you will stay to bolster the garrison here until I return.’

Oaks wasn’t happy, but he merely said, ‘Yes, Highness.’

‘We’ll need two horses each and we’ll ride them until they drop: there’s a need for speedy travel.’

Brendan said, ‘I’ll go see to the mounts.’

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘Send someone else. I have something I need you to do. We’ll talk later.’

Something about Martin’s demeanour made Brendan think twice about objecting. He signalled for one of the boys who were acting as messengers and aides for the soldiers and instructed him as to Martin’s needs. The boy ran off in a hurry.

Martin quickly finished detailing some things he’d like done in the city to the mayor, Bolton, and Oaks, then motioned for Bethany and Brendan to accompany him as he left for the mayor’s house for a quick bath and meal. Once the three of them were out of earshot of the others he said, ‘I’ve got some things I’d like the two of you to do. If either of you want to say no, I’ll understand. I can order Oaks to send a couple of his men, but I’d rather leave these tasks to people I trust.’

‘Whatever you ask,’ said Brendan.

‘Yes,’ agreed Bethany.

Turning to Bethany he said, ‘I need you to take the four hunters after you’ve rested and travel to Elvandar.’

‘Elvandar?’ she said. ‘Really?’

Martin nodded. ‘I know that elf Tanderae said he’d sent someone north, but I’d feel better knowing we had someone talking to the Elf Queen. Those Star Elves don’t strike me as practised hunters, and we’ve had word of the Brotherhood of the Dark Path moving down from the Northlands again. Between those dark murderers and the Keshians, we’ve no guarantees the Elf Queen will know what’s happening in the Grey Towers. That’s elf-magic and maybe she can help. But she can’t do anything if she doesn’t know.

‘From the Yabon side of the mountains to the south side of the River Boundary you shouldn’t even see a hint of a Keshian or a Dark Brother, so I think it’s a relatively safe journey. Besides, you know how to move through the woods like an elf.’

She smiled. ‘It will be good to see our mothers.’ Both Martin’s mother and Bethany’s were safe in Elvandar since fleeing Crydee.

‘Tell the boys and take what you need and leave in the morning,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving as soon as the horses are ready – I’ve got most of today to ride, but you could use a few hours’ sleep.’

‘What do I say to the Elf Queen?’

‘You saw as much as I did, Beth. Just tell her what you saw and that these Star Elves are hard pressed by whatever is trapped within their city.’ He paused. ‘If you can remember what Tanderae said about betrayal from within, that might be important.’

She nodded, hesitated, then realized Martin wished to speak with his brother alone. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you later.’ She hurried off.

Brendan said, ‘What do you want me to do, Martin?’

‘I’m going to ask much of you, but do you think you can find a boat and get down the coast past the Quegan patrols?’

Brendan was quiet for a minute, then said, ‘I think so. There are a couple of small cutters still in the harbour. One’s a nice little double headsail that should make good time. I can sail her at night and lay in close to the coast with the mast down in the day if I see Quegan galleys. If I hug close to shore and avoid shoals, yes, I can get south of here. Are we sailing to Krondor?’

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘I’m riding, as I told the others. I must get word to Prince Edward of this invasion or attack or whatever it is in the Grey Towers. But as certain as bears sleep in the winter, whatever those elves are facing needs magic as well as arms to withstand it, and I’m remembering what Jim Dasher told us about on our last night in Rillanon.’

‘The Conclave?’

‘Yes, and you remember where he said we’d find them?’

Brendan’s expression turned sour. ‘Sorcerer’s Isle.’

‘If the Conclave is there, you can safely ignore all those tales of monsters and evil sorcerers. And if you can get to Sarth, it’s almost a straight sail south to the island. The stories have a castle on the east tip of the island, so that’s where I’d start looking.’

Brendan nodded. ‘I understand. If you can’t find that Ruffio, you’ll be riding hard from Krondor to the Fields of Albalyn.’

‘And that means weeks before I can find Prince Edward. And who knows if he’ll be willing to send anyone to the west?’

‘OK, I’ll leave at sunset and start for Sarth.’

Martin looked around. ‘It’s odd how normal this city looks at times like these.’

‘Enjoy, Brother,’ said Brendan. ‘I’m coming to believe normality as we once knew it will never return.’

‘As long as something normal returns, I’ll settle for it being different,’ said Martin.

The two brothers took one last look around the still-quiet street and headed in different directions, on different tasks, but sharing the same determination to do their best or die trying.

• CHAPTER SIX •
Assassins

HAL LUNGED.

Ty Hawkins beat aside the blade and riposted. Hal barely avoided the point of Ty’s sword with a frantic parry, but before he could get back on line, Ty was already back in place, ready for his attack.

‘Enough,’ said Tal Hawkins. To Hal he said, ‘You’re still over-reaching when you sense a weakness. Most times you’ll survive that mistake, because you’re as fast a blade as I’ve seen in my life. But Ty is not like most of the opponents you’ll face. And you must never assume the man facing you is not my son’s equal. Else you will find yourself losing the bout.’

‘Or face down on the ground bleeding,’ added Ty. He removed the basket helm he wore for practice and wiped away the perspiration. ‘But you came close.’

Hal removed his basket helm and also wiped his brow with the back of his gauntlet. He motioned to a servant who took his helm, then Ty’s.

Tal smiled at his son. ‘When you faced him in the Masters’ Court, I told you he was faster.’

Ty grinned back. ‘I’m going to have to practise faster, I guess.’

Hal laughed. ‘Thank you for the bout. I needed it.’

Tal put his hand on Hal’s shoulder. ‘I understand. Waiting for the other side to make the next move can be grinding on the nerves.’

Tal said, ‘I feel like a steam. You two need to clean up.’

Ty and Hal exchanged questioning looks, and Ty said, ‘He’s right. We both reek.’

Hal glanced around and decided he’d find out what this was about when they were alone. He motioned for the palace servant who had been assigned to him as he unbuttoned his heavily padded practice tunic. When it was off he handed it to the page and said, ‘Bring fresh clothes to the baths.’

Ty echoed the instruction to the lad who cared for his needs, and the two young nobles left the empty room Hal had commandeered for use as a practice hall. It was used primarily as an extra dining hall, hence it being long enough for good fencing practice. That meant it also had a back entrance that opened onto a long hall that led to stairs down to the next level, the main servants’ quarters and lesser guest quarters, a floor above the baths.

They moved quickly down the stairs into the very busy royal kitchens. A massive complex of rooms, it was centred around a core kitchen with two hearths for roasting meat or boiling soups, preparation space, and ovens. Even with no king in residence, there were hundreds of mouths to feed every day and with the current influx of eastern nobles attending the Congress when it ratified the next king – whenever that finally occurred – the demand for food and drink was constant.

Two auxiliary kitchens were also in operation, adding two more hearths and four working ovens, and a further two for back-up. The last two were used if a gala was underway or on Midsummer Day, the Festival of Banapis, when the gates of the palace were thrown open and the city feasted at the king’s table.

