The Assassin's Edge

From Keran Tonin, Mentor,

To Pirip Marne, Scholar.

Dear Marne,

I hear you’re doing some interesting work on the Ancient Races. You might find this useful. I can vouch for it as a genuine copy of an old record; it came from the Isles of the Elietimm a few years ago, when the Archmage’s man and those two sworn to D’Olbriot tried to rescue poor Geris. I’d so far rather have had the dear boy home safe instead but at least we’re unravelling some notion of what we’re dealing with from documents like this.

By the way, have you considered a visit to Kellarin at all? Let me know your thoughts in due course.

With compliments, Tonin

Itilek tells he has heard of disaster befalling Kehannasekke’s bid for the empty lands to the south.

Jinvejen agrees that he has heard the same. The feeling among his clan is that this is Misaen’s judgement upon Rekhren for his over-reliance upon Maewehn’s priests.

Itilek announces his own priest finds himself powerless.

Jinvejen admits his own councillor is similarly stricken.

Both take time to consider this puzzle.

Jinvejen declares his forefathers have counselled suspicion of Maewehn’s priests ever since all in this common exile were driven from our true home by Sheltya malice.

Itilek allows such a sudden and unexpected loss of priestly powers looks like divine retribution but asks what might Misaen’s purpose be in doing such a thing?

Jinvejen wonders what does Misaen ask of us all in less troubled times? That we strive to better our lot through hard work and unity of purpose. It was for fear of such uncompromising strength that Sheltya rallied the weaker clans to hound our forefathers from their home. It was only such determination that brought our forefathers across the ice to these isolated rocks. Perhaps Misaen has visited his judgement upon Kehannasekke to rebuke him for seeking a new home to the south rather than returning to reclaim his true inheritance through ingenuity and valour.

Itilek points out how many generations have passed since our forefathers were exiled. Hopes of return to our true home seem ever more distant now the descendants of those that exiled us find themselves assailed by Southrons driven out of their own lands by the men of Tren Ar’Dryen.

Jinvejen reminds Itilek that Southrons are ruled by priests devoted both to Maewehn and to Arimelin and have long counselled retreat rather than making a stand for their sacred places. Cowardice has sewn the seeds of its own destruction.

Itilek asks what Jinvejen proposes.

Jinvejen suggests all ties with Southrons be cut and we tend our own hearths in amity for a full cycle of years. Misaen has shown us plainly that we have no friends but our own blood kindred. Kehannasekke’s misadventures prove all other arms will be raised against us. Let us hone our skills and bide our time, raising our sons to strength and singleness of mind. If we prove ourselves worthy, mayhap Misaen will add the edge of true magic to our hard-hitting swords once more.

Itilek agrees to consider this and undertakes to lay the hide with his hargeard that the bones might make their wishes known to him.

The Island City of Hadrumal, 10th of For-Summer

Thank you so very much, my dear.” Planir lifted his hands from the rim of the silver bowl, face intense. He smiled at Aritane but the courtesy couldn’t entirely banish the line between his fine dark brows.

“It is a welcome change to find my talents appreciated.” The Mountain woman’s voice was tart, her deep-set blue eyes hard.

“I’d welcome your thoughts on what may happen now,” invited Planir. He rose from his seat across the table from Aritane. “May I offer you refreshment?”

“Some wine, white if you please.” Aritane smiled at some passing thought before her face returned to its guarded expression.

Planir poured two glasses of a straw-coloured vintage from a dark bottle adorned with a crumbling wax seal. Resuming his seat, he passed one over. “So Ilkehan is dead. What does that mean for us?” The Archmage was in his shirtsleeves, a silk shirt befitting his rank.

“The manner of his death interests me.” Aritane’s exotic accent sat oddly with her everyday gown of Caladhrian cut; serviceable wool dyed a neutral fawn. She raised a hand to brush the corn-coloured sweep of hair falling loose to her shoulders away from her narrow face.

“I take it that savagery has some point beyond simple bloodlust?” Planir gestured towards the empty water. “And the masquerade?”

“If his people believe Ilkehan’s arrogance has summoned retaliation from the Gebaedim—” Aritane pressed her full lips tight together. “The confidence of his acolytes and thus their power will be all the more thoroughly broken.”

“When can we establish what aetheric strength remains, among the Elietimm or in Suthyfer?” asked Planir slowly. “I don’t want to risk anyone working magic if there’s the slightest chance they might suffer Otrick’s fate.”

Aritane retreated behind the curtain of her hair. Planir waited patiently.

“I will look for a mind open to true magic tomorrow,” she said finally. “Then we can judge the consequences of Ilkehan’s death.”

