The Gambler's Fortune

When our children were young, we moved to the milder lands of Dalasor. Their nurse would sing them to sleep with this song and its words of caution proved most effective in curbing their irresistible urge to wander the boundless plains that surrounded our steading.

Pastamar Town, Solura, 41st of For-Summer (Tormalin Calendar), 27th of Lytelar (Soluran Calendar)

These people really know how to enjoy themselves.” I didn’t bother muting my sarcasm.

“I’ll bet it’s harder than it looks,” ’Gren protested.

We were watching a lad balancing one shaft of wood upright on the end of another. Given both pieces were about as long as my arm but barely thicker than the circle of my finger and thumb, I suppose it wasn’t that easy. The lad got the balance right and the circle of admiring youths around him rapidly broke away. The lad thrust upward, the top shaft soared high, fell back, and he hit it smack in the middle with the piece he still held, a full-blooded blow that sent it away in a soaring arc. A cheer went up and a little boy went scampering down the grassy strip that divided vegetable gardens from the wide muddy flow of the Pasfal. He retrieved the billet of wood and marked where it fell with a piece of stick. The youths were taking advantage of their noon break to practice for the forthcoming Solstice celebrations.

A gate opened in one fence and a woman looked out to see the cause of the commotion. She shouted, and after a few defiant responses the lads drifted away through the alleys that led up to the market square and the high road. A few yelled mocking insults, but only after the woman’s gate was safely closed. The sweet scent of roses floated on the breeze. Most of the fences were covered in pink-edged yellow blooms and we had left our landlady debating when would be the best time to cut hers for the mid-summer door garland. Early enough to steal a march on her neighbors, late enough that the blooms would not drop too soon, that was her dilemma.

“When is the Solstice?” I asked ’Gren as we continued to wander aimlessly upstream, chewing on rough bread and sharp yellow cheese. “I can’t recall when I last saw an almanac.”

“Yours or theirs?” He offered me a bite of his cold bacon.

I gave him a look. “Solstice is Solstice wherever you are, ’Gren. That’s the whole point of us being here.”

“Four days from now,” he told me after a moment’s thought, “and they get two days’ holiday.”

“We’d get five in Ensaimin,” I grumbled, “as well as a lot more exciting sport than peasants beating the sap out of defenseless bits of firewood.”

“There’s going to be bonfires,” ’Gren volunteered. “And a venison roast. Lord Pastiss gives the town some stags for the festival.”

As well he might, given he was so keen for them to break their backs earning their days of leisure. I looked up at the massive bulk of Castle Pastamar, the great keep distant and unassailable inside the ring of its walls. Tall towers were spaced to give warning of any assault and in particular to keep watch on the great span of the bridge. The stone arches rose above us as we wandered along the bank, marching away across the river low in the summer heat. Lord Pastiss’s device, the silver boar’s head on a blue ground, was on a carved and painted stone shield above the central span, on the pennants that fluttered from the guard posts at either end of the bridge and flying from just about every vantage point on the great gray fortress. It had to make him feel important to see his emblem everywhere, something to make up for his fiefdom being mostly made up of peasants grubbing a living from scrubby pasture, untamed woodland and rank marsh.

Wagons rattled across the bridge, halted to pay their dues and voices drifted down to us, arguing the rights and wrongs of Soluran duties levied by the wheel rather than by the axle. Understanding them was some reward for spending the endless walk back down the length of the Pasfal badgering Sorgrad to teach me what he knew of the Soluran tongue and extending my knowledge of the Mountain speech. It had given me something to concentrate on when my impatience with Usara threatened to boil clear over into rage.

’Gren looked at the muddy path beneath the nearest arch of the bridge with disfavor. We’d kept reminding each other to look to the long game but I wasn’t going to do that for much longer and nor was he. “So when did Usara say this mysterious person was due?”

In unspoken agreement we turned back up into the little town and I remembered again I needed to find someone hereabouts to resole my boots. “He said the Solstice holiday.” I paused at the edge of the street, hard-packed earth without so much as a cobblestone. That was no particular problem with the summer sun keeping it dry, but come the autumn rains it would be axle-deep in mud. Well, whichever way the runes fell, I would be long gone by then. Frustration surged up within me; this was like a bad dream I’d once had, being stuck in a game where for every winning throw I lost twice the coin on the next hand, but for some reason I’d never quite grasped I couldn’t just throw in the runes and walk away from the table. No, it was more like being stuck in one of those pointless mazes that were currently all the rage for the Tormalin nobility. Or had that fad passed? Fashions could change a great deal in the quarter-year I’d been on the road, couldn’t they? I suddenly found myself missing Ryshad horribly.

“This friend of your boy had better bring something useful to the party,” muttered ’Gren. “We’ve come a long way from the uplands for nothing, if he hasn’t.”

“He says this person will know how to contact Anyatimm in the mountains south of Mandarkin and make inquiries of the Sheltya up there.” My calm reply was a notable achievement given I’d argued the point with Usara all the way from the uppermost tributaries of the Pasfal down to this broad and barge-laden waterway.

“Who’s to say that Sheltya woman hasn’t warned every rekin, fess and soke against us from the Gap to the Wild-lands?” retorted ’Gren.

“You go and convince Sorgrad then,” I snapped. “As long as he’s backing the wizard, we either go along with him or strike out on our own.” Sorgrad had been adamant with all the authority of an elder brother that we retreat long enough for the echoes of our precipitous expulsion to die away.

I felt an odd qualm of fear, and not for the first time, as I contemplated going back to the mountains. Was I turning coward? Was it the lurking realization that if I found myself facing Saedrin’s questions at the door to the Otherworld Ryshad would be left on this side, grieving for me?

’Gren was muttering, hands shoved crossly in his pockets.

“Come on, maybe it won’t be so bad spending the festival here.” I turned down the broad street, the gables of cruck-framed and thickly thatched houses on either side. Shops and workrooms were set nearest the roadway, households living in the next room back, kitchens and the like beyond. A few of the long low buildings had clouded glass in their windows, but most simply had wooden shutters and none looked very secure; I doubted if anyone had anything worth stealing though. We skirted around a noisome heap of plaster being mixed with dung where some keen peasant was mending his mud and wicker walls.

Soluran notions haven’t progressed as far as inns. Anyone with money or influence stopping here stayed in the castle; the more important, the closer they lodged to the keep where Lord Pastiss and his family held court. Everyone else had their choice of the various houses that sold ale, offered food or let out rooms. Solurans patch together a living in many and varied ways.

I pushed open the door to our lodging. The stale and sweaty odor of the dim interior told me our hostess had acquired another lot of discarded clothing from somewhere. She made most of her coin begging worn-out garments from her neighbors, washing and mending them and then selling the shoddy goods back again. For all that, she reckoned herself comfortably off. She had proudly explained to me that what I had taken for oddly shaped cobbles underfoot were in fact the joint ends of cattle bones, split and driven into the earth. It was a hardwearing surface apparently, warmer to the touch than stone and for these parts reckoned luxury.

There was no sign of Sorgrad or Usara so I shut the door and looked at ’Gren. “Where do you suppose they are?”

“Getting some food?” he suggested hopefully.

“Livak!”

To be hailed by name so far from home instantly turned my head. A heavily built man rode up on a stubborn-nosed black horse. The man’s close cropped hair and full beard were much the same color as his steed’s and his neck about as thick. He wore a scarlet cloak over a chainmail hauberk, shoulders massive with the padding of his arming tunic, but the size of his hands on the reins showed most of his bulk was honest muscle. A few peasants glanced incuriously at him; men in mail, long swords at their belt were a common enough sight in and around the castle.

“No wonder Usara wasn’t telling.” And I’d just thought the wizard was enjoying having the whip hand for a change.

“So who’s the dancing bear?” ’Gren was ready for any amusement this new turn of events might offer.

“His name’s Darni.” I laughed at the notion of the burly warrior with a ring through his nose, capering to the goad of a stick. “But you don’t get inside the reach of a bear’s chain, do you? This one’s just as dangerous.”

“Livak,” Darni greeted me with a curt nod, as if we’d spoken no more than a few days since. “Or are you going by something else? Terilla, wasn’t it?” His slab of a face was as hard to read as ever beneath the obdurate beard but this was as close as he was going to get to a joke.

I smiled back thinly. “Livak will do.” Terilla was the name I’d given this charmless bastard when I’d been pretending the valuable tankard I was selling was my own and he’d been pretending to be an honest merchant buying it. “ ’Gren, this is Darni, agent to the Archmage. He’s the one who gave me the choice of working for Planir or being chained up and handed over to the Watch.”

’Gren grinned up at Darni. “Looks like you owe our girl then, pal.”

Darni looked down at him. “Besides saving her life?”