The two young nobles made their way through a busy press of cooks and helpers, with one particularly striking blonde helper catching Ty’s eye. He smiled and paused to speak with her, but Hal grabbed his arm. ‘Later.’

Ty threw Hal a dark look, but said nothing. They moved through the servants’ wing of the palace, heading back towards the main corridors that fed into the grand entryway, the hall that ran from the main doors of the palace – once the heart of an ancient keep – to the throne room. As Hal was reminded each time he needed to go from one side of the palace to the other, it was massive.

Originally a fortress above a village on one of several islands in what became known as the Sea of Kingdoms, the fortress had been replaced by several increasingly larger constructions, first of wood and mud, then stone, and finally the first castle had been erected on this site. Of the last castle, only vestigial walls remained, now part of the heart of the palace, surrounding on three sides the king’s reception area and throne room. The rear wall had been torn down to accommodate floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the bay.

Now the two young men cut across the entry hallway, which was as wide as most streets in the city, and reached the beginning of the labyrinth of apartments and offices that ended at the royal apartment complex on the opposite side from where they started. Rillanon might not have the tradition of opulence that was found in the older Kingdom of Roldem, but it seemed to be attempting to overtake it as best it could, Hal thought. He glanced through the massive doors that opened onto the reception courtyard and gave a view of the city beyond. In the afternoon sun, it was dazzling.

Rodric the Fourth, occasionally called the Mad King, though never in this palace, had been obsessed about turning Rillanon into the most splendid city in the world. To that end he had started a beautification project of unprecedented scale. Stone quarries in all corners of the Kingdom, and some in Queg and Kesh, were searched out for the finest marble and granite, which was shipped to the city in a steady stream to replace the ancient walls of the palaces, the royal complex, and the royal precinct. Over the years subsequent kings had continued the process, so that now merchants and commoners found stone-cutters and masons with royal commissions arriving one day to announce that old masonry, stone facing, and even ancient whitewashed daub, was being replaced by stone, courtesy of the king.

The result, centuries later, was that on a sunny day, when approached from the sea, Rillanon sparkled like a jewel, and as one came closer, the rainbow of colours playing over the façades of the city was stunning. From rose to pale blue, golden yellow to pale violet, the range of colours was breath-taking.

At times of conflict the cost to the royal treasury might be debated, and the impact on taxes was undoubted, but no one argued about the results. Rillanon was the Jewel of the Sea of Kingdoms.

Hal and Ty reached a long descending staircase, lit by lamps in sconces, and reached a basement two floors below the main hall. One of the pleasures of the palace was that one of Hal’s ancestors had installed a Quegan-style bath in a previously dank and little-used sub-basement. Unlike the Quegans who had evolved bathing into a pastime, Kesh’s baths were more a way to mitigate the scorching summer heat near cool pools and fountains, dipping in and out all day, so that cleanliness was rarely an issue for the scantily clad Truebloods of the City of Kesh. They could drop their light robes or girdles, slip into cool water, and wait for the evening’s cooler air.

The Quegans, on the other hand, had come to colonize the Bitter Sea and, as a result, had a much more varied climate during the year. They had developed a three-room bath process, later up to five rooms, for steam and dry heat.

Hal had discovered the almost-sybaritic pleasures of bathing since coming to Rillanon. He and Ty entered the first room, the cold bath, and handed their clothes to attendants. The dry stone floors told them they were the first nobles of the day to partake of the bath’s pleasures.

The two young men slipped into the bath, descending two broad steps of marble, until they were able to kneel and cover their shoulders with the bracing cold water. Hal dunked his head and when he came up said, ‘If I were king, my friend, I’d be here every day.’

Ty ducked his head and emerged, wiping his face. He grinned. ‘These days the desire to be king makes you a target, Hal.’

‘True,’ said Hal, turning and swimming to the far end of the pool, Ty a half stroke behind him.

They reached the end, pulled themselves up onto the stone deck and found servants holding towels. The softness of the king’s woven towels never ceased to amaze Hal. He had grown up in a castle where coarse linen was the fabric of choice for drying everything, from kitchen utensils to the duke’s sons.

They walked through a short hall that brought them into the warm room. A shallow pool of water occupied all but a two-foot-wide ledge around the perimeter and was filled with warm water. A series of low wooden stools were arrayed so as many as a dozen bathers could be attended at any time. With only two attendants, Hal knew that someone on the palace chancellor’s staff always knew how many residents were approaching the baths.

They sat on stools while the two attendants, boys who appeared to be approaching manhood, set about soaping up the two young nobles. As Hal endured having someone else soap his hair – something he hadn’t had done by anyone since his mother stopped doing it when he was a boy – Ty laughed. ‘In Queg, and the City of Kesh, this task would likely befall a couple of lovely young girls.’

Hal laughed at that. ‘If that were true here, I’d never get you to the hot room.’

‘A time and place for everything, I suppose. You natives of the Isles tend to be a bit proper. You’re almost as conservative as the folk in Roldem.’

‘You have Isles parents,’ observed Hal.

‘True, but I was Olasko-born and spent most of my youth there and in Roldem. I also hold titles from both cities.’

When they were completely covered in soap, they stood for the servants to pour buckets of warm water over their heads. Dripping wet, they made their way to the next room, where a very deep, hot pool waited. They slipped in and Hal could barely avoid gasping from the sudden increase in heat.

After a moment he could feel his muscles loosen from the vigorous sword play. ‘I could linger here for an hour or two,’ he said.

Laughing, Ty pulled himself up. ‘Maybe later, but Father is waiting.’

Hal groaned, but followed his friend to where more servants waited with large fluffy towels, which the two young men wrapped around their waists. They moved through a heavily curtained entrance that led to a short hall with two doors, one on either hand.

‘Wet or dry?’ asked Hal.

‘Father will be in dry. That way he won’t have to bathe off the sweat.’

They entered the dry chamber, a spacious room with cedar-wood walls and a large bench. A bin of heated rocks had been placed against one wall. Hot coals could be added from a slot in the wall beneath, so the attendant didn’t have to enter the room.

Two men waited on the bench, both wearing towels. Next to Tal Hawkins sat Jim Dasher, which surprised Hal not at all. The two older men sat on the higher of the two long benches across the back of the room. Jim held up his hand for silence, then indicated the bench at his feet. Both younger men sat.

A sudden eruption of steam from the steam box filled the room with moisture and a sibilant hiss. Jim said, ‘One of my men has ensured we are not overheard.’

Hal and Ty exchanged quick glances, then Hal said, ‘News?’

‘Not of the good sort,’ answered Jim Dasher. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and said, ‘You’ve been marked for death.’ He looked at Hal.

Hal was silent for a moment, then said, ‘You said that might happen.’

‘And so it has,’ answered Jim.

‘Do we know who wants me dead?’