“We have many consequences to consider.” Jovial, Planir disregarded Aritane’s sour tone. “Without Ilkehan to menace you or your people, you should consider your opportunities in the world beyond Hadrumal. The universities at Col and at Vanam would welcome your insights into the study of aetheric enchantments.”

“I’ve met some of these scholars in your libraries. I wouldn’t spend a night on a bare mountain with any of them.” Sarcasm tainted Aritane’s words. “So you want rid of me?”

“Not in the least.” Planir’s unemotional reply made his sincerity ring all the more true. “I value your skills highly. Archmage or no, I could never have dared this scrying without your Artifice to defend me.” He waved his wine glass at the silver bowl. “But I would like to see you find a place where your considerable talents are accorded due respect—and I don’t just mean your mastery of aetheric arts.”

Aritane made a non-committal noise before taking a sip of wine. “Sheltya remain, even if Ilkehan is dead.”

“Is there no way you could make your peace with them?” Planir asked gently.

“When I serve as your scholars’ conduit into the secrets of the wise?” Aritane set down her glass with a snap that slopped wine on to the polished table top. “I hardly think so.”

“The books we’ve just recovered from Ilkehan’s library should hold more than enough secrets to satisfy the mentors of Col, Vanam or anywhere else.” Unperturbed, Planir gestured at a door skilfully concealed in the panelling of the far wall. “I would see you make peace with the Sheltya so you may be free to live your life as you wish. Until that day comes, I will defend you to the best of my abilities against Sheltya, Elietimm and all who might disparage you hereabouts.”

Aritane blushed a scarlet unbecoming to her pale complexion. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“As you wish.” Planir rose to bow courteously. “But remember, my door is always open to you.”

Aritane left without a backward glance, pace audibly increasing as she disappeared down the stairs. Planir stood by the door for a moment, combing long fingers through his hair. He heaved a sigh that could have been frustration, irritation, exhaustion or all three together before kicking the door shut.

Hair in unruly spikes, he ignored his untouched glass of wine and walked to the tall window. He gazed out far beyond the stone-slated roofs of Hadrumal. “How soon can I go scrying for you, my darling?” he murmured. A mirror stood on the sill beside him, steel-bright within the dark mahogany frame, a silver candlestick beside it, empty.

Something in the courtyard below caught Planir’s eye. “Splendid timing as always, Hearth Master,” he muttered sardonically.

He moved quickly, smoothing his hair to its customary sleekness and catching up his formal robe from its hook on the back of the door. He shrugged it on as he removed Aritane’s glass from the table, mopping the spill of wine with his sleeve. His hand hesitated over the scrying bowl but with a smile teasing the corner of his mouth, he let that be.

“Enter.”

Kalion knocked and opened the door, barely waiting for the Archmage’s permission before marching in. Planir was sitting in the window seat, glass of wine on the sill beside him, one hand in his breeches pocket while the other held a small book bound in age-worn leather faded to a pale jade. His feet rested on a chair pulled carelessly askew from the table.

“Have you ever read any of Azazir’s journals?” Planir frowned at the crabbed writing still vividly black on the yellowed pages.

Kalion was visibly knocked off his stride. “Azazir?”

“Yes.” Planir drew the word out absently. “A menace and a madman but the man had some undeniably interesting ideas.” He shook his head. “I’d dearly love to know how he summoned that dragon of his but I fear that secret died with Otrick.”

“More’s the pity.” Unfeigned regret creased Kalion’s fat face. “Have you found any hints?” Avid, his gaze fastened on the little book.

“Not as yet.” Planir shut the journal with a snap. “But I think it might make an interesting project. I’ve been considering the role of Archmage, in the light of what you and Troanna had to say. I’m forced to the rather lowering conclusion that my predecessors and I have spent far too little time actually adding to the sum of wizardry. We become so caught up in the trivia of Hadrumal’s daily life that we forget Trydek’s first and foremost requirement for this office.” He looked expectantly at Kalion.

The Hearth Master plucked a stray thread from the front of his velvet gown. “Trydek laid down many precepts when he first brought his school of wizards here. What precisely are you referring to?”

Planir smiled. “That the Archmage lead the exploration of combining the four elements in quintessential magic”

Kalion took a chair by the table without waiting for invitation. “That’s an interesting proposal.”

“It’s a long-neglected duty of my office.” Planir wasn’t smiling any more. “It’s my firm intention to make amends.”

“Is this why you summoned Herion and Rafrid just now? And Sannin.” Kalion’s indignation imperfectly masked his suspicion. “To explore the potential of the nexus as Archmage, you should work with those mages pre-eminent in each element.”