“You and half the wizards of Hadrumal,” I scoffed. “Anyway, we’d already escaped from the Elietimm before you turned up.” As I spoke, something teased at my memory but fled before I could grasp it.

“So where’s ’Sar?” Darni turned in his saddle and I realized he had a companion. The second man urged his horse forward. He was of common height and build with middling brown hair and the pale skin of someone used to an indoor life. His eyes were large, liquid brown, a shade darker than his hair and wide-set beneath high, arching brows. His undistinguished face was adorned with luxuriant mustaches, chin clean-shaven apart from a tuft of beard.

“So who’s your friend?” I countered.

“My name is Gilmarten Forn,” the stranger replied obligingly, a Soluran lilt to his words. He swept off his lavishly plumed hat and made a creditable bow for a man on horseback. “I am of the fifth order of Eade and professed to Lord Astrad of Castle Stradar.”

“Good for you,” murmured ’Gren.

“A pleasure to meet you.” I was about to say I had no idea where Usara was when I saw the mage hurrying toward us, Sorgrad walking more slowly behind him. “There’s your wizard.”

Darni dismounted and accosted a rather vacant-looking boy, giving him a couple of coins. “Here, you, take these horses up to the guard stables at the castle. Tell the commander to stable them on Lord Astrad’s authority.” The boy gaped. “Just do it.” Darni unhooked his saddlebags and glared at the lad. “What are you waiting for?”

The man Gilmarten slid from his own horse, face alight with curiosity as he studied Usara. The lad decided he’d rather brave the known evil of the Guard commander than risk further words with this dangerous-looking stranger and hauled the animals off hastily.

“Darni, good to see you,” Usara said a little breathlessly. “I wasn’t expecting you for another couple of days.”

“Planir said it was important,” replied Darni. “So, where can we talk?”

I pointed to a house with a besom nailed up over the door, Solurans not going in for real tavern signs. “Over a drink?” The midday thirsty had already gone back to their labors. The place was nearly empty when we went in and, under Darni’s hard-nosed glare, those still idling over their tankards decided they had better places to be.

We sat on low stools and were served with palatable ale, ’Gren and Sorgrad studying Darni, Gilmarten watching Usara, and the wizard glancing at everyone in turn. I caught his eye and held it. “So now that I know we’re to have the pleasure of Darni’s company, what next? How soon can we be back in the uplands?”

Usara looked shifty. “I think we have learned as much as we are likely to on this trip, Livak. Darni is on his way back to Hadrumal and we should travel with him. He’s all the escort we’ll need through the Great Forest, and once we’re back in Ensaimin we can get a coach to Col and pick up a ship there—”

“You just rein it in, wizard!” I sat, open-mouthed. “You’re quitting?”

“I’m acknowledging we have come to the end of our journey.” He cleared his throat. “We have determined that there is aetheric lore in the traditions of these Sheltya and that is valuable information. Planir can decide how best to pursue it.”

“What we want to pursue is that cold-faced piece of work who threw us out!” I retorted.

“When she can turn every single mountain dweller against us, needing no more than her unsupported word?” demanded Usara.

“You never had any intention of going back, did you?” I cursed myself for a trusting fool.

“I thought it possible that Gilmarten might be able to help,” replied Usara, trying to sound affronted. “That turns out not to be the case, so I’d say that has to be the end of the matter for the moment.”

“Hold hard.” I raised a finger. “How do you know that, if the pair of you have only just met?” I swung around on my stool to give the newcomer a searching look.

“It is true that we have only just met,” he said politely, “but we have been in contact for some days now.”

“You’re another—” I managed to stop myself from punctuating my words with obscenities—“wizard?”

“Of course,” Gilmarten nodded, faintly puzzled.

“You’ve been in contact for some days?” I rounded on Usara who had the grace to redden. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve been looking into the ways Solurans train their wizards.” Darni replied for the mage with the arrogance I’d so disliked before. “Gilmarten is coming to Hadrumal to meet Planir. Once it looked increasingly likely your scheme would come to nothing, Planir told me to meet ’Sar here and escort him home.”

Darni would be taking goods home to the Archmage while I was left empty-handed? Not if I could help it.

“So you’ve been in touch with Planir as well, Usara? You didn’t think to mention it? Have you had any interest in our search or was I just saving Planir the cost of hiring you a wet-nurse for your journey?” I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of losing my temper but rage was scalding my throat and boiling behind my eyes.

“I think that I have made best use of so much traveling by handling several commissions at once,” replied the mage pompously.

“Most folk reckon a fool chasing two hares is going to end up with neither,” I snapped.

“If he doesn’t want to see the task through, we’re better off without him.” Sorgrad spoke up from the corner where he had been sitting silently watching. “We’ll just take the road east and do it that way.”

“Which puts us halfway back to Messire as well,” ’Gren chipped in, never slow to take a hint.

I nodded and nailed on a broad smile. “It always was an even bet Gidesta would pay off better, wasn’t it?”

Sorgrad was unconcerned. “It was worth testing the water here, since we were coming to the Forest anyway.”

“I’m sorry?” Usara was baffled by this rapid change in mood.

I waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it. You just do as Planir tells you. Messire will pass on what he thinks you need to know.”

“In due course,” added Sorgrad.

“So, you are a mage as well?” I turned to Gilmarten, who was looking frankly bemused. “But here in Solura, you aren’t under Hadrumal’s thumb?” I was all polite curiosity, like the Tormalin noble ladies who’d patronized me to screaming point over the Winter Solstice.

“No, we follow a rather different tradition,” he replied slowly. “If a child proves to have magic in his nature, it is required by royal law that a mage tests his potential. If it is strong enough to train, the child must be apprenticed to an established wizard or be branded and confined.” With me, ’Gren and Sorgrad all looking expectant, Usara preoccupied with the implications of Sorgrad’s words and Darni, aloof as ever, slowly drinking his ale, Gilmarten was drawn into filling the silence.

“The kings of Solura have been rightly concerned at the potential dangers of rogue magic. No mage may have more than one apprentice of less than four years’ standing at any one time and he remains responsible for the conduct of all apprentices for life, whether they stay with him or look for advowson elsewhere.”

“Advowson?” Sorgrad was listening with more than a pretense of interest.

Gilmarten leaned his elbows on the table. “The most proficient of mages are retained by a Lord to work for the good of his fiefdom. Though, of course, a Lord is subject to severe penalties under royal law, if he misuses his wizard’s skills. Every other mage within the offender’s order can be set against him if need be.”

Usara looked up. “What is the significance of an order?”

“An order denotes the lineage of apprenticeship,” explained Gilmarten readily. “I am of the fifth order of Eade. Eade was a noted wizard admired by many. His apprentices were therefore styled the first order, those that they taught the second, their pupils in turn the third, and so forth.”

I had no interest in this and stepped in when the Soluran took a breath. “You and Usara will have plenty to talk about on the way to Hadrumal then. We’ll travel through the Great Forest with you, Darni, but after that you’ll have to manage on your own. The roads down to Col should be safe enough once the harvest’s underway. No bandit with any sense works the roads when they’re choked with wagons, even if he does see pullets ripe for plucking going by.” I smiled sweetly at Usara.

“You’ll be heading east, I think you said?” Darni wasn’t about to rise to my bait. “You’d better take care in Dalasor. There’ll be mercenaries raiding north out of Lescar at this season.”

“If they’re any good, we’ll probably know them.” ’Gren was unconcerned. “If not, it’ll be easy enough to leave them grinning up at the thistle roots.”

Darni turned his attention from the middle distance. “You’ve spent time in Lescar? Who with?”

“Wynald’s war band, the Brewer’s Boys, Arkady the Red…” Sorgrad ticked them off on one hand and frowned.

“Strong-arm’s Corps and the Ast Maulers,” supplied ’Gren with an air of happy recollection.

“When were you with Arkady?” inquired Darni suspiciously.

“We were at Seye Bridge, if that’s what you’re asking.” Sorgrad sat upright in his corner.

“On what side?” Darni similarly braced for action.

I looked for my quickest route to an exit; there was no room in here for bystanders as well as a brawl.

“Both,” grinned Sorgrad.

Darni’s sudden laugh was deafening in the low-ceilinged room. “I’d better pay for the ale then.”

With a free drink in his hand, ’Gren would rather swap tales of mayhem and booty than see if he could punch Darni’s teeth out through the back of his neck, so I relaxed on that score. Darni began explaining his own circuits of the endless circles of Lescar’s civil wars so I caught Sorgrad’s eye and jerked my head minutely toward the door. We needed to talk and since Usara had pointedly shifted his stool around to exclude me from his conversation with Gilmarten, this looked like the ideal time.

I drained my ale and stood up. “Time for the necessary.” Once outside I sat on a bench in the sunshine and closed my eyes. A shadow fell across me and I squinted up to see Sorgrad silhouetted against the bright sky. “So are you serious about going east or did you just want to knock Sandy onto the back foot?”