Jim smiled. ‘A lot of people want you dead, Hal, we just don’t know who is paying for it.’ He sighed. ‘I got word early this morning off a ship from Roldem, sent by a good friend.’ Hal knew he meant the Lady Franciezka Sorboz, a woman with much the same position in Roldem as Jim Dasher held in the Isles. ‘We’d a report from the Conclave a while back that the Nighthawks had come to terms with them, basically safe passage in exchange for … getting out of the assassination trade, more or less. At least they were no longer lending support to the demon-worshippers who had been plaguing us for a very long time. As a result, those seeking a blade for hire or a poisoner have had fewer recourses; in short, it’s a seller’s market.

‘That being the case, both my friend in Roldem and I have had certain people watched, those able to broker less reputable contracts and arrangements, some who are not adverse to setting up such deals then selling information about those deals to a third party.’

‘You,’ said Ty.

‘Or … your friend in Roldem,’ added Hal.

Jim nodded.

Hal asked, ‘What do I do?’

Jim sat back. ‘For the moment, nothing. I’ve some good men out looking for a pair of fellows who’ve sailed up from Kesh to Roldem, then on to Rillanon. Given the recent unpleasantness between Kesh and the Kingdom, anyone coming straight from there to here would be examined carefully by several hundred soldiers surrounding the docks.’

‘A pair of sailors off a ship …?’ Jim shrugged.

‘Do you have a description?’ asked Tal, reaching over and taking a ladle of water from a bucket and pouring it over his head.

‘I doubt they look the same any more,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve got on a ship looking like a nobleman, and got off it looking like something that crawled out of the bilge. For a target in the palace,’ he pointed at Hal, ‘even if he is only a distant royal, that means a great deal of gold and only the best would accept the contract.’ Jim took the ladle from Tal, refilled it from the nearby bucket, and poured it over his own head. ‘I’ve never been one for this dry heat.’

Tal smiled. ‘My people in the mountains had sweat lodges when I was a boy. You get used to it. After a fashion, you even enjoy it.’

‘What I’ll enjoy is getting out of it,’ said Jim Dasher, rising. To Hal he said, ‘Pack a bag and leave it in your rooms, by the doors that so my servants can find it quickly. Be ready to leave the moment I give word. Until then, stay in the palace.’

Tal looked at his son and said, ‘Pack as well. You’re going with him.’ Then he rose and departed.

Ty looked at Hal and said, ‘I guess I’m going with you.’

‘Apparently.’

Rising, Hal said, ‘Let’s go gather our things.’

‘And then we wait,’ finished Ty.

‘Boredom beckons,’ said Hal.

Ty laughed. ‘In a palace full of serving women who would love to make close acquaintance with a duke?’

Hal sighed and said nothing.

As they walked to the dressing room where fresh clothing awaited them, Ty said, ‘Stephané.’

Hal again said nothing.

‘Sorry,’ said Ty.

‘It’s … something I need to get used to.’

This time, Ty said nothing. He understood what a beauty Stephané was, and how resilient she had proven herself when Hal and he had helped her escape Roldem. But Tyrone Hawkins had never found a woman to hold his attention longer than a few weeks, perhaps a month at most. His childhood had been less than instructive about how women and men should be together, he thought occasionally. He knew the facts of his childhood, that his father was some unknown Olaskan soldier, though Talwin Hawkins treated him as his own, and he loved him as his father, but there was a sadness about his mother, one that never seemed to completely pass. He knew she loved her husband, but there was something missing. Ironically, he felt closer to his adopted father than his natural mother, though she loved him dearly.

He pushed aside thoughts that led to doubt and concern, and turned his mind to something much more enjoyable: that pretty blonde wench in the kitchen who had smiled at him as he had passed through. As they reached the changing room, he decided the first thing he’d do was to find out her name.

A knock at the door awoke Hal. It was still dark. After the many cautions he’d received from Jim Dasher, he had his sword in hand when he opened the door. Opening it slightly, he saw a page waiting. ‘Lord James asks you to attend him, my lord.’

Hal nodded and said, ‘Wait here.’

It took him only a few minutes to dress and, again he heard the echoing cautions in his head, he wore sturdy clothing suitable for travel rather than court finery. He followed the page and was surprised that even in the pre-dawn darkness, the palace at Rillanon was busy.

They reached Duke James’s quarters and found Jim Dasher, Ty, and a court chirurgeon attending the duke. Hal hurried to the old duke’s bedside. ‘Are you ill, my lord?’

Waving away the hovering chirurgeon, Duke James coughed and said, ‘Just a bit of an ague. It’ll pass.’

Hal glanced at Jim, who shook his head slightly.

Feeling alarm rising, Hal asked, ‘How may I serve, my lord?’

Old Duke James said, ‘That reprobate grandson of mine says someone’s come to kill you. He’s inclined to let you sit here as bait and capture the murderous dogs who are sniffing around. I, on the other hand, think it best to get you somewhere else. They can’t kill you if they don’t know where you are. So, get going and stay alive.’

Hal was caught between concern and amusement, but managed to keep a serious expression as he said, ‘Yes, my lord.’

Jim nodded toward the bed. ‘My grandfather is holding this kingdom together with strength of will. There are nobles who’ve stood silently, not allying with Montgomery or Chadwick, or are thinking of throwing their weight behind Oliver.’ Jim closed his eyes as if suffering a headache, then said, ‘We take these trials as they come. Now I need to get you two off this island,’ he said to Hal and Ty. ‘Then I must have a very important talk with Montgomery.’

Hal and Ty listened, and said nothing.

‘If in a few days you hear my grandfather is no longer among the living and that Montgomery is now Duke of Rillanon, assume I’m dead.’

Hal’s face showed alarm. He glanced at the old duke, who nodded.

‘Your very distant cousin’s claim to the throne benefits him if he’s Duke of Rillanon, the man in theory I would be paying fealty to, and who would be in a far better position to allocate favours before a vote in the Congress.’

‘And have control over your agents,’ added Ty with a tone of concern that surprised Hal.

Jim nodded. ‘So I must have a chat with dear old Monty and insist he let me assume the office of duke so I can maintain the balance between all the raving lunatics around us who think being king is a wonderful idea!’ His voice rose at the last, his anger starting to manifest itself.

‘Can you convince him?’ asked Hal.

Jim said, ‘A combination of promises and threats … perhaps. Our Montgomery is a man of low tastes at times and has made some ill-advised choices. His wife is a simple woman, but her father is the Duke of Bas-Tyra, who would not be pleased to know that his son-in-law is unfaithful on a regular basis, preferring the company of young girls – very young girls – to his wife.’

Hal said nothing, but his face bore an expression of distaste.

‘Without Bas-Tyra, Montgomery’s claim will fall short. Bas-Tyra influences the votes of every noble from here to the Eastern Kingdoms. A great deal of the plotting and dealing around his claim presumes that he has his father-in-law’s backing.’

It was Ty who said, ‘Still, rumours against the possibility of his daughter being Queen of the Isles?’

It was the old duke who said, ‘Bas-Tyra is a cautious man, but not without ambition. Not for himself, but as young Ty observes, perhaps for his daughter. Bas-Tyra has not openly supported anyone, but in the end he’ll do the right thing for the Crown. Now, Montgomery,’ he added, looking less than happy, ‘he’s another thing. Not a driven man, like some, but one capable of being led.’ To Jim he said, ‘When it comes to claiming the Crown, you must convince him not to stand before the Priest of Ishap.’