“As Troanna keeps reminding me, we don’t have a nexus of mastery, do we?” Planir turned abruptly brisk. “We’ve had that out more than often enough. I hope something more interesting brings you here on this sunny afternoon?”

Kalion did his best to recover the determination that had propelled him up the stairs. “I understand you’ve had that Aritane woman in here.” He glanced at the scrying bowl with sharp mistrust.

“I see Ely still spends more time at her window than at her books.” The Archmage met Kalion’s gaze with level challenge. “I’d appreciate you moderating your tone. You make it sound as if I were taking my pleasure with her bent over that table. Why should I not consult with the one expert on Artifice we have when the Elietimm threaten us all once more?”

“What has she told you?” demanded Kalion. “What’s going on? We have a right to know, me and Troanna and all the Masters of the Halls.”

“Across the ocean?” Planir shrugged. “You know how dangerous it would be to scry or bespeak any of the mages out there—”

“Have you any notion what Shiv or Usara might be up to?” Frustration soured Kalion’s expression. “You know they hired a ship full of ruffians culled from dockyards the length of the ocean coast?”

Planir nodded, unperturbed.

“They could be working all manner of magic to the incalculable detriment of wizardry.” Kalion glared at him. “A great many people disapprove of you letting them take themselves off unsanctioned by the Council to involve themselves in D’Alsennin’s affairs.”

“I’d be interested to learn who feels entitled to criticise me in such a high-handed fashion.” Planir looked at Kalion expectantly but the red-faced mage sat obstinately silent. The Archmage shrugged and continued, puzzled. “I don’t understand your objection. You’ve spent years arguing that Hadrumal’s isolation must end, that we must involve ourselves in the concerns of the wider world. You’ve argued most convincingly that this threat from the Elietimm gives us our opportunity to show what we can do to help and defend the non-mageborn.”

“Under the guidance of the Council,” snapped Kalion. “Always.”

“That’s so often been the sticking point though.” Planir shook his head regretfully. “Everyone from princes down to pigmen mistrusts mages with their first loyalty to this mysterious Council and all its hidden loyalties and purposes.” The Archmage’s expression was guileless. “Of course, with Artifice to call on, they need not risk that. I rather fear that Artifice may be our undoing without any need for the Elietimm to attack.”

“What do you mean?” Kalion was suspicious.

“I have heard,” Planir raised a hand before tucking it smoothly back in his pocket, “but bear in mind this is only rumour, that Tadriol has been making overtures to the mentors of Vanam.”

“What kind of overtures?” demanded Kalion instantly.

“I believe he’s offering them an Imperial charter to found a new university in a city of their choice,” Planir said thoughtfully. “Where scholars can cull whatever lore remains among the litany of Tormalin temples, from archive sources like that song book the girl Livak found, and whatever else may be hidden in the records of the great Houses.” Planir sighed. “Add whatever aetheric knowledge Demoiselle Tor Priminale cares to share and I imagine Tadriol will have his own coterie of enchanters soon enough—and those all bound to him with ties both of gratitude and more material debt.”

Kalion chewed on the unpalatable prospect for a moment before returning to the attack. “That’s all the more reason to rein in Shiv and Usara before they discredit wizardry in the Emperor’s eyes.”

Planir smiled. “You need not concern yourself. I do have some news from Suthyfer—”

“You said you dared not scry,” objected Kalion furiously.

“You didn’t let me finish that sentence either.” Planir’s voice was cool. “Thanks to the good offices of the Sheltya maiden Aritane, I can assure you that Shiv and Usara have been working considerable magic that can only resound to Hadrumal’s credit.”

Kalion struggled but had to ask the question. “What have they been doing?”

“All in good time.” Planir waved the hand bearing the ring of his office. “I’m glad you came to see me because I’m more than a little concerned about Aritane. She doesn’t complain but I hear from several sources that Ely continues to be vocal in her contempt for Artifice in general and for Aritane in particular.”

“Who’s been saying such things?” asked Kalion with a fair approximation of casual enquiry.

“It’s enough that I’ve been told; I don’t care to fan the flames of any feuds Ely may be carrying on.” A hint of contempt coloured the Archmage’s tone. “You might warn your protégée such behaviour does her no credit with wizardry at large and risks my disapproval in particular. I would tell her myself but she’d probably consider me biased against her, after the way she has delighted in spreading unkind gossip about Larissa.” Planir smiled thinly. “She’d be right at that but we’ll save that for another day”

Kalion cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I will speak to the girl.”