“Now that we know Sheltya really do have the knowledge we want, I’d say we try Gidesta.” He sat beside me.

“That woman throwing her weight about in Hachalfess won’t bother sending word that far.” Sorgrad looked grim.

“You really think she’ll be doing that this side of the Gap?” I was still not convinced.

“Oh, most certainly,” Sorgrad assured me. “That’s why we had no choice but to come back down to the lowlands. We’d have got no more help, not even shelter, once the word had gone around that we were to be shunned.” He smiled. “You didn’t think I was just doing it on Sandy’s say-so, did you?”

“Hah!” I vented my irritation loudly. “He’s been playing a double game all along. Do you suppose a wizard ever deals honestly? I was hoping he’d be able to make use of this for me.” I held out a little knife, the kind for paring nails or cutting string. Its scabbard was worn and tattered, the loop of leather at its top stretched and torn. You would have to look closely to even see that it had been cut through.

“That’s what you got off the Sheltya woman?” Sorgrad took it and studied it. “It’s been a while since you and ’Gren worked jostle and cut but you haven’t lost your touch, have you?”

“What was it he said to her anyway?”

Sorgrad chuckled. “He asked if she had any sisters. Said a woman with her kind of spirit gives a man more horn than a billy goat in rut.” He handed me back the knife. “So what did you think Sandy would do with it?”

“Listen in on her conversations, track her to some other Sheltya, I don’t know.” I shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Mages and magic are nothing but trouble,” Sorgrad reminded me. “Let’s roll for a new start in Gidesta. We can hand over what we find to this Messire of yours and he can have the pleasure of haggling with Planir.”

I sighed. “Do you think we will find anything back east? I feel I’ve wasted half a year chasing Eldritch-men in the shadows and got nothing to show for it.”

“It’s long odds but those pay off best.” But Sorgrad’s face betrayed his own doubts now that it was just the two of us alone. “If we can track down anyone who knows anything of Sheltya or their lore, I’ll do anything short of selling my arse to pin them down. I owe them a bad turn. I’ve lived with being driven from my home as a boy but Maewelin can drown me before I let them forbid me the whole of the mountains like that.”

I looked around at his grim tone but he startled me with a smile. “More importantly, I’d forgotten how tedious the Soluran borders can be.” He gestured at the sleepy little town, drowsing in the midday heat as it nestled beneath the overbearing walls of the castle. “Once he’s spent a few days reminiscing with that Darni, ’Gren’s going to be all fired up to get back to Lescar and some real action. We can’t do that without your Messire settling accounts with Draximal for us, can we?”

“No, that’s true enough.” The reminder that more people than me needed a decent pay-off from this game stiffened my wavering resolve. I groaned loudly with frustration all the same. “I would say this feels like slipping back two paces for every one you take, but given how far we’ve walked it’s more like a hundred leagues against ten!”

Sorgrad put an encouraging arm around my shoulders. “It’s only good-looking princelings in ballads who trot off down the nearest track and find gold waiting in a heap at the end of it. There’d be no fun if the game was all that easy.”

“I could stand a little less fun just at the moment,” I said dryly.

“If you want boredom, then you’re in the right place,” he replied critically. “Solura’s known for it, like its wool.”

“And its horses.” I sat up straighter. “If we’re taking the high road back, we’ll wear out some iron shoes rather than anymore boot leather. Usara should still have plenty of Planir’s coin and I’ll bet Darni isn’t traveling on copper and good will. The Archmage can buy us some horses, don’t you agree?”

“I’d say it’s the least he can do,” agreed Sorgrad. “How about we go and talk to this Guard commander and find out who does Lord Pastiss’ horse-trading? I don’t see any need to worry Sandy with anything more than the bill.”

Which would also needle Darni, who fancied himself a judge of horseflesh. I got to my feet and turned my face determinedly to the next stage of this seemingly endless chase.

The Great West Road, 2nd of Aft-Summer

Eresken moved cautiously through the sun-dappled woodlands. The spicy fragrance of spruce and fir in the heights gave way down here to a damper, earthy aroma, rich in the warm, motionless air beneath trees thickly cloaked in summer greenery. Distaste distracted him. The evergreens hadn’t been so bad; similar trees grew in the more sheltered valleys of home, even if to scarcely a fifth the height. The lowland forests had looked truly beautiful from a distance, clothed in their delicate swathes of fragile green. Close to the trees were positively ugly, each one grown randomly in all directions, marked by vine and damaged by weather, new growth warped by the scarring. Eresken lowered himself slowly to kneel behind the thick bole of a misshapen tree, the nubby bark moist with moss.

Teiriol joined him, taking pains not to stir the leaf litter of countless autumns beneath his heavy boots. “What do you see?” The younger man’s face was set with anticipation.

Eresken pointed, the pale skin of his hand now tanned and scratched. “This is where we will hit them, my friend.”

Teiriol frowned. “On the open highway?”

Eresken laid a hand on Teiriol’s mailed shoulder, part reassurance, part mute warning. “I will make sure there are no witnesses. If anyone comes upon us, I will use Sheltya skills to simply wipe the recollection from their minds.”

“When do you think they will be here?” Teiriol looked up in vain for the sun, hidden by the dense canopy of leaves. There was an unhappy note in his voice.

“Very soon,” promised Eresken. “And it is imperative that these all die, you do understand that?”

Teiriol nodded but gnawed at his lip. “Some of the men have been worrying about violating travelers, the truce is sacred—”

“Sacred to us, yes, but since when have lowlanders and wizards observed such honor?” Eresken’s smile was warm though his hand rested more heavily on Teiriol’s shoulder. “And now we know that the villains of Hadrumal are not only using their false magic to plant their power within the Forest, they are allying themselves with the mages of Solura. Remember what the bones of the sokes told Sheltya at Solstice?”

“The Solurans have always shown us good faith.” The doubts in Teiriol’s voice were strengthening. “They trust us to keep eastern passes closed to Mandarkin. What if they close the lower valleys to us, cut off our trade?”

Eresken gripped Teiriol’s shoulder until the pressure made him turn his head. “I don’t understand these wizards’ plots but we all heard how they are using sorcery to beguile the Suratimm, didn’t we? We must deal with this threat first, to keep the Forest dwellers out of our fight with the lowlanders in the Gap. Didn’t Jeirran explain?” Eresken’s green eyes stared unblinking into innocent blue.

“Yes, he did, of course.” Teiriol’s bemused expression cleared to reveal new determination. “And killing these wizards will warn off the rest. This way we keep our quarrel with the lowlanders a fair fight. Misaen will either prove the justice of our cause with victory or condemn us to the beaks of the ravens.” He sounded like a child reciting its letters by rote.

“This way, the fewest possible need die.” Eresken released his gaze and his grip, satisfaction smoothing his brow. It was time these mages learned a little humility. Their cursed ability to defile the elements had been murderous when they’d had a boat full of wizards to call on, but this would be different. “Get yourself and your men in position. You’ll know when to move.”

Teiriol made his stealthy way back up the hill and soft chinking noises betrayed the armored force easing themselves closer to the road. Eresken moved to a vantage point above a large boulder tangled with undergrowth in a thicket of smaller trees. He closed his eyes with a cruel smile. “Right, you redheaded bitch, a little humiliation before the death you owe me and mine.”

The clatter of hooves on the hard surface of the road struck echoes from the tree-lined sides of the defile. Eresken began to breathe deeply, words of enchantment a slowing rhythm on his lips. His eyes fluttered, rolling up in his head as the trance took him. That part of him that stayed aware hovered expectant in the back of his mind. Birdsong floated overhead, the sun was hot on his neck and the breeze stirred a fugitive scent of flowers. The peace was ripped apart by the terrified neighs of a horse, a scream was cut short and a cacophony of male curses came from several directions at once.

Eresken blinked and looked down at the chaos on the road where one man had been instantly thrown from his terrified horse. A feathered hat was trampled in the dust as the panicked animal believed itself assailed on all sides. That was the Soluran mage, Eresken noted with satisfaction. The wizard who’d come so foolishly spying in the uplands gave up the unequal struggle to calm his steed and kicked his feet free of the stirrups. Eresken bared his teeth and the animal shrieked, twisting away from unseen tormentors. Eresken cursed as the Soluran dragged the fallen mage from among thrashing, iron-edged hooves, saving his balding head at the cost of a deep gash to one thigh.

Where were Teiriol and his men? The only blond heads he could see were the two who had sold themselves to the false magicians. Both had abandoned their horses at the first hint of trouble and stood back to back in the center of the road, hands drawing the swords from their belts. Eresken hissed with disgust. They had not been so armed in the uplands. No matter, neither wore mail or breastplates to save their skins.