‘I’ll convince him, or kill him,’ said Jim.

Hal was speechless.

‘Go on, now,’ said Duke James from his bed. ‘Leave an old man to his rest and go cause some havoc for our enemies.’

Jim walked out of the old man’s room with Ty and Hal. Once outside, Hal asked, ‘How is he, really?’

‘Not good,’ said Jim, his tone matter-of-fact, but behind it lingered a hint of sadness. ‘I’ve sent for a healing priest from the Temple of Sung, but there are only so many times you can fend off death. My grandfather is approaching ninety, though he looks a man twenty years younger when he’s in his armour bellowing at the palace guard.’ He glanced back towards the door of the duke’s private chambers.

‘Now,’ said Jim. ‘I’ve had your travel bags collected from your rooms, Hal. From here you’re to go straight to the stables where two horses are waiting. They are sturdy, but unremarkable, as is the tack. In short, once you’re out of the gate, you’re swords-for-hire, or young adventurers, or whatever brand of feckless gadabouts you care to be.

‘Half the ships in the Sea of Kingdoms are arrayed to the west of us, a blockade no captain could run. Every ship in and out is being boarded and inspected by someone, either captains loyal to the Crown, Montgomery’s faction, or Chadwick’s. But if you ride north for a few days, on the west coast you’ll find a fishing village called Kempton. Ask in the tavern for a man named Moss. He’ll show you to a boat you two can certainly handle. It’ll look shoddy, but in fact it’s in excellent condition, and with some luck you can hug the coast travelling north-east, and when you see any break, you can make a run for Bas-Tyra. Once there, find the Inn of the Black Ram, ask for Anton, and he’ll set you on your way to Edward.’ He looked from face to face. ‘Any questions?’

When there weren’t, he said, ‘Go now, and may the gods watch over you.’ Jim walked away.

‘And your grandfather,’ said Hal after him.

Hal turned and left, Ty a half-step behind. As they moved toward the stables, Ty said, ‘I do not envy that man.’

‘I never have,’ said Hal, as they turned a corner. ‘I admire him, for he has thankless and bloody work to do, but I would never wish his burdens on anyone.’

They hurried down a flight of stairs that led to a door opening on the old marshalling yard, and across it lay the royal stables. They were halfway across the dark yard when Hal realized there were no lanterns lit in the stable. Then he heard a nervous nicker from a horse inside.

His sword was out of its scabbard as he heard the faint click. He leaped to the right and slammed into Ty, knocking him over, and came up as a second crossbow bolt sped through the space just occupied by the young noble from Olasko.

Ty was a step behind Hal as they charged through the large open door into the royal stable. Without a word, both men dived headfirst, striking the ground in a tuck, and rolling to their feet, swords at the ready. The sound of crossbows being fired over their heads demonstrated the wisdom of their choice, and a horse cried out in pain and started kicking out at its stall as an errant bolt struck it.

Hal turned to his left and Ty to his right, protecting one another’s backs. They paused only for a moment before moving towards opposite ends of the large stable.

Hal saw a dark shape moving in a crouch while all around horses neighed and whinnied in panic. Hal knew that he had seconds before the assassin reloaded his crossbow or fled into the night. He charged.

The man rose up holding a small, one-handed bow which fired a dart rather than a bolt. Hal slashed with his sword, knocking the weapon aside, and punched the assassin hard in the face with his left hand. The man staggered back and Hal lunged, nicking him in the left side. Suddenly the man had two dirks out, and executed a fast feint followed by a slash towards Hal’s throat. Hal barely fell back enough to avoid losing the fight there and then.

He ducked and a dirk cut through air where he had been standing a moment before. Then he jabbed with his sword and felt the tip strike the man’s already injured side. The assassin gasped in pain and both men were suddenly enmeshed in a deadly duel.

Hal stepped back, his sword’s point aimed at his opponent, who crouched and took his measure. It was clear that the assassin had expected Hal to be dead and himself to be safely away by now. Hal realized he had two opportunities to emerge victorious: either kill the assassin and hope Ty did the same with his opponent, or keep him occupied until relief arrived. It was the middle of the night, but someone from the nearby servants’ quarters would surely hear the struggle, or notice the absence of the certainly now-dead lackeys who had failed to return from readying the horses for him and Ty.

The assassin also realized that and knew his only hope of survival was to finish this quickly. He suddenly threw one of his dirks.

Hal managed to beat the blade aside and stumbled backwards, trying to get his blade around from his blocking move to a position at which he could employ the point.

The assassin didn’t give him the chance, but lowered his shoulder and charged. Hal brought his sword-hand back hard, striking the rushing thug on the side of the head with his pommel. That staggered him and Hal felt an off-target blow slide across his side, as the dirk missed his torso. He slammed the man over the head again, gripped the back of his shirt with his left hand and fell onto the extended right arm. The sound of bone cracking accompanied by a gasp of pain was heard as he struck the ground, his full weight on the assassin’s arm. Hal drew back his sword hilt and slammed the man on the head for a third time, rendering him senseless.

Hal rolled up onto his feet, his sword pointed at the now-motionless assassin, as shouts of enquiry came from the servants’ quarters.

Hal glanced into the gloom of the stable in time to see Ty approaching with his sword at the ready. ‘Yours?’ he asked.

‘Dead,’ said Ty. ‘This one?’

‘Not yet.’

Servants with lanterns arrived, followed moments later by palace guards. Hal looked at his attacker in the lantern light. He was an unremarkable man, slight of build and wearing simple garb, a city man who would easily blend into a crowd.

‘He doesn’t look like an assassin,’ said Hal.

‘Neither did mine,’ said Ty. ‘But they almost did the job.’ He quickly knelt and opened the man’s mouth, motioning for a torch to be brought close to his face. ‘No false teeth,’ he said. ‘Not fanatics like the Nighthawks, then.’ He sheathed his sword as he stood, and motioned for the guards to pick up the unconscious killer.

Hal said, ‘Take him to a cell and notify Jim Dasher.’

The guards lifted him up. A servant cried suddenly, ‘Oh, dear! Poor Lonny and Mark are dead!’

‘See to them,’ said Hal to another pair of guards.

‘How did you know?’ asked Ty.

‘Know what?’

‘They were there. To knock me down?’

‘I heard a click when he set the trigger on his crossbow.’

Ty was silent for a moment, then laughed. ‘So, for want of some lubricant, we’re alive.’

Hal chuckled. ‘I almost got myself killed forgetting we’re not duelling.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Ty. ‘It can be a bad habit, trying to fence while your opponent is brawling. Swords have edges, too.’

Patting his sword, Hal said, ‘And pommels. They make a fair bludgeon.’

‘What now?’

Looking around at the building crowd, Hal said, ‘As much as I would like to tarry and find out exactly who is trying to kill me, I think it best if we follow orders. We ride.’