“I’d appreciate it. If Aritane becomes too unhappy here, there’s every possibility she’ll retreat to Vanam or whatever new seat of learning Tadriol founds for the study of Artifice. After all, visiting scholars are often the only people being halfway civil to her.” Planir looked thoughtful. “Sheltya learning would be a considerable addition to whatever aetheric lore Tadriol might amass.”

The Hearth Master’s scowl boded ill for the hapless Ely. “I’ll see to it.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Planir picked up his book again but set it down as if a sudden thought had struck him. “There’s something else you can do for me. Well, for Velindre, really.”

“What might that be?” Kalion was puzzled.

“You’ve encouraged her ambitions to be Cloud Mistress.” Planir smiled ruefully. “It would be a kindness if you could warn her ahead of time that I shan’t be nominating her to the Council.”

“Why not?” Kalion’s indignation got the better of him once more.

“Because I’ll be nominating Rafrid,” replied Planir simply. “You cannot deny he’s self-evidently the best qualified candidate, both in his elemental proficiencies and with his experience as Master of Hiwan’s Hall. He’s much more of an age to command respect than Velindre and, even after her recent travels, Rafrid has a far wider circle of friends and acquaintances, here in Hadrumal and beyond. He tells me he’s compared notes with alchemists from half the cities between Tormalin and Col.” The Archmage chuckled.

“He cannot hope to continue as Master of the Hall,” Kalion spluttered.

“No indeed.” Planir smiled. “You and Troanna convinced me of that, rest assured. He’s stepping down in favour of Herion.”

“That nonentity?” Kalion’s jaw was slack with surprise. “Whose idea was that?”

“I believe the suggestion came from Shannet.” Planir laughed good-humouredly. “The old hedge-bird can still surprise us, can’t she?”

“She doesn’t stir from her own fireside.” Kalion was too taken aback to conceal his chagrin. “She can barely manage her stairs.”

“That doesn’t stop people visiting her,” Planir pointed out. “She may be old but she still has all her wits and a great many friends besides.”

“I’ll tell Troanna,” said Kalion curtly. He rose to leave.

“You can also tell her I’ve been thinking about her concerns over my own situation.” Planir swung his feet down and leaned forward earnestly. “She’s right, of course. Every Archmage needs a full nexus of Element Masters to back him. I will be nominating a new Stone Master to the Council.”

“Galen?” challenged Kalion.

“No,” The Archmage replied firmly. “My concerns over his fitness haven’t changed and even his closest friends couldn’t claim much success from his attempts to ingratiate himself with a wider circle of acquaintances over this last season or so. I’ll be nominating Usara.”

“What of my concerns over his fitness? Troanna will most certainly object,” warned Kalion heatedly. He looked sternly at the seated Archmage.

“You know, I really don’t think she will,” Planir assured him. “Not when ’Sar tells the Council about his quite spectacular use of magic in the defence of Kellarin’s interests this summer.”

“Just what has he been doing?” asked Kalion through gritted teeth.

Planir hesitated. “I really should leave that for him to explain, to the Council in full session. We should observe the proprieties.”

“You’ve seldom bothered about such things before,” retorted Kalion.

“That’s a fair criticism.” Planir nodded. “I do take heed, and of Troanna’s rebukes.”

Kalion heaved a heavy sigh. “So Shiv and Usara are sinking these pirates? These Elietimm enchanters are put to flight?” He sat heavily in the chair he’d just abandoned and crossed his arms over his barrel chest.

“I believe that’s the general idea,” Planir assured him. “Usara’s working closely with the Demoiselle Tor Priminale—which is another pennyweight tipping the scales in his favour, of course. With him as Stone Master, that friendship with Guinalle could be invaluable for Hadrumal. As and when Tadriol or whoever looks to unite the study of Artifice, Guinalle will be at the centre of their dealings.”

Kalion nodded grudging agreement. “When are we to expect more news?”

“Aritane tells me we should be able to scry safely in a few days’ time,” replied Planir.

“I look forward to that.” There was an unmistakable edge to Kalion’s tone.

“I look forward to the whole business being resolved,” Planir said grimly. “I want this Elietimm threat removed once and for all.”

“So we can apply ourselves to the proper business of wizardry,” Kalion said with relish. “Establishing our influence on the mainland.”

Planir laughed. “Actually, I was more looking forward to having Larissa back again. Did you know she was helping ’Sar and Shiv? I imagine she’ll have all manner of insights into the effective use of a double affinity.” He picked up his book again. “Azazir has some curious theories I’m keen to discuss with her. And, who knows, she may finally agree to marry me.”

“Marry you?” Kalion looked stunned.