Where was the redheaded slut? He moved for a better view and nodded with cruel glee. She was struggling to stay in her saddle, fingers twisted in reins and mane as her maddened mount writhed and plunged, driven to madness by the terror raking its mind. The big man forced his own horse beside hers, mastering the animal with main force and sheer brutality. Bloody foam from the beast’s mouth spattered its chest and legs, eyes rolling white edged in its head.

“Vengeance later, whore,” Eresken promised silently before reciting the precepts of trance once more. Where was Teiriol?

Teiriol was hesitating in the gully beside the road while the horses shied and balked at unseen terrors. The doubts that seemed so foolish when he was with Eresken assailed him with redoubled force. Yes, he’d heard the arguments for a strike against the Forest. Jeirran had carried everyone along on the flood of his eloquence. Why was he no longer so certain? Teiriol felt suddenly wretched at the prospect of explaining himself to Keisyl. What would his mother say? How had he fallen for Jeirran’s blandishments?

But it wasn’t just Jeirran, was it? Aritane had summoned other Sheltya and all had brought the same tale from the dark mysteries of the ossuaries of the different sokes. He shivered at the thought of those hidden bones, silent until the Solstice sun linked Misaen’s realm to Maewelin’s not five days since. The wisdom of ancient blood could not be denied. After thrice ten days of waiting and preparing, it decreed now was the time to carry battle into the lowlands.

“Do we go?” Beard’s sly face was eager, the man licking his lips with an unpleasant relish. His mail was already rusting and smeared with dirt, but his sword was bright and keen.

Another uncontrollable shudder rippled through Teiriol. “We go!” Sword before him, he scrambled out of the gully, Ikarel at one shoulder, the beggar boy Nol at the other. Unreasoning fury spurred Teiriol irresistibly on. These lowlanders would die beneath his blade to recompense him for being born to such a straitened bloodline. Their blood would requite that snowfall that robbed his father of fingers and feet. These spoils would make amends for the pitying glances from girls guessing his miserable patrimony down to the last pennyweight. The lowlanders were responsible for everything, with their greed and deceit, the foul magic of their wizards! His confused grievances dissolved into a killing rage.

Teiriol swung at the traitor before him. He spat a curse as his blow was turned aside and hastily blocked a scything stroke that tried to hack the jaw from his chin. Nol was jabbing ineffectively, hampered by unfamiliar armor and more hindrance than defense on that side. Ikarel was trying to get a thrust in, but was vacillating with fear. The traitor’s eyes flicked from side to side, face fixed. A searing pain clawed down the back of Teiriol’s hand, blood fouled his grip, the sword slipping in his hand.

He hesitated and in that moment the traitor’s low stroke shattered Nol’s knee. The child fell, whimpering in agony amidst the rioting voices of men and horses. The spurting wound gushed scarlet until scant breaths later, he died on a choking sob, life’s blood soaked away into the thirsty soil.

Horror almost betrayed Teiriol to the same fate. A rush of men he did not know, recruited by Jeirran’s eloquence on the journey down from the heights, saved him. The boy’s body was kicked aside by urgent feet and the traitor was driven back, all his energies taken up with staying alive beneath the hail of hate-filled blows. Blades flashed bright in the sun beneath streaks of blood and muck as they rose and fell with the weight of untold years of grievance. Teiriol hacked at the man’s guard, the sticky wetness of Nol’s blood on his hands goading him to ever fiercer fury. He brought his sword around and down, again and again. The foe stumbled, hard-baked ruts in the road treacherous beneath his feet. Ikarel, still hovering, saw his moment and sunlight flashed on steel thrust in hard and direct.

In the instant Teiriol expected the razor-sharp point to cleave the traitor’s neck, Ikarel was thrown backward, clean off his feet. Ripped from the melee and flung away, he hit a mighty tree with an audible crack. Branches splintered and, falling helplessly, Ikarel landed broken beneath them.

Two more died for a moment’s lapse as the unseen assault startled them. The traitors were fighting with the coward’s backing of false magic, Teiriol raged. He lifted his sword but something unseen was tying his arms to his sides, threatening to strangle him. Faint blue radiance crackled in the air, the snares of sorcery and terror choked him. As the men around him broke and fled, Teiriol stumbled backward, but the soil beneath his boots was splitting, crumbling, and betraying him with every step. He fell heavily, unable to save himself with arms pinioned, mired to the knee in broken clods of earth.

Eresken abandoned the youth’s confusion and cursed at the scene below. The mages and the woman had taken cover behind a fallen tree, cowering behind the fat and bearded man who was swinging his massive sword two-handed to deadly effect. Five gory bodies lay in motionless testimony to the folly of getting within his arc.

A mage stood up and flung a handful of fire. It flew, straight as an arrow, at the foremost attacker. Clinging to his chest, it ate through mail and leather, devouring the man’s clothing, his skin, his hair. The corpse collapsed in a shower of sparks, the metal of his useless armor glowing white hot. The sparks glowed against the dark earth and then began moving of their own volition, spreading and searching out another victim. One man looked down with horror as his boots ignited and the all-consuming flames seized him.

“Innat ar rial, nar fedrian rek!” Eresken concentrated on the balding mage with every fiber of his being. Satisfaction warmed his malice as he felt that mind, so focused, so disciplined, but so pitifully undefended. Working swiftly, Eresken wrapped it around with myriad images of the Forest, spiking the illusion with a terror of being lost in trackless woods that was inadequately concealed in the back of the mage’s mind. Eresken felt how order and learning were so highly valued, and sowed seeds of whimpering fear in a distrust of the unknown. Rising panic at feeling abandoned and alone blurred the wizard’s concentration and the ground beneath Teiriol’s feet stabilized.

Howling wind came up from nowhere, from all directions and none, dust and leaves swirling around the attackers, the heavy gusts restraining them bodily as they sought to advance. The traitors were unaffected though, Eresken saw with anger, seizing their chance to take a stance either side of the big man, backs to the dubious protection of the fallen tree.

Eresken snatched at the second mage’s mind. This was harder than the first, thoughts flicking rapidly from one notion to another. The Soluran’s terror at the prospect of a violent death sparked frantic desire to do as much damage as possible. This impulse warred with fear of the consequences, constraints of law and an inborn reluctance to kill. Eresken thrust his own will deep into the man’s mind, stirring up a maelstrom of long-forgotten events, unsought remembrance, distorting anything where uncertainty of recall offered his malice a fingerhold. As the man’s recollection spiraled into chaos, Eresken started picking at the reason he could sense frantically groping for control.

A sharp pain at the back of his neck startled Eresken into an oath. He slapped a hand to his collar, as if at a biting insect, bemused to see a smear of blood on his palm. A second sharp pain caught him just below the jawbone and a dart fell to the ground with a cold gleam of steel. As he spun around, Eresken’s arcane senses, so long honed by harsh discipline, easily pierced the tangle of undergrowth.

There she was, the redheaded whore, believing herself safe as she crouched motionless, white-faced, lips bloodless. Eresken glanced back to the road where the three swordsmen were now hard pressed, Teiriol and his followers now free from assault by the stricken wizards. Rage threatened to curdle Eresken’s concentration; the woman he saw there was an image woven of false magic to cover the bitch’s folly as she tried to take him with her petty pinpricks. He lashed out to rip into the vulnerabilities he had sensed in the wizards but now found those minds barred against him. He battered harder, but could find no way in through desperate focus on some archaic ward.

No matter. He would have his vengeance on the woman and then deal with the rest. Eresken took a pace toward the slut’s hiding place but the ground seemed to shift beneath him. This was no treachery of earth or water but his own body was betraying him, he realized, as confusion between eyes and ears threatened to make him nauseous. Eresken felt his control slipping away like water running out between his frantically grasping fingers. A mad euphoria soared within him; what did it matter? Freedom beckoned, tempting, sensual, release from all care, duty and fear. He had been drugged, Eresken realized dimly.

Scalding anger clearing his head just long enough for him to seize on the first principle of mind over body, fundamental lore beaten into his memory. He drew breaths of deepest trance, focusing within himself for the taint of poison and bending his will to burning it out. The confusion still swirling around his consciousness began to recede and Eresken reached for the nearest source of power to bolster his own, drawing pitilessly on the frail resources of the Mountain Men. They were only here to serve him, after all.

A single blow to the pit of his stomach sent him crashing backward into the thicket. The breath was knocked out of him and, before he could gasp for more, knees crushed his ribs, hands gripping his throat sought to squeeze the very life out of him. Blood thundered in his temples. Eresken opened his eyes to see the woman above him, hatred burning in her green eyes. She knew him, he realized and, in that instant, he was glad of it. She would know who killed her. He dug nails into her hands, tearing at her skin, twisting to bite at her wrists. She would know that he had finally repaid her for the humiliation of being captured by her and her fellow spies. With a convulsive heave, he threw the bitch off, her fury no match for his greater weight. She would die at his hands as her lover had died at his father’s. Eresken sprang to his feet, reaching for his sword.