‘Wise choice. If Jim finds out who is behind this, he’ll send word. And if another attempt is made, it’s best for you to be somewhere else.’

They quickly finished the saddling done by the two dead lackeys and within ten minutes were riding out the postern gate of the palace, vanishing into the night.

Three days later they reached the village of Kempton and found the promised boat. They waited until the evening tide, then slipped out after dark, sailing along the coast on a north-easterly tack.

The third morning after heading up the coast, Ty scrambled up the mast and shouted, ‘Nothing in sight!’

Within moments, sails were raised and Hal pulled them around to catch a favourable wind blowing north. By rough reckoning, they should hit the southern shore of the Kingdom mainland close to Bas-Tyra. With luck, when they caught sight of land, they’d be pointed right at that harbour.

Twice they caught sight of sails and turned and ran, and for two days there was no sign of pursuit. During the war they had run afoul of Ceresian pirates, acting as privateers but in fact raiding the coast. But this trip passed uneventfully.

Three days after leaving the coast they saw a brown smudge on the northern horizon that promised land. Two hours later, the coast was clearly outlined against the sky. By midday they could make out features and judge roughly where they were. Hall pulled the tiller over and corrected his course, and soon coastal details could clearly be seen.

Three distant white spots indicated sails, but Hal made straight for them, because he knew exactly where they were. An hour before sundown, they could see a huge city, one to rival Rillanon and Roldem in size if not in majesty. The harbour mouth was flanked by two massive towers, but beyond that dozens of ships could be seen sailing among many more at anchor.

Hal looked at Ty and smiled. ‘Bas-Tyra.’

The Black Ram was like many other taverns in the cities along the coasts of the Sea of Kingdoms: crowded, dangerous, noisy and packed. It was filled with sailors avoiding duty aboard ships stuck in harbour, with mercenaries looking for employment either as auxiliaries to the city’s garrison or as guards for merchants, with prostitutes, gamblers, and the assorted riff-raff attracted to an approaching war. Two young men pushed their way through the press of bodies over the occasional objections of people who disliked being jostled, though once they saw two young men with serious expressions and fine swords on their hips, they soon gave way.

Reaching the bar, Ty signalled to the closest of three barmen, and when he approached said, ‘I’m looking for Anton.’

With a jerk of his head, the barman indicated a door off to the left. Pushing through complaining customers, Ty and Hal reached the door, masked by an ancient curtain. Pushing it aside, they found themselves looking down a dimly lit hall at the far end of which stood the largest man either of them had ever seen.

They were forced to look up to address him. As both Ty and Hal were over six feet in height, they judged this human mountain to be approaching seven feet tall. From the size of his shoulders and arms, he probably weighed close to three hundred pounds. His skin was coffee-coloured, so much of his ancestry would be Keshian, but his eyes were a vivid blue. His shaved head reflected the light from the one open lamp that hung halfway down the hall.

‘What?’ he asked in a voice so deep it almost rumbled.

‘We seek Anton,’ said Hal.

‘Who sent you?’ asked the human barricade.

Ty paused for a moment, then said, ‘Jim Dasher.’

The man nodded once, turned his back and opened the door. He leaned in and said, ‘Someone looking for you. From Jim Dasher.’

Somehow the monstrous guard stepped aside enough to allow Ty and Hal to enter the room. Inside they found a tiny desk behind which sat a slender man with the oddest hair Hal had ever seen. He was balding, but had a fringe of dark hair which he had allowed to grow, and which he swept up and forward to cover his pate. He used some manner of pomade or oil to keep it in place, so it looked as if he was wearing a strange, shiny helm. His clothing was ostentatious and he wore earrings and several necklaces. Only his thumbs lacked rings.

‘Jim Dasher?’ he said, rising. He moved around the desk, but did not offer his hand or bow. He just appraised the two young men silently.

Hal started to speak, but Anton cut him off with an upraised hand. ‘I do not need to know many things, and do not want to know almost as many. I’m in Jim Dasher’s debt, so tell me what you need and I’ll do what I can to help.’

‘We need to reach Prince Edward,’ said Hal.

Anton winced. ‘That tells me too much, but you had no choice. That way could prove dangerous.’ He fell silent for a moment, tapping his cheek. ‘I can get you safely to Salador. From there you must find your own way.’

‘Salador would be a good start,’ said Hal.

Anton went to his desk and removed a parchment, ink and quill, and began to write. ‘Our lord, the Duke of Bas-Tyra, has remained neutral in the contestation for the Crown. He’s a wise man, our duke, who will wait until he’s certain which way the wind is blowing, at which point he will declare for the winner.’

‘A practical man,’ observed Ty.

Anton shot him a dark look. ‘Now,’ he said, holding out the parchment. ‘Take this to the servants’ entrance to the palace. Ask for a man named Jaston, no one else. Someone at the gate may argue they’ll take the message, but do not permit it. Just keep insisting and eventually they’ll send for him.

‘You do not need to know who Jaston is, so do not ask. You do not need to know why he will do me this favour, so do not ask. More importantly, he doesn’t need to know anything more about you than I’ve written down here, so do not answer any of his questions, no matter how affable the conversation may be. Do you understand?’

Both Hal and Ty nodded.

‘Do what he says, however, and he will get you to Salador.’

Hal took the parchment and turned without remark, Ty a step behind.

The massive guard stepped aside as much as he was able, allowing the two travellers to squeeze through the door.

Within half an hour, Ty and Hal were at the servants’ gate to the palace arguing with a guard about summoning Jaston. Eventually, as predicted by Anton, Jaston was sent for and appeared.

By his dress, he was a man of some rank within the ducal household. He read Anton’s letter and then looked at Hal and Ty. ‘Come,’ he said brusquely, and led them through the gates.

They walked around the massive castle’s side yard, past some flowering gardens, and to the rear marshalling yard. There a company of horsemen was gathering. ‘Captain Reddic!’ Jaston shouted.

An officer of horse, dressed in the black tabard of Bas-Tyra, with a golden eagle spreading wings embroidered over his heart, turned and replied, ‘Sir?’

Jaston indicated Hal and Ty. ‘These two gentlemen are to accompany you to Salador.’

‘Sir?’ said the captain again, this time his tone curious.

‘They are men of rank, but their identities will remain unknown to you. Should there be cause to speak to them, keep it brief and to the point. Ask no questions. Should anyone question you, they are mercenary swords attached to your patrol – nothing more, nothing less.’

The man named Jaston turned and walked away without waiting for an answer. The captain didn’t look pleased with his instructions, but after a moment turned to Hal and Ty. ‘Ask the lackeys inside to fetch out two sturdy mounts. We’ve a very long ride ahead and we’ll be weeks on the trail. We leave in a half-hour.’

They walked towards the stables and when they couldn’t be overheard, Ty said, ‘I never understood just how far Jim Dasher’s reach went.’

‘I had no idea,’ said Hal.

In less than half an hour, a patrol of thirty cavalry with two mercenaries tagging along left the palace of Bas-Tyra and wended its way through the second busiest city in the Kingdom, moving slowly towards the western gate and the road to Salador.