“If she’ll have me, and all the encumbrances of my office.” Planir smiled fondly. “I must see if any of the jewellers can supply me with a fitting token of my esteem for her.”

Kalion stood up. “I’ll take my leave of you, Archmage,” he said stiffly. “I expect to be fully informed as soon as you have any news from Kellarin or Suthyfer.”

“Naturally.” Planir merely sketched a wave of farewell as Kalion stomped out of the room, shoulders stiff with annoyance.

The Archmage leaned back in the window seat, looking for his place in the battered journal. He stopped reading after barely a page, marking his place with a feather and looked at the waiting mirror. Shaking his head, he rose and walked rapidly to the door in the panelling.

“So what did we get?” He slid through the door and wrinkled his nose at the smell of smoke and scorched leather.

“You need someone from the library to catalogue these properly.” A mild-faced mage of middle years studied a scroll that crackled as he unrolled it. “We nonentities can’t be expected to know what we’re looking at.” He sounded amused.

“That might be best.” A sturdily built man much of an age with Planir and Herion knelt by the fireplace stacking badly charred tomes inside the fender. He brushed blackened fragments from a blue cuff. “You might like to sort these out, Sannin. No one will wonder why you smell of char.” He grinned at the shapely woman who sat on the silk-hung bedstead.

“Thank you, Rafrid, but I don’t care to have people think I’m losing my touch.” Sannin tucked a lock of lustrous brown hair behind one ear as she leafed through a small book. “Will that little masquerade keep Kalion chasing his own tail until we have more definite news?”

“He’ll have Troanna chasing him,” chuckled Rafrid. “And she’ll be after anyone else who might conceivably know what we’re up to.”

“Quintessential magic’s actually something I’m quite interested in pursuing.” Herion glanced up from his scroll.

“Naturally, once we’ve settled these Elietimm.” Planir leant against the door. “You don’t imagine I was lying to our revered Hearth Master?”

Rafrid set down the seriously burnt book he’d been examining and brushed his hands briskly together. “The first thing Kalion will be telling Troanna is your plan to elevate me above my peers. For which my sincerest gratitude, Archmage.” He looked rather more resigned than elated.

“You can take it up with Shannet, if you don’t want the honour,” Planir offered.

Rafrid pretended to consider this. “No, I’ll take the aggravation of office over her reproaches.”

“She’d never forgive you,” smiled Sannin, still intent on her reading.

“Do you have any ambitions to the honour of Hearth Mistress?” asked Planir idly.

“Me?” Sannin looked up, startled. “No, none at all.”

“You’d tell people exactly that, if such a curious rumour should start circulating?” Planir’s tone was solicitous.

“Just so.” Sannin returned to her book.

“Once word gets round we’ll each have half the Council knocking on our doors.” Herion glanced at Rafrid before looking at Planir. “We’d better have our answers agreed before the rumours start flying round.”

Planir nodded. “Go off and learn your verses. These can wait.”

“I’ll send someone reliable from Hiwan’s library,” Rafrid offered as the two men departed through a second door out on to the staircase.

“Thank you.” Planir went to shut the door but left it ajar, turning to Sannin who was still absorbed in reading. “Are you willing to risk your reputation by being found alone with the Archmage in his bedchamber?” Bitterness underlay his jest.

“My reputation’s safe with anyone whose opinion I value.” Sannin played absently with a button on the nicely rounded bodice of her scarlet dress, not looking up. “Are you really going to ask her to marry you?”

“I told you I wasn’t lying to Kalion.” Planir came to sit beside Sannin on the bed. “Don’t you approve?”

Sannin gazed at him. “It’s not for me to approve or disapprove.” She kissed his cheek with comradely affection before standing up. “And I gave up pointing out the pitfalls in your chosen path when we were apprentices. Just be careful.”

“I’m touched by your concern.” Planir grinned. “But what’s life without a little risk?”

“Safer. I’m rather more concerned about Larissa,” chided Sannin. “You’ve the hide of the village bull and the stones to go with it but she’s barely out of her first pupillage. I know she has a double affinity and plenty of intelligence to go with it but she’s not as strong as she’d like you to think. She always feels she has to match your measure as well as prove herself to everyone else twice over, just because you favour her. I’ve seen her overplaying her hand more than once — not that she’s the first to do that of course.” Sannin shook her head with rueful amusement. “I’m glad she’s got Usara to rein her in before she comes to grief. Now I’d better get back and see if any of my apprentices have set themselves alight.” She left without a backward glance, pulling the door closed, full skirts swishing on the wooden floor.