Hot agony rippled through his gut. Wetness oozed down his belly and into his groin, warm slickness turning cold. Eresken groped beneath the heavy links of his hauberk to feel the hilt of a dagger driven up into his belly in the harlot’s first assault. He fell to his knees as sickening pain flooded him, every pulse of his heart striking fresh torment from the wound.

“Save me!” Eresken poured every scrap of heart and will into a despairing appeal, reaching up and out and beyond the woods, past the gray crags of the stony heights, beyond the windswept expanse of the plains and out across the vast, trackless ocean. With a suddenness that made him gasp more than any shock of pain, another mind seized his. As he was lifted bodily away, consciousness crushed beneath a pitiless grip, Eresken welcomed oblivion rather than face his father’s wrath.

He came to himself in a leafy hollow, so similar to the one he had left that he jumped to his feet, looking in all directions for the murderous trollop with her assassin’s daggers. The knife that had stabbed him rattled to the ground.

“Calm yourself.” The voice within his head rang with contempt, a stinging slap behind his eyes an added rebuke.

Eresken clutched at his belly. His trews and shirt were torn and damp with blood but the skin beneath was whole. His fingers traced the cicatrices of a new scar with dismay.

“You can carry those marks as a reminder of your folly,” the voice told him curtly. “Be grateful I was minded to let you off so lightly.”

“You are indeed merciful,” replied Eresken wordlessly with a sinking dread. “Where am I?” He snatched up the dagger.

“Just far enough away to keep you from being gutted like a seal pup.” There was amusement in the voice now. Eresken breathed more easily; better to be the target of mockery than rage. “Get down to the road and head east,” ordered the voice.

“Yes, Father.” Eresken obeyed hastily, slipping and adding fresh scratches to hands and face. Reaching the road, he ran, armor heavy on his shoulders and rattling with every step. Sweating freely, his pace did not falter until he rounded a bend to see bodies strewn across the bloodstained track.

He skidded to a halt, clutching at his head with clumsy hands. Dark brown eyes looked out at the carnage and grim satisfaction curved Eresken’s mouth in a smile not his own.

“Not what we hoped for but something can be made of it.” The lips shaped words echoing and far distant. “Use this and if you impress me your earlier failure may be overlooked.” The voice turned cold. “Disappoint and it will go hard with you.”

Eresken staggered beneath a blow to the very center of his being, senses reeling. Then the presence in his mind was gone, leaving only an echoing memory of helpless blindness. To be used as another’s eyes was bad enough when it was expected, he raged silently; to be taken like that unheralded was infinitely worse. Hastily stifling disloyal anger, Eresken took a deep breath and brought his hands together in front of him, palm to palm and fingers matched and spread. In a soft voice, he recited the incantations to center his mind afresh. That should satisfy any spies lurking to steal his thoughts, he thought in that one secret part of his mind he hoped was still inviolate.

Teiriol’s troop lay all around, some hacked with swords but more struck down by magic. Three were burned beyond recognition by foul, creeping fire. Others lay unmarked but abnormal angles showed bones broken by the hammer blow of unnatural winds. One corpse was still smoking, a black score traced down from head to the shattered ruin of a foot, white bones stark in the charred flesh. Another lay with jaw shattered and hanging limp, the bones of the face broken like an eggshell with fragments driven deep into the brain, which showed gray and gelid in the depths of the wounds.

“How do they do this?” muttered Eresken aloud.

A feeble croak sought to answer him. Eresken looked around, startled. The sound came again and he followed it to the ditch beside the road. Distraught blue eyes looked up from a mire of leaves and blood. “Teiriol?”

“I ran away,” sobbed the younger man. “I ran away. I was trying to bring them all back, trying to get them to rally, but once the lightning started, once I saw Seja hit—” He broke off with a cry of pain and Eresken saw his sword hand was useless, naked spikes of shattered bone sticking out of the wrist, the fingers hanging bloodless and limp, thumb all but severed. Teiriol cradled the ruin of his arm helplessly, weeping like a child.

“What happened?” Eresken shook him furiously but Teiriol was incoherent with pain and distress. Eresken seized his chin and forced it up; Teiriol’s eyes widened at the shock of the sudden assault.

So that was the way of it, Eresken thought grimly as he stripped out memories, heedless of the pain he was inflicting. The mages had hit Teiriol’s men with foulest sorcery, the swordsmen going on to hack down remaining resistance. The Mountain Men had died unable to defend themselves against double assault of spell and blade. The Soluran mage had sprung the woman from the empty air and they had run, the black-haired man slinging the wounded wizard over one shoulder, the traitors to the ancient blood on either side.

Eresken let go his grip on Teiriol and the younger man collapsed. Eresken walked rapidly down the length of road, checking every body, even those unrecognizable lumps of charred flesh. Some lingered, clinging desperately to life despite their injuries. Eresken ruthlessly snuffed any vital spark he found; there were wounds enough to explain the deaths. No one would suspect his hand in so thorough a slaughter and most would have died anyway, without rapid aid at least.

But he still needed Teiriol, for the present. Eresken walked back to the weeping man hunched over his agony. “I must summon help,” he said breathlessly. “I must call Aritane, to bring Sheltya to save those not yet dead.”

“Not yet—” Teiriol lifted his face, incredulous hope shining through the muck and blood. Eresken seized the boy’s surge of longing, seeing Aritane pictured within his mind. He wove that pitiable yearning for home and healing into his own tight-focused appeal, masking his intent with Teiriol’s piercing need.

“You must come, my love. Come to me. We have been betrayed, murdered, slaughtered. You must come.”

Eresken tore himself away from Aritane’s frantic appeals for explanation and direction. Her talents were notable for her race, he thought, but no match for any of his clan. Still, he didn’t have much time. “What is that?” Eresken looked down the road, mouth open.

Teiriol turned his head and Eresken plunged the bitch assassin’s dagger into the base of his skull, twisting the blade to leave the young man twitching helplessly, blindly for an instant of horror before death.

Pursing his lips for a moment, Eresken released the hilt of the dagger. It could stay in the wound for someone else to remark on, another pennyweight in the scales demanding vengeance. He scrambled rapidly up the hillside to the dell where he had been attacked. That whore would pay with her own blood for the shedding of his, he promised grimly. Eresken rummaged among the crisp leaves, peering at the dart he retrieved. There was still a faint smear glistening on it, rainbow mockery as he tilted it to the sunlight. Good enough.

Eresken drove the point into the back of his hand and let himself fall gracelessly to the ground. He seized the dizziness of the drug and nurtured it, forbidding the instinct to drive it from his blood. He heard movement on the road beneath but forced himself to stay motionless. If it were passers-by, no matter. They could hardly remove the bodies before Aritane arrived and no one was going to know any truth beyond what he chose to tell them.

He relaxed into the insidious charm of the poison, mind drifting idly around a hidden tether of inmost consciousness. Aritane’s desperate thoughts brushed past, nearly missing him before horrified realization struck her. Eresken opened the surface of his thoughts to her, seemingly half insensible, coloring the sight of the corpses in his mind’s eye with Teiriol’s shame and anguish. “Beloved…” He infused that one despairing word with all the frustrated passion he sensed in Aritane, with the memory of their discreet kisses, her nervous delight at his exploration of her body, never yet satisfying her cravings, calculated to leave her always longing for more.

Now her hands were beneath his head, cradling him to the soft swell of her bosom, the galloping beat of her blood drumming in his ear, her breath rapid and ragged, hysteria threatening. Eresken warded himself discreetly from that mental turmoil but did nothing to soothe it. Opening his eyes, he let them roll upward before fixing with visible effort on her face.

“What happened?” Aritane was pale as milk, a vein throbbing at her temple.

“We came to parley, as we discussed—” Eresken coughed and tried to rise but collapsed as if the effort were beyond him. “The wizards, all we wanted was their undertaking to leave us to settle our disputes—”

“They attacked you? Under parley?” Aritane was trembling now, fury and shock rippling through her arms as she held Eresken close to her heart.

“We did not expect it.” He allowed himself to feel bemused. “Even if they did not agree, we did not expect to be assaulted.”

“What happened—”

He felt the first confusion clearing from her mind. She was wondering how he was spared when the rest were so bloodily slaughtered. Eresken thrust the image of the redheaded whore at her, no need to dissimulate as he struck her with his disbelief and outrage and the memory of poisoned darts.

“Then she was truly a spy?” cried Aritane in horror.