• CHAPTER SEVEN •
Journey II

MIRANDA SCREAMED.

The frustration of finding herself in what appeared to be an endless maze of tunnels somewhere underground had brought her to the brink of unleashing destructive blasts in all directions. Despite her enraged state, she realized the best she could hope for would be to vent some rage, and the worst that could happen would be to bring the tunnel crashing down on her. Not that she feared for her safety, but digging herself out from under tons of earth would be even more tedious than wandering lost. At least she wasn’t wandering blind, as she was able to use her magical abilities to light a path.

Her magic worked here, though as in the last place she had tried a spell, it was amplified. She was as adept at willing herself to new locations as anyone she had met, far better at it than Pug, and perhaps still better than Magnus, but even she had to have a rough idea of where she was headed. And despite her prodigious ability, even she didn’t wish to risk discovering she had transported herself into solid rock, or off the face of the planet.

The tunnels were not commodious, but large enough that she didn’t have to stoop or squeeze through narrow openings, but they were seemingly endless. She had come tumbling out of the vortex to land hard on her face, and since then her mood hadn’t got any better. She had lost track of how long she had been walking, but she knew it was at least the better part of a day.

She had tried a technique used in mazes: to keep turning in one direction, then turn back when hitting a dead end, go to the last intersection, turn in the other direction, then again keep turning in the original direction. It was tedious and likely to be anything but swift, but lore had it foolproof for eventually finding a way out.

At last she heard a sound. It was faint, as if echoing down corridors from a great distance away, but she heard it. A light, trilling sound, which she almost recognized. It stopped. She paused, and a moment later she heard it again. She hurried first one way, then the other, moving from one end of her tunnel until she was certain where the sound was louder, and almost ran to the first intersection she had found. At a crossroads she turned her head this way and that, until she was certain again which way the sound was loudest.

After fifteen minutes of tracing the source of the sound, she realized that what she was hearing was music – a pipe of some sort, playing a simple refrain over and over.

After another ten minutes, she was certain where the music was coming from. She closed her eyes and used her magical senses to locate the source. Trusting there wasn’t some evil joke by Kalkin, God of Tricksters, at play, she willed herself to the source.

She found herself in a cavern where dozens of tunnels met, and above was a series of stone ramps leading to other tunnels. A pit in the centre of the clearing showed more tunnels below. A single large rock sat at the edge of the pit, upon which sat a young man, barely more than a boy, playing a simple wooden pipe.

He was dressed in leggings vertically striped in yellow and green and a matching green tunic with yellow piping. He wore slippers of green with silver bells at the toe, and a flop cap of green with a dyed yellow feather held by a silver buckle.

‘A jester,’ said Miranda, wondering if some mad god had conspired to drive her to lunacy.

The boy stopped playing. ‘I’m Piper,’ he corrected her. ‘And you are a demon called Child, or Miranda. Which do you prefer?’

After a moment’s hesitation, she said, ‘Miranda.’

‘Predictable,’ answered the youth.

‘Who are you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Piper. ‘Until a few moments ago, I didn’t exist, or if I did, I lack memories of that existence.’ He leaped nimbly from the rock, rose en pointe and flexed his knees slightly. ‘Everything feels new. No creaks, aches.’ A quizzical expression crossed the youth’s face. ‘Lacking experience, I wonder if I would know what creaks and aches are. And then, how do I even know to speak of them?’ A bright expression was followed by, ‘Then again still, how do I even know to speak?’

Miranda was not amused. ‘Where is this place?’

‘We are in the last bastion of a dead race, where they futilely attempted to resist chaos. They were obliterated so many years ago that no sign of their existence remains save these ramps and tunnels.’

‘How do you know me?’

Again, a bright expression was followed by one of wonder. The boy had a perfectly round face save for a slightly pointed chin. He had vivid green eyes and wisps of reddish-blonde hair stuck out under the hat. ‘I don’t know. I just know.’

‘What do you know?’

The brow furrowed for a moment. ‘I am your guide.’

Lacking patience even in the best of circumstances, Miranda barked, ‘Then guide me!’

‘Very well,’ said Piper. ‘We need to go up there.’ He pointed to the dark top of the cavern.

‘Give me a moment,’ said Miranda, focusing her concentration on that gloomy destination. She cast a spell of distant vision and her view passed through several levels of lightless tunnels and caverns, only her magic senses giving her a vision in the darkness, until she saw a large hole beneath an open sky hundreds of feet above them. Darkness above indicated a massive cavern above the one in which they found themselves. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Do you need my aid?’

Laughing, Piper said, ‘Would I be sitting alone in this godsforsaken pit if I didn’t?’

Miranda found the youth’s penchant towards good humour irritating, and realized that was felt from both her demon half and her human half. With a single step she grabbed Piper around the waist and willed them to the indicated destination.

She found herself on the lip of a vast crater, and letting go of Piper, she used her demon’s vision to pierce the darkness. The landscape was desolate, without a hint of any living thing. Glancing skyward almost gave her vertigo, for there was no cavern above.

The sky was empty.

Where stars should have abounded, only a vast expanse of emptiness sprawled overhead. Miranda felt something akin to panic rising as she pushed her senses outward. Farther and farther she reached and finally she retreated back to where she stood, almost overcome by the experience. There were no stars. There were no comets. No worlds, or any other object of size as far as she could perceive. Instead a fine dust with occasional rocks ranging from the size of a man’s thumb to this slab of granite she stood upon.

‘Where is this place?’

Piper said, ‘You believe it to be the Fourth Circle. A battle of consequence was fought here in ages past.’ He waved a hand lazily at the sky. ‘This is the consequence.’

‘Nothing is left?’

Piper smiled and in the magical corona surrounding Miranda, she couldn’t tell if he was being ironic or sad when he said, ‘There’s a great deal left, but it’s just been ground down to a fine powder in most places.’

‘Why am I here?’ she turned to ask, but Piper was gone. In his place stood a young woman with ebony skin, eyes of piercing black, hair tightly gathered in rows that flowed down her neck to her shoulders. She wore a similar costume, but of red and beige rather than green and yellow. ‘Where’s Piper?’ asked Miranda.

‘I am Piper,’ said the young woman in a voice as melodic as one could imagine. She picked up the exact same pipe Miranda had seen before and blew the same annoying melody.

In the span of two lifetimes, one as a human and the other as a demon, the merged being of Child and Miranda had seen many things, shape-changing and conjured illusions being among them, but there was something different about this creature. ‘You change your body at will?’

‘Yes, don’t you?’

‘Not lately,’ said Miranda, deciding to ignore the body shift. She remembered something Pug had said about one of Kalkin’s visions. Suddenly she realized she didn’t know if it was something he had said to her on Sorcerer’s Island as Miranda, or something since Child had come to this world with Miranda’s memories. ‘I’m losing one of my selves, aren’t I?’

Piper shrugged. ‘I don’t know about such things. I only know what I know.’