Planir sat for a moment before searching beneath his pillows. Tucked in the corner where the yellow silk curtains were tied to the posts, he found a gauzy gossamer wrap embroidered with frivolous blue flowers. He held the delicate cloth to his face and breathed deeply, eyes closed with longing. When he lowered his cupped hands, mischievous determination brightened his fond smile.

Moving to the window he raised the hand bearing the Archmage’s great ring. The central diamond caught the strong sunlight and broke it into myriad rainbow shards trapped within the facets. Taking the battered silver circle from his next finger, Planir slid it carefully on beside the insignia of his office. The Archmage’s grey eyes narrowed and new light glowed softly in the gems surrounding the diamond. Clear amber light strengthened opposite mysterious emerald radiance and the ruby glowed with increasing warmth opposite the sapphire’s cold blue. Planir’s face might have been carved from marble as he bent all his concentration on the luminous gems now outshining the very sunlight. The diamond burned ever brighter, drawing colour from the other gems, brilliance fringed with fleeting rainbows. The old silver ring was lost in the blinding light until the magic suddenly flashed into nothingness, leaving Planir gasping, sweat beading his forehead.

He winced as he carefully removed the silver ring, a raw, blistered weal now circling his finger. Shaking, the Archmage studied his handiwork. The once dull and scuffed ring was bright and untarnished, unmarred by any scratch or blemish. It glowed with a rich silver sheen softened with just the faintest hint of gold. Planir left his bedchamber, waving a hand and locks on both doors out on to the corridor snicked softly secure.

Planir slipped the silver ring on his forefinger as he collected a candle from the mantel and took up the mirror and candlestick from the window seat. He winced as snapping his fingertips for a flame pulled painfully at his blisters but the candle burned fiercely all the same. The spreading light shone brilliant in the steel and Planir laid his hands either side of the dark wood frame, concentrating until the spell shrank to little more than a thumbnail disc of vivid brightness.

“Larissa?” whispered Planir. “Dear heart?”

“Archmage?” Her startled voice rang through the spell.

“Just listen.” He bent close to the mirror. “Ilkehan is dead. They killed him and cut up his body so D’Alsennin should be able to attack the pirates without fear of Artifice inside a day.”

“I’ll bespeak ’Sar,” Larissa began.

“No,” Planir interrupted. “Not until I know it’s safe. Some enchanter may still find a scrap of power somewhere and try to make trouble. Just wait—and I have something for you, to help you when it comes to the fight—”

Frowning, the wizard caught his breath. Then he gasped in sudden shock. He flung the mirror from him, knocking the candle aside, hot wax spattering his hand. The Archmage was oblivious to the searing pain, reeling back senseless in the window seat, a trickle of blood oozing from one nostril. But the silver ring was gone from his finger, leaving only the blistered scar of the burn.

Suthyfer, Sentry Island, 10th of For-Summer

Usara, wake up!”

The urgent voice roused the mage. “Guinalle?” He sat bolt upright, then cursed as he slid off the makeshift bed a sailor had lashed together. He hit the ground with a thump that jarred his spine.

“No, it’s me, Larissa.”

“ ’Sar?” Hearing voices, Halice came towards the frond-covered canopies she’d ordered built to shade each bed from rain in the night and the earliest light of morning. “I thought I told you to get some rest.”

“What in the name of all that’s holy are you playing at?” Usara stared at the brilliant swirl of blue-white light.

“Ilkehan’s dead,” declared the unseen mage-girl, voice high with exultation.

“How do you know?” demanded Halice. The mercenary didn’t bother looking towards the magical link, catching up a leather map case from her blankets instead.

“Planir told me.”

Before Usara could wonder at the self-conscious note in Larissa’s voice, Temar came running up from the beach, the young Sieur’s questions stumbling over Halice’s.

“What is it?”

“When did he die?”

“Planir just bespoke me.” Usara thought he heard that bashfulness again.

“What about Livak?” Halice scowled at the blinding radiance, a parchment in her hand. “Where is she?”

“And Ryshad?” Temar took his sword belt from the stripped sapling that propped up his shelter, and buckled it on. “Have they returned to Hadrumal or are they coming here?”

“All Planir told me is Ilkehan’s dead,” Larissa said, defensive.

“But Muredarch’s enchanters aren’t,” Usara remembered hastily. “We must keep this short.”

“So Planir says we’re ready to go? Did he say anything else?” Halice walked to the cook fire by the original pirates’ hut.

“Not of significance.” That hint of coyness in Larissa’s denial teased Usara again but such curiosity fled at the racket Halice was making with a long metal spoon against the iron cook pot. She bellowed an amicable warning. “Stir yourselves or I’ll stir you with this! I want every man ready to go.”