“Worse, she knew me.” Eresken let Aritane feel the echo of the slut’s hatred. “She was one of those who came to rob my father’s house, at the bidding of the Archmage. They kidnapped me—I feared for my life…” He let her see the little boat driven through the ocean on the glow of false magic, he let her hear the cruel jests about eating him if his captors should go hungry on the voyage. “They came for me again!” Eresken flooded Aritane’s mind with dread of retribution, hiding the fact that it was his father’s wrath he feared. The terror was real enough to make shedding a few stifled tears easy. “I could not help them, I could hear them being killed, but I could not help them.” He thrust image after image of the dying and the dead at Aritane, tainted with the dizzying seduction of the drug. She gasped and clutched him ever tighter.

Eresken could hear other voices down on the road. “Is that Bryn?”

“And Ceris,” Aritane replied. “Rest easy, my love.”

“No,” Eresken forced himself up out of her embrace. “I must help, I must see what has happened.” He got to his feet, careful to lean heavily on Aritane. This series of shocks left her ready to accept any offer of leadership, Eresken realized. Good. Now he must ensure that the rest of these half-trained hopefuls saw events as he wished. With Aritane struggling to support him, Eresken saw Bryn and Ceris walking slowly from corpse to corpse. Farther down the road were a couple more of the gray-clad fools whose names he had not bothered with.

Ceris stopped for a moment beside Teiriol’s corpse, hands going to her face as she saw the dagger in the back of his head. “Treachery! Murder! Stabbed as he tried to flee or sue for mercy!” Her thoughts may as well have been shouted aloud, weak-chinned face bloodless beneath her head of golden curls.

“We met the wizards to ask for a parley,” Eresken told them, barring his mind to their questing thoughts with a pretense of grief and pain. “We appealed to them to allow the Men of the Mountains to redress their grievances against the lowlanders in fair combat. They seemed to be listening courteously enough, so we relaxed our guard. We didn’t wish to insult them with any suggestion of mistrust. Then they attacked us; the mages turned nature itself to wreak evil upon us.” He ripped a few holes in his façade, giving them glimpses of apparent memories within.

“Tell us everything, from the beginning.” Bryn strode toward them, intent darkening his eyes.

Eresken felt the force of the man’s determination to wrest the truth from him and allowed his knees to buckle. Letting his arm slide from Aritane’s shoulder, he slumped to the ground, the woman unable to support the burden of his dead weight. “Let him be,” she snapped. “Can’t you tell? They poisoned him!”

As she pillowed his head on a bundle of her cloak and straightened his limbs with gentle hands, Eresken wrapped himself in a cocoon of deception and lurked within, listening intently. Aritane’s voice was as hard as diamond, he noted with satisfaction. The vulnerability he was exploiting remained unseen by anyone else, schooled as she was in the unflinching mask of the Sheltya.

“Look carefully, mark every death and the manner of it,” she commanded coldly. “We will let every soke know how their sons spent their lives.”

“To kill from afar and with such violence…” words failed one of the younger Sheltya, Remet. Eresken picked his name out of Aritane’s mind unnoticed, matching the voice to a face still waiting for the strength of manhood, full of youthful appeal but without substance to either wit or convictions.

“That’s what these mages do,” spat Bryn. “Why do you suppose the lowlanders drove them into the sea so many generations ago?”

“What of Jeirran and his men?” the other woman gasped. Krelia, that was her name. Eresken recalled a nervous face and hands with nails chewed to their quick, a mind worn thin by endless demands, never taking time for herself.

“Who will tell Jeirran that his sister’s brother was so foully slain?” asked Ceris of no one in particular, a sob in her voice.

“We must keep the Suratimm out of the battle,” said Bryn with grim determination. “If they are truly working with the mages of Hadrumal.”

“Of course they are! One of their spies struck down Eresken!” Aritane slapped all four with a sudden vision of the redhaired slut. “She was up in the Hachalfess trying to cozen Cullam, along with that wizard. How much more evidence do you need?”

Well-concealed satisfaction warmed Eresken. Aritane would do his work for him without need for further prompting.

“Then it is war?” Realization strengthened Remet’s voice.

“We didn’t want it and we didn’t start it but we cannot let an outrage like this go unchallenged,” Bryn answered him dubiously. “If we do, this slaughter could be visited on innocents in every soke, if lowlanders seize land with false magic at their back.”

“We should fight,” declared Aritane. “This is not just a struggle for the men of the sokes, not just a fight of swords and axes. We must support them against the false magic with every power at our command.”

So the seeds he had planted and nurtured were finally coming into bloom, Eresken thought with relief.

“Sheltya are sworn to be impartial,” Krelia whispered.

“In conflict between soke and soke, between fess and fess,” agreed Aritane. “Where is the oath binding our hands when our people are to be driven naked into the snow?”

“The Elders—” Remet choked on a strangled objection.

“I will answer to the Elders,” said Aritane defiantly. “As Sheltya loyal to no single bloodline, I must be sworn to the service of all or to none. I will either die in defense of my people, of all my people, or I will stand proud at my brother’s shoulder when he has led us to victory and I will claim him once more as kin. Let the Elders judge me then. If they condemn me, then I will go north into the ice as the Alyatimm once did and face Misaen’s judgment.”

Inarticulate protest from Bryn escaped Eresken.

“You think they did justly?” Aritane was scathing. “To exile those who would use true magic in defense of their rights? What price Misaen’s judgment now? The Alyatimm did not freeze and die, I can tell you that now. Eresken is of their blood, of their lineage. He brings word from far islands where his people live free and unchallenged. They are not afraid to use the true magic they have kept pure and strong. Even as we speak, they are defying the wizards and the Tormalins who stretch their greedy hands out over the ocean to seize yet more land.”

Curse the woman, why couldn’t she keep her foolish mouth shut? Eresken waved a feeble hand, instantly diverting Aritane.

She knelt beside him. “Are you with us?”

“Some water?” he asked breathlessly.

Bryn held a bottle to Eresken’s lips as Aritane raised his head. “So you are of Alyatimm blood?” Mistrust hovered around the edges of his mind.

Eresken gazed deep into the man’s eyes. “My forefathers’ forefathers followed the men who called themselves such and went into the ice to face the judgment of Misaen. We call ourselves Elietimm and use the powers of true magic to survive in the cold islands of the northern ocean. We are assailed by Tormalin greed backed with the false magic of Hadrumal. I came looking for allies to help save my people and I found brothers in blood whose plight echoed our own.”

Bryn nodded slowly and Eresken let fresh blood flow from his wounds to stain Aritane’s dress and hands. “We have to get him back,” she insisted.

Eresken relaxed in her embrace as the five wove power of mind over matter to carry them back to safety. Once this story was told and retold, reinforced with appropriate nudges from him, these pitiful Anyatimm would howl down from their mountains as if their forefathers had never been the cowards of legend. War in the Forest would spill out to crush the farmers of the lowlands after a few judicious incidents managed by himself. With all Tormalin eyes and arms drawn westward before the summer was out, his father could choose his moment to strike. Eresken relished reward and adulation to come, to be savored just as intensely as wrath and punishment were dreaded.

The Great West Road, 2nd of Alt-Summer

“Slow down!” I was so out of breath my desperate appeal was barely a hoarse gasp. Stopping dead, I bent to ease the catch in my side, drawing warm, sweet air deep into my lungs. Blood pounded in my head. Sorgrad realized I was no longer at his shoulder inside a few paces and halted, ’Gren doing the same. Darni slowed, red-faced and sweating like a pig. He let Usara slide from his shoulder, the wizard leaning heavily on his arm. “Saedrin’s stones but you’re heavier than you look, ’Sar!”

Usara looked pale and queasy and my stomach was still revolting from being moved about like a bird on a Raven board by Gilmarten’s magic. Never mind, we could empty our guts when we had leisure to spare. Were we pursued?

Sorgrad must have heard my thoughts; he peered back down the road. “No sign. I think we can take it a little slower.”

“Bless you,” Gilmarten struggled, chest heaving, “for that.”

I wasn’t so sure. “What about their enchanter? He could be here inside a heartbeat—they come out of the shadows like Eldritch-men!”

“He can do that wherever we are,” pointed out Sorgrad with irritating logic. “Let’s clean our blades and get our breath before the next bout.” As he spoke, he led us to a hollow where we could see the road before being seen ourselves. Sorgrad stationed himself at the edge and indicated a faint trail heading into the deeper woods. “We run that way if need be and then swing back to the road.” He began wiping the streaks of blood from his blade, emerald flies soon gathering around the enticing scent.

“I only run away from men with swords who are bigger and nastier than me,” grunted ’Gren, looking at his gory gloves with distaste.

“And only if there are more than we can comfortably kill,” grinned Darni. His look of complicity with both brothers gave me a serious qualm. Two of them was bad enough, Drianon save me from a trio of eager brawlers.

“Won’t your poisons have done for the enchanter?” Usara was limping heavily, a slow ooze of blood trickling from the ragged tear in his breeches. He dabbed distastefully at it with the hem of his gown, brushing inquisitive flies away.

“Unlikely.” I pulled my sweat-soaked shirt away from my neck. “It was tahn ointment.”