Miranda was intrigued by that statement. ‘Isn’t that true of everyone?’

Piper smiled, her teeth brilliant against her dark skin. ‘Some people know things they don’t know they know. But I only know what I need to know. I was formed for a task, nothing more.’

‘Formed?’

‘I was of the Bliss, at one with the Source, and now I am here with you to provide what you need.’

Miranda saw something behind Piper’s shoulder and said, ‘What is that?’

Piper turned and saw a speck of light. ‘An energy adjustment.’

Suddenly the pinpoint of light blossomed into a cascade of sparkling lights that rapidly blinked out of existence. ‘Despite seeming empty from your perspective, there’s a lot going on here,’ observed Piper. ‘The Fourth Circle is contracting. In … time is a difficult concept … some years, many years, few …? In some amount of time the Fourth Circle will be gone.’

‘One of the Circles will be gone?’ Miranda thought of the ever-expanding void in the centre of the Fifth Circle and asked, ‘Will the Fifth Circle vanish?’

‘I do not know,’ answered Piper.

‘What am I doing here?’ asked Miranda.

‘That I know,’ said Piper. She pointed behind Miranda. ‘Look!’

Miranda turned and where a void had been moments before, a panorama of a massive arc of heaven stood revealed, as if some incredibly large curtain had been drawn aside. A vista of stars was visible and for a brief moment Miranda had a touch of vertigo as the sun rose above it and moved at noticeable speed.

‘This was once a place like those to which you’ve travelled, realms of countless worlds, stars, comets, planets teeming with life,’ said Piper, and hearing a new voice, Miranda turned to discover Piper had changed bodies again. A tall, handsome man of middle years, with a neatly trimmed beard just lightly shot through with grey stood wearing a similar outfit as the last two incarnations had, but this one was in a sable black that looked like velvet, trimmed with gold lamé. ‘Will you stop that?’ said Miranda.

‘Why?’ answered Piper in a deep, melodious voice. ‘Bodies are fun.’

‘You never had one before?’

‘I may have, but I don’t remember. We who are spun out of the Bliss know only what we need to know; whatever pasts we may have experienced are part of the Unity with the One.’ He shrugged and grinned. ‘Makes everything new.’

‘Wonderful,’ muttered Miranda. ‘The gods send out curious toddlers to save the universe.’

‘Watch and learn,’ said Piper.

A massive storm of energies erupted across the panorama before Miranda, and Piper said, ‘The Sundering.’

‘What is it?’

‘When the heavens and hells split. Behold the demon host.’

A swarm of creatures flew out of the rip in space and Miranda’s eyes widened. Instead of the seemingly endless variety of shapes of horror Child had known since her birth, this was an army of incredible beings, roughly human in form and beautiful in a way she could barely comprehend. There was not the slightest resemblance between what she knew from her short tenure in the Fifth Circle and what she now observed.

Soon another figure emerged, a being so brilliant she could barely look at it. ‘Who is that?’ she asked.

‘Hell’s first king,’ answered Piper and she saw he had reverted to the form she had first seen, the youth in the green-and-yellow garb.

‘He … is beautiful.’ Both Child and Miranda found him an object of stunning form and elegant grace. ‘What is his name?’

‘Name?’ Piper blew a shrill note. ‘That could be his name. “Name!” He has a different name for every race of being that encounters him. Some worship him as a god, and others fear him as the ultimate font of evil. He is, or was, or will be a force of nature. Does calling air that stirs “wind” make it different to when it goes unnamed?’ Piper pointed with his flute. ‘The Shining One, Light Bringer, Fallen Star, First of the Chosen, Accuser, Defiance, so many names in so many languages.’ He gripped her arm lightly. ‘There was a first cause. But this was the second. Remember that. Your father and Pug witnessed the First Cause. You are seeing the second. He was first among those created by the First Cause, Most Beloved, but he challenged his creator, and became the Opponent!’

Miranda could not tear her eyes from the image. There was no scale. Hell’s first king could be the size of a man seen from very close, or a mile tall viewed from many miles’ distance. The human-like face was perfection, without blemish or flaw. If one could imagine perfect proportions of brow to nose to chin, fullness of lips, set of eyes, shape and contour of a male body, then he was perfect. A woman of no small life experience, she was overwhelmed by desire and longing, a need for more than mere physical love, but to be accepted by this being. She said it aloud: ‘He’s perfect.’

Piper laughed. ‘No, but as close as any living thing can get. There was only one perfect being in existence.’

‘Who?’

‘In time. You’re not ready.’ Piper waved his hand. ‘This is the event, or as you would see it … time confuses me. This is the Second Cause.’

Miranda looked at the vista before her, distances beyond her ability to imagine, and in the midst of it, a sea of incandescent gases. Tiny lights dotted the cloud and she knew them to be stars. Five beings like the first one she had just seen, magnificent in every aspect, stood in a pose of confrontation, one facing the other four. No words were heard, but Miranda sensed they were communicating.

‘What am I seeing?’

‘Watch.’

Suddenly one of the four moved to the Shining One and grappled with him; then the Shining One was gone.

‘What was that?’

‘There are many different stories. Here’s what you must know. For every cause there’s a reaction, an opposition; for every force, a counter force. It’s part of a balance so fundamental it surpasses even the First Cause. It is called Equipoise at its most fundamental, and that is what you must first understand. The one who fell was cast out because he questioned his creation and aspired to rise beyond his station. He brooded in solitude for ages and felt rage.

‘Then came envy, and the one who fell created imitations of his brethren. His children were demons. They would serve and worship him, as his brethren served their creator.’

Again Miranda saw what Piper had called the demon host, a legion of beauty on the wing, appearing through a massive rift in the heavens, the Sundering. ‘Am I seeing what he really looks like?’ she asked.

Piper again blew a loud note, spun in a circle and said, ‘Of course not. There are bands of energy coursing through the universes impossible for any physical entity to perceive, let alone grasp. Understanding beyond any one mortal’s capacity is what is needed to grasp the totality of what is before you.

‘Threads of possibility, waves of probability, surges and flows of consciousness, vital forces beyond mortal comprehension.’ In a patronizing tone he added, ‘We have to simplify so you can comprehend. Your feeble mind does what it can to understand, but it’s not sufficient.’

Miranda scowled at being called feeble-minded, but let it go. ‘What are you showing me?’

‘The hosts of heaven.’

‘I thought you said it was the demon legion.’

Piper laughed. ‘Your mind! It is lacking. Angels, demons, they are the same thing, but from different places! Or the same thing seen differently! They just serve different causes. They are opposites, yet they are the same!’

Piper came to stand before Miranda, put his pipe under his arm, then formed a sphere with his two hands. ‘You see things like this! But in truth, they are like this.’ Suddenly he pulled apart his hands, fingers wiggling frantically, and moved his hands in a flurry of motion. ‘There is no higher heaven, lower hell. The first circle is the first circle, or plane or realm or demesne.’ He waved one hand high above his head. ‘Here you call it heaven.’ Then he waved the other down below his waist, letting his flute drop, which he deftly caught with his free hand while he knelt. ‘Down here, the same place, you call hell!’