“We’ll bespeak you when we’ve decided our next move.” Usara addressed the shimmering coil of magic and Larissa’s spell spiralled in on itself, vanishing into nothingness.

Allin had come out of the cabin and stared at the empty air. “When did she learn to do that?” The mage-girl spoke to herself as much as to anyone else.

Usara was sitting on his blankets pulling on his boots but paused to consider this question. “That was one of Otrick’s favourite workings. Was she ever his apprentice?”

“If Ilkehan’s dead, why didn’t we hear about it from Livak?” Halice picked up a kettle and stuck fingers in her mouth to summon a nearby sailor with an ear-splitting whistle.

“Perhaps Shiv’s incapacitated somehow,” said Usara thoughtfully.

“Can’t Sorgrad bespeak you?” queried Halice as she handed over the kettle. “Get that filled.”

Usara shook his head. “He’s not got that skill perfected as yet.”

“If Shiv’s hurt, I want to know what’s been going on,” said Halice grimly.

“You and me both,” muttered Pered. The artist stood behind Allin, matching the edges of a sheaf of drawings with concentrated precision.

“That’s not important—I’m sorry, of course it’s important but—” Temar tried to convey apology with a quick look at Pered before turning to Halice. “If Ilkehan’s dead, we must attack, while the pirates’ enchanters are still shocked by their master’s death.”

“I’m sure Shiv’s all right.” Allin gave Pered a reassuring smile and Temar wondered how he could ever have thought her plain.

“The news might have Muredarch off balance as well,” Usara remarked thoughtfully.

Halice nodded slowly. “As long as we’re certain those enchanters are clear off the board and back in the box.”

Allin moved to stir the slumbering cook fire to a cheerful blaze. “Planir wouldn’t have told Larissa to tell us if there was any danger.”

“Larissa’s the last person in Hadrumal he’d risk,” agreed Usara with a pang at the truth of his own words.

“Guinalle can tell us how Muredarch’s Elietimm stand.” Temar waved a hand at the shuttered wooden hut.

“She got less sleep last night than I did.” Usara realised he had spoken more sharply than he’d intended when he saw Temar’s indignation. He managed a milder tone. “Nursing Naldeth has been tiring. How much are you asking of her?”

“It’s simple enough.” Temar’s open face betrayed his chagrin. “If I were but a little more adept, I could do it myself

“I’ll make her a nice tisane.” Allin rose, brushing sand and ashes from her skirts, and rummaged in a small coffer holding Pered’s treasured spice jars. “You can take it to her, ’Sar.”

“Of course.” Usara hoped he didn’t look as self-conscious as he felt when Allin gave him an encouraging smile.

“Let’s assume Ilkehan’s death has drawn Muredarch’s enchanters’ teeth.” Temar squared up to Halice. “We have to decide exactly how to attack. We’ve spent long enough discussing the options.”

Halice spared a glance for Pered. “If Livak and Shiv are in trouble, our attack should distract whoever’s chasing them, Saedrin willing,”

“As soon as we’ve seen these pirates to Poldrion’s ferry, we can rescue them.” Allin looked hopefully from Halice to Temar.

Halice was frowning, one foot tapping in thought. “The question we must decide is how best to use Darni and Larissa. He’s got the better part of a troop with him and we could certainly use a second attack.”

Temar braced himself. “I still don’t think we can rely on Darni. We’ve no notion of how many wounded he suffered or how far afield he’s fled to evade pursuit.”

“Let me help you, Allin.” Usara went to find the horn cups. He didn’t want to get involved in that argument again.

Halice’s expression deepened to a scowl. “It’ll take too cursed long to send a boatful of men all the way round to come up the strait from the south.”

“Those two pirate ships we burned all but block the channel anyway,” Usara pointed out. “A two-handed attack is all very well but we’d gain nothing by splitting our forces and letting Muredarch take on each half as he pleases.

“Guinalle could call up the Eryngo with Artifice, or I could,” Temar amended hastily as he caught Usara’s look of rebuke.

“We want every ship holding the blockade.” Halice shook her head. “We won’t net all the rats but I’ll be cursed if I’ll let them scurry back to Kalaven to plague us in some other season. Send them orders with your Artifice by all means; just to sink any boat that they see.”

“We don’t want them fetching up on Kellarin’s shores either.” Allin was tying up scraps of muslin filled with miserly spoonfuls of herbs.

“Indeed not.” Temar folded his arms in unconscious imitation of Halice, jaw set. “So we hit the landing as hard as we can in the first assault. That means you need every man who can hold a sword. I’m coming too.”