“Not bluesalt?” ’Gren looked profoundly disappointed.

“There was no time,” I apologized. “Poldrion willing, the tahn will keep him out long enough to bleed to death.”

Gilmarten’s eyes were bulging so wide he risked them falling clean out of his head and dropping into the dirt. I gave him a bright smile. “You’re not wounded?”

“Thank you, no, my lady.” He swept me a ragged bow. “A little shaken, I’ll confess, but otherwise unharmed.”

“They started it.” ’Gren looked crossly at a shallow slice in his forearm. “Those shitty-tailed horses must be halfway back to Pastamar by now. What can I clean this with?”

“Here.” Darni poured spirits on a rag ripped from his shirt and passed over the bottle. He dabbed at grazes on his own knuckles, hissing absently through his teeth. “You’d better be next,” he nodded to me.

I looked at the gouges the Elietimm bastard had left in my hands but I had more to worry about than cuts and scrapes. “That enchanter, I knew him.”

“I suspected as much,” commented Usara, “when you started cursing his sexual practices.”

“Firsthand knowledge?” joked ’Gren.

“No jokes, not now.” I shot him a hard look. “Firsthand knowledge of his people, of the way they go ripping into your mind to pull out whatever they want.” My voice shook and I held onto my hot anger, warmth against the chill of recollection. “That man—me and Shiv and Ryshad, we captured him when we were trying to get away from those accursed Ice Islands. He had some measure of authority and we aimed to trade his life for ours, if we were taken.” I shook my head. “But he used his pox-ridden, whore-sucking magic to get away, vanished clean out of the boat.” I took the cloth and scrubbed at my hands, welcoming the sharp sting ridding me of the foulness of his touch.

Usara looked up. “That he escaped, even under attack—”

“—and with my dagger in his guts,” I interjected.

“—suggests he is powerful, which would argue we don’t assume he’s dead until we’ve seen the body,” concluded the mage thoughtfully.

“Until we’ve seen the body, cut off his head, stuck it on a stick for the ravens to play with and burned the rest to ashes,” corrected ’Gren. “You can do that last bit, wizard,” he said to Gilmarten generously.

The Soluran mage mumbled something noncommittal.

“An Elietimm enchanter backing an attack by Mountain Men?” Darni looked sharply at me. “You’re certain it was the same man?”

“We all look alike?” Sorgrad smiled at him without humor. “If our girl here says it was the same man, it was the same man, friend.”

I nearly told Sorgrad I could fight my own battles against Darni but decided I was content to have the arrogant bully outnumbered for the moment. Darni reached for his bottle of cleansing spirits. “Drop your breeches, ’Sar. That needs cleaning and stitching or you’ll have maggots in it before the day’s out.”

Usara unlaced himself without protest and we all winced at the ragged gash ripped through a massive purpled bruise on his thigh. I was amazed he had managed to walk at all. Darni sloshed spirits into the cut and Usara went as pale as old bone, mouth gaping on a silent scream.

“Just try to keep still,” murmured Darni as he sacrificed the rest of his shirt for dressings. ’Gren caught my eye and mouthed something at me. I shook my head, mystified, but got it on the second attempt. Dancing bear.

I could see what he meant; Darni stripped to the waist showed impressive muscles beneath a pelt of black curly hair that would probably fetch him an arrow from a careless hunter. I wondered if his wife took a hearthrug to bed when he was away making mischief for the Archmage.

Usara sat down heavily, gray around the mouth and eyes. “Let me find the tahn ointment,” I rummaged through my own scrip. “Dab it on, to numb the skin.”

“And my wits along with it?” Usara managed a thin smile. “I don’t think we’d better risk it.”

“Your choice,” Darni grunted, threading a curved needle.

“A moment.” Gilmarten leaned forward to proffer a small flame dancing on his bare palm. “Heat the metal in this, to prevent corruption getting into the wound.”

Usara went paler still as he watched the needle tip glow red and then white. I cast about for something to distract him. “So, Usara, we have an Elietimm enchanter hereabouts that we last saw working for that Ice Islander bastard who was so keen to kill us all the year before last. What do you make of it?”

“We also know that Ice Islander was hoping to claim Kellarin for his own.” Usara spoke through gritted teeth as Darni set to work. “Toremal and Hadrumal between them put paid to that ambition.”

I held the wizard’s gaze with my own. “So what’s this enchanter doing here?”

“The people of the mountains do have justified grievances. If they were to be roused—” Usara broke off with a stifled curse, beads of sweat trickling into his eyes that had nothing to do with the heat.

“Sorry,” muttered Darni in a perfunctory tone. “It’s a diversion, has to be. Stir up trouble on a different flank and your opponent has to spread his forces.”

“The lords of northern Solura would be most perturbed at unrest hereabouts,” chipped in Gilmarten, looking worried. “We rely on the Men of the Mountains to secure our border with Mandarkin. If the passes are not guarded, Mandarkin will take advantage soon enough.”

“Even more chaos in the west,” I nodded. “Wouldn’t that be nice for the Elietimm?”

“Everyone looking the wrong way when Ice Islander ships land in Tormalin on the spring tides?” Darni glanced up from his work.

Whatever his other faults, the man was not stupid, I reminded myself. “Or Kellarin.”

Darni grunted and continued his careful needlework. “We need to know exactly what this enchanter is doing before we can counter him.”

“Whatever they are planning, they didn’t want to risk us getting wind of it,” observed Sorgrad. “Bet you a penny to a pack-load that’s why we got thrown out of Hachalfess.”

“And he had Sheltya doing his dirty work there.” ’Gren stripped off his jerkin and folded it around the soiled front. “That tall piece with the haughty manner at very least.”

“So what are they up to?” All I met were blank looks, even from Usara, though that changed back to clench-jawed endurance in the next instant.

“That’ll do,” said Darni with satisfaction, snipping off his thread. “Now we have to tell Planir what is going on.” He stuck his sword into damp leaf mold to clean it, scraping out a hollow in the black earth where he buried the stained remnants of his shirt. “We don’t have much of a tale though.” He sucked his teeth in an unattractive manner.

“We’ve more than you think.” I hesitated; this was hard to put into words. “When the woman threw us out of Hachalfess, do you recall the others with her, who didn’t show their faces? One of them was that selfsame enchanter I just tried to gut, I’m sure of it.” I clasped my hands together to stop them shaking.

“You didn’t say anything at the time,” said Sorgrad cautiously.

“I only realized when I saw him today.” I looked at my hands, pleased to see them steady again. “There was something nagging at the back of my mind about what happened at Hachalfess, but every time I tried to think about it I got jittery, worrying about going back up into the heights, about having aetheric magic used against me. You know I’m not given to fretting, and anyway, it all stopped as soon as I knocked that bastard off the board with the tahn. He was messing with my mind somehow, I’ll bet any purse.” Anger outweighed any other considerations now.

“You’re sure of this?” Darni’s skepticism was ill hidden behind his thick beard.

“Guinalle told me the easiest way to manipulate a mind is to enhance fears or desires already present,” said Usara thoughtfully. “Which is strictly forbidden,” he added hastily.

“Sheltya do it,” said Sorgrad, grim-faced. “When they are punishing someone.”

“So you can place this enchanter with the woman. What’s the significance?” Darni was sticking to the original scent with characteristic tenacity. “What we need to know is whether or not we’ve still got them on our tail!”

“I can scry for them,” Usara said slowly. “I’d prefer it if we can find a different medium to use. I don’t fancy working in a handful of my own blood again.”

“You know, that was brilliant.” Gilmarten looked up from studying the laces on his boots. “I would never have thought of that, and if you hadn’t been able to find that man we could have been utterly lost.”

Usara smiled deprecatingly. “After you have run into aetheric magic a few times, you become more used to the notion that your senses may betray you under its influence. When it seemed I could not see any of you, I knew I had to turn to more certain means of sight.”

“You couldn’t have done it without the shielding chant Ryshad taught you,” I pointed out.

“It was a little more than that,” said Usara with an irritating superiority. “Guinalle and I have made considerable study of the ways we can ward ourselves against Artifice.”

“Magic only gets you so far.” Sorgrad was unimpressed. “Livak stuck the knife in him.”

“Only because Gilmarten put her next to him,” countered Darni, mage’s man speaking up in defense of his paymasters.

“I think Gilmarten’s simulacrum of her was equally crucial,” Usara winced as he foolishly tried to flex his leg.

“Yes, you’re all very clever,” interrupted ’Gren impatiently. “So, work your magic, Sandy, and find out if they’re coming after us!”

Usara heaved a sigh and knuckled his eyes before sweeping meager strands of hair off his face. “Do we have something that will hold water with enough surface for scrying? Does anyone have any ink?”