He walked around behind her. ‘From here, I see you with black hair hanging down your back.’ Before she could turn, he was in front of her. ‘From here I see your face! You look different from before. But you are the same!’

‘Perspective,’ she said.

‘Yes!’ He laughed, a clear boyish laugh. ‘You begin to understand.’ He waved his hand and the image changed.

Suddenly the King of Hell was a red-skinned monster with huge white horns that rose from his forehead and curved back over the dome of his skull, an upraised roach of black hair rising between them like the fin of a sailfish, and two enormous black bat wings spreading out from his back.

The host of angel-like demons were now replaced with what Child would have expected to reside in hell. Miranda said, ‘Why …?’

‘You denizens of that region of the spheres, what you call the Fifth Circle, like all beings in one sense or another, are creatures of energy. You look the way you expect to look.’

‘I expected to look like Child?’

‘Language,’ snorted Piper, obviously unhappy with its limits. ‘No, you creatures, all of you, together, over time, you come to believe things and they become so.’ He laughed. ‘Look at this one. It’s wonderful!’

She looked up and instead of figures of demons and angels saw a massive cascade of scintillating lights, so brilliant as to cause her to shield her eyes. Millions of other lights flowed and swirled around the twisting fountain of colour in the middle. It was as if every fireworks display ever conceived had been simultaneously unleashed on a scale to dwarf worlds. Colours darted so quickly, it was a sight to induce madness in a weaker mind than hers.

‘It’s energy, don’t you see?’ asked Piper.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Energy, matter, time, it’s all the same. You just have to know how to look.’

‘Perspective,’ said Miranda.

‘Yes,’ said Piper. He grinned and danced a step.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘Witness,’ said Piper.

Suddenly the entire sky changed. Instead of a window through which to view images conjured by whatever magic Piper or his master employed, Miranda found herself floating over a vast field of stars. There was a glorious harmony to all she beheld. Vast swirling oceans of star-studded gas moved across the heavens in stately progress, while comets blazed their timeless paths around multitudes of stars.

‘This is what the universe looked like from this rock when it was a planet,’ said Piper, ‘before the Enemy came, before the time of madness and chaos.’

Miranda was about to ask a question, then ceased as she noticed an anomaly. In a corner of a starfield, a dark spot had appeared, at first hardly noticeable in the flowing pattern of lights against the darkness around her. But after a moment she saw that there was something different about this blackness. If there could be shades of blackness, this was a depth of it, an absence of even the promise of light or colour.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Watch,’ said Piper.

‘It must be immense,’ said Miranda, ‘and very far away.’

‘Distance, like what I’ve shown you, is illusion. How do you think you move from place to place by thought?’

‘Magic,’ she answered.

‘There is no magic,’ replied Piper. ‘Nakor understands.’ Miranda looked at Piper, who looked quizzically at her. ‘Or he will.’ Piper frowned. ‘Or he has.’ After another moment, Piper said, ‘Time is an illusion, too.’

Miranda had only a rudimentary idea of how vast the distance between stars might be, but she knew, given the size of the sun around which Midkemia spun and how it appeared in the sky, and the size of those tiny pinpoints of light called stars, the distances were vast. Yet the dark spot was growing at an enormous speed. ‘It must be expanding at tens of thousands of miles a minute,’ she muttered. ‘More,’ she amended as entire clusters of stars were suddenly blotted out.

She looked at Piper, who was transfixed by the sight above them. She asked, ‘Is it just blocking out what’s behind it, or …’

‘It’s eating stars,’ said Piper. Then he said, ‘In your home world, the demon realm, the void where the first Kingdoms once were, that’s what it becomes eventually.’

Miranda’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Gods.’ Whispering, she asked, ‘What is it?’

‘The Enemy. The true Darkness,’ answered a voice in the air, and when she turned Piper was gone.

There was a popping sound from behind her and she turned. A vortex awaited. For a moment she hesitated, then she realized she had learned all she would here. She took a step and leaped into the dark vortex.

• CHAPTER EIGHT •
Storm

LIGHTNING SPLIT THE SKY.

Brendan cursed every god of weather in every nation of every world that had gods of weather. He had made an uneventful journey down the coast, staying close and putting in whenever he caught sight of a sail on the horizon. As he moved south of the headlands known as Schull’s Rock, he took his bearing off the rising sun and pushed through straight on to Sarth. He knew the Quegan fleet would not put in that close to the Kingdom coast and felt safe hurrying along.

When he came into sight of Sarth, he took a quick inventory and discovered he had four days of food and five of water on board. Rather than stop at Sarth, he put the helm over to starboard and beat a course dead south. He ran out a Kingdom pennant he had liberated from the mayor’s library in Ylith, used by Kingdom couriers, in case he encountered Kingdom warships that might otherwise stop and board his vessel. It was providential, as twice Kingdom ships altered course to give him a closer look, but catching sight of the snapping guidon in the royal blue and gold and Brendan giving a cheery wave, they returned to their original course, assuming Brendan was seeking out another ship.

Now he was caught up in one of the Bitter Sea’s sudden weather changes. It wasn’t raining yet, but he could smell the moisture in the air. Lightning was cracking overhead, followed by thunderclaps that felt like physical slaps.

The little smack was starting to climb up crests and dive into troughs and Brendan was starting to worry. In clear weather, if the charts and maps he had studied were correct, he should be seeing the smudge on the horizon that would have marked Sorcerer’s Isle, but now visibility was down by half as rain from the south-west formed a curtain on the horizon. If he was lucky, it would pass to the west of him, or only get him a little wet, and prove to be just another sudden squall.

If it was a big storm, he could be sailing and bailing for days, and literally sail right past the island and be halfway to the Keshian coast before he realized his error.

Or he could sail right onto the rocks of Sorcerer’s Isle’s north shore.

Brendan checked his jib and saw it was well extended as the wind picked up, and knew that he would soon have too much sail. He tied off the tiller and quickly lashed the boom with a preventer, a short rope that would keep the wind from suddenly jibbing the boat while he pulled in the jib sail. Normally this type of smack had two masts, but this one had sacrificed the smaller abaft mast for the fish well. Usually two men manned this craft, but Brendan could find no one in Ylith willing to make the journey with him. He was young and had spent his life sailing the Far Coast near Crydee, and felt able to sail her solo. Until now, he realized. Right now a second man to man the sheets or bail out the bilge would have been most welcome. He had a small bailing bucket nearby, and if a wave crested the bow, he could hold the rudder with one hand while dumping some water overboard with the other. But it was tedious, fatiguing, and ineffective.

Dropping the jib, he decided to sacrifice order for speed, wadded up the mass of canvas and dumped it in the fish well. He returned to the rudder, unlashed it and the boom and set his eyes on the horizon.

Lightning flashed and he waited for the following thunder, but there wasn’t any. And then he realized most of the lightning was behind him. Then the lightning flashed again, and he realized it was in the same place as the last time he had seen it.

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