“Of course you are.” The mercenary’s smile was as fierce as it was unexpected. “This is your first real fight for your colony. You’ll be seen to be leading it, if I have to be standing behind you with a cattle prod.”

Allin’s kettle stopped in mid-pour, the wizard looking concerned. “Couldn’t you attack at night again? Wouldn’t you all be safer?”

“We won’t get away with that trick twice. If Muredarch isn’t setting double sentries at sunset, I’m the Elected of Col.” Halice’s words were more explanation than rebuke. Temar was glad to see it, though for a fleeting instant he did think it might make a pleasant change if Halice showed him the same forbearance.

“Besides, a raid at night’s one thing; a full assault is a whole different hand of runes,” the mercenary continued. “We need to see what everyone’s doing and when those pirates break, we want to know where they run. We’d lose them inside ten strides in those woods in the dark. The whole fight would end up as confused as two cats scrapping in a sack.”

“I can’t see us being able to use the archers as effectively as last time.” Usara took a steaming tisane, brow wrinkled in thought.

“No,” agreed Halice, taking a cup from Allin with a nod of thanks. “They’ve precious few arrows left, which is another reason we need Darni. ’Sar, when you bespeak Larissa, tell her we want whoever can still walk and wave a stick creating a diversion. If we can split the pirates even just a little, we can drive in a wedge.”

Allin set down her kettle. “Plenty of the captives we rescued will want to come. They’ve been saying as much.”

“They’re still too weak, however strong their hatred.” Temar’s grimace acknowledged that unwelcome truth. “Naldeth was half dead even before those swine threw him to the sharks.”

“A few days’ rest and food won’t give them the stamina for a real fight.” Halice turned to the open beach. “Banner sergeants to me!” she bellowed. “Let’s set about making a proper plan, shall we?” She took another swallow of tisane, grimacing at the heat, before throwing the sodden muslin lump into the fire where it hissed and smouldered. She poured the dregs to dampen the soil and picked up a stick to scrape an outline on the ground.

“Let me do that,” offered Pered but, as he spoke, the earth began to writhe beneath Halice’s twig, shaping itself into a representation of the pirates’ landing blurred by a misty ochre haze.

“Then let me do that instead.” Pered took one of the cups Allin was still holding and knocked on the door of the hut.

“Enter.” Guinalle’s voice was soft and she warned the artist with a finger to her lips. Men snored and shifted on their pallets and the air was rank with the scents of sleep, sweat and injury.

Pered handed her the cup. “I thought you were supposed to be resting.”

“With Halice shouting fit to be heard in the Otherworld?” She looked quizzically at him. “What’s the news?” She stood in the doorway and looked at Halice, Temar and Usara, dun, black and balding heads bent close together while Allin set about the more prosaic necessity of chopping meat from the island’s scurrying rodents to add to the hulled wheat she’d set soaking earlier.

“Planir tells us Ilkehan’s dead,” Pered explained.

“Wizards.” Guinalle clicked her tongue with irritation. “They couldn’t wait for me to make sure their path was clear?”

“No one wants to overtax your skills,” said Pered diplomatically. “Everyone’s aware how much your duties ask of you.”

Guinalle smiled into her cup of aromatic tisane. “Shiv’s a lucky man.”

Pered’s smile couldn’t rise above the apprehension plainly weighing heavily upon him. “We don’t know exactly what’s happened in the Ice Islands.”

“So Temar wants me to find out.” Guinalle reached for his blunt and ink-stained hand. “Let us see together.” She drew him into the frowsty gloom and set her cup down on a cluttered board resting on two trestles. “With a love such as you share to guide me, I could find Shiv in the Wildlands beyond Solura.” She murmured a soft incantation.

As a sudden vision of Shiv crouching in a thorn bush surprised her, Pered’s fingers tightened on her own. “He’s hiding? Are they in danger?” She felt unimaginable pain edge the artist’s unspoken thought. “Something’s wrong.”

“It’s all right.” Guinalle spoke directly to his common sense to answer the fears of his imagination. “Whatever they’ve been doing, it’s worn him out but rest will restore him. He seems well content with his work.”

“Where is he?” Pered wondered without speaking and the thought rang in the silence they shared within the bounds of enchantment.

“I cannot tell.” Guinalle shook her head. “But he feels safe.”

Pered understood her double meaning without need for explanation. Shiv believed himself to be safe and Guinalle sensed no immediate peril threatening him. “Are they all safe? Livak? Ryshad?”

“As far as I can tell.” Guinalle frowned; it was always so hard to read a mage’s thoughts unless they were actively working their own magic. She might be less confused about Usara if she could sense a little more of what he truly felt for her. Then she might not have to rely on someone like Pered to anchor