Gilmarten wordlessly offered a little silver mounted and stoppered horn from the capacious bag at his belt. Darni stood up, frowning. “I had any number of things in my pack,” he muttered crossly. “Cursed useless horses, no training worth their oats.”

Sorgrad began turning out pockets in the breast of his jerkin. “There’s no rim to this but if I can find a decent stone—” He held out a metal mirror the size of my hand.

“He always likes to know he’s looking his best, my brother,” mocked ’Gren.

“And to have means to send a signal, dazzle a pursuer, see around a corner in case the Watch are waiting,” Sorgrad nodded in similar vein. “And to make sure I look good for the ladies, obviously.”

Darni was unamused. “That’s never going to hold water.”

“If I might assist.” Gilmarten reached for the mirror. The Soluran mage studied it carefully from both sides and then held it between his palms. A faint smile curved his lips as he concentrated and then he handed the metal back to Usara, now dished like a spoon. I half expected the water to steam or bubble as Usara poured it carefully in, but rather disappointingly it didn’t. Usara lifted the little bowl to study the underside, peering closely.

“You can swap notes later,” I pointed out. “The scrying?”

Usara peered into the shallow water, face dappled with greenish lights striking up from the silver. “No sign of pursuit,” he said finally. “The road is clear, as far as I can see.” He frowned. “But I can’t find the place where we were attacked. I know I broke up the surface of the road and Gilmarten’s air spells would surely have left some sign.”

“Aetheric enchantment,” I said grimly. Wizard’s magic was going to be a lot less useful if Artifice could help people hide from it.

Usara ignored me, leaning ever closer over the bowl, but his hands suddenly shook and emerald radiance slopped over the side, falling to vanish into the ground.

“That’s enough.” Darni leaned forward and took the little dish from the unresisting mage and tipped out the inky water. “We can try again later when ’Sar’s had some rest.”

“You give it a go.” ’Gren shook Gilmarten’s shoulder with brisk encouragement.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much facility with the arts of water,” the Soluran mage said hesitantly. “In Soluran tradition we keep far closer to working our natural element.”

I could see frustration building in ’Gren’s face. “Come on, let’s see if we can find anything to eat around here.” I pulled him away down the game trail.

“Those wizards may burn hot and bright when they get started but they’re soon down to ash,” he grumbled, kicking at some inoffensive bush.

“Be fair,” I told him firmly. “The kind of magic they were flinging around earlier takes a lot out of them. They can faint dead away if they overdo it and I don’t think we want that.”

“I’m here to take on any Elietimm fancying his luck,” ’Gren said aggressively.

“Yes, but that’s because you don’t have the sense to know when you’re killed, let alone exhausted,” I pointed out.

He grinned at me. “It’s the way Misaen made me.”

“Well, be grateful he made mages the way he did.” I looked around in vain for some plant I might recognize as edible. I should have paid more attention to the foraging women of the Forest Folk. “Otherwise they’d be ruling the world by now.” My words struck an echo somewhere in my memory. “Otrick on why wizards don’t rule the world.”

’Gren looked quizzically at me. “What?”

“Never mind.” I pointed to a bush dotted with scarlet fruit. “Do you suppose we can eat those?”

’Gren picked one and ate it before I could stop him. “Tastes like a driftberry.”

I sniffed cautiously at one. Smaller and darker but it did smell like a driftberry. I set about gathering them in a fold of my shirt. Perhaps one of the wizards would be able to tell for sure. ’Gren helped, eating plenty as he did so. I didn’t bother suggesting caution to him.

Otrick. As I picked my way between the spines of the bush I thought about the old wizard. I had liked him, he wasn’t some cloak carrier for Planir, polishing up his Council seat with a well-padded rump. When Otrick wanted to learn about the winds and currents of the ocean, he’d taken up with a pirate ship. Elietimm enchantment had him in a deathless, lifeless sleep now, struck down as he’d used his powers to stop the bastards slaughtering the hapless colonists of Kellarin. So there was someone else depending on us finding out the secrets of aetheric magic.

We foraged for a while longer but discovered nothing more than the fact that the height of summer is a bad time to try living off the land. This side of the turn of autumn, flowers and bitter green berries were just a mocking promise of fruitfulness to come. In glum accord, we headed back to the others.

“This is all we could find.” I divided up the spoils into waiting hands, giving Usara the prince’s portion. We all ate hungrily, but the berries did little to fill our bellies. I wondered crossly where those cursed horses had gone. I didn’t relish the prospect of a journey through the Forest without sustaining food, water we could trust or ideally a change of linen. Wishing to no avail for something more to eat, I wiped my hands on my stained shirt and looked around the dejected circle. “So, what now?”

“We get instructions from Planir,” said Usara glumly.

“We need to scry more widely, find out just how many are arming,” mused Darni. “If it’s just a single kindred with an itch to scratch, that’s one thing. If it’s every valley this side of the heights, we’re in for a bloody autumn.”

“You do as you see fit,” I told the pair of them. “I came on this trip to find aetheric lore and I’m not quitting on that.”

“That game’s finished, Livak,” snapped Usara, “all the runes rolled and done. We’re as empty in the pocket as we were when we started.”

“Then it’s time to gather the bones for another hand,” I told him. “Losses only count if you have to walk away from the table bearing them. As long as you’re playing, you can set about winning your coin back.” And if necessary, you set about making your own luck, if the run of the runes is against you. Especially if the other player is already scraping the odds.

“And how do you propose to set about that?” Darni’s tone quite plainly anticipated that I had no real idea.

“Has Planir got anywhere closer to finding a means of waking Otrick?” I demanded of Usara.

“No,” he sighed heavily. “We tried everything Guinalle could suggest over the winter. We failed and unless Planir’s forgotten to tell me, no one has unearthed any scholarship that might help since.”

“I bet that Elietimm enchanter knows how,” I said. “Knowledge may not be a silver cup to steal, but we could try stealing the head it’s held in, couldn’t we?”

Usara looked at me with mingled disbelief and irritation but Darni’s dark eyes were lit with interest.

“Well, we could, couldn’t we?” I insisted. “And we could probably find out just what the Mountain Men are up to. And what pots that Elietimm bastard is stirring. And we could probably find answers to most of the questions about aetheric magic that Guinalle can’t answer. We know these warding incantations of Guinalle’s work now. As long as we get the drop on the Ice Islander, he won’t have a chance to try his tricks.” And I could prove to myself once and for all that Elietimm enchantments need not be feared with the nausea that bastard had planted in the back of my mind. “We had him once before and we can get him again. Tied up and knocked out, he’ll be no more trouble than any other sack of shit.”

“I forbid it, absolutely!” Usara made the mistake of trying to stand up and gasped at the pain.

“Saedrin grant he’s already through the door to the Otherworld,” said Darni slowly.

“If Raeponin’s doing his job,” I agreed fervently. “But what if he’s not?”

“How do we find out?” demanded Darni.

“This.” I dug in my belt-pouch and held up the little knife. “It belonged to the Sheltya woman. She’s been with him before; she’ll be with him again. Usara can find her and we find him.”

“The one who dismissed us from the uplands?” Usara was aghast. “You stole from her?”

“You don’t think she realized it was you?” Darni glowered in the bullying manner I remembered all too well. “You don’t think that’s what brought them down on us?”

“Five fives of men, all armed to the teeth and out for blood, just for a pocket blade and after waiting right around the greater moon and start again?” I raised an eyebrow at him. “I hardly think so. I doubt she’s even missed it, and if she does she’ll think she just lost it when the leather snapped.” I waved the tattered end at him and grinned at Gilmarten, who was looking quite nonplussed.

“If Livak cuts your purse after lunch, you won’t know about it till you try to pay the reckoning for your supper,” Sorgrad told Darni firmly.

“I’m here on the authority of the Archmage and I simply will not countenance this!” Usara protested. “I certainly won’t assist you with scrying.”

“We don’t work for you, pal,” said ’Gren sunnily.

“Or your Archmage,” added Sorgrad with a hint of menace. “And if you won’t work the magic for us, maybe I should have a try.”

“I told you before I’m the dog with the brass collar on this hunt,” I reminded the mage. “We’re going to do what we want, with or without your help.”

“I’d like to see you try,” scoffed Darni. “Impossible.”

’Gren smiled. “No such thing as impossible—”

“Just long odds.” Sorgrad stood next to his brother.

“And those are the kind that pay off best.” I joined them. “We’re on our way. Are you coming?”

“We should stick together through the Forest,” Darni glowered. “For safety in numbers.”

The wizards exchanged looks of impatience and uncertainty but each had the sense to realize that with Usara in such a state they needed swords and darts at least as much as spells to protect them.

We started to walk and I began racking my brains; without Usara’s cooperation, I was short of a few key runes. I wondered how to get them, but I was determined to play this hand. Gambling may be all about winning but that doesn’t mean it can’t be about getting even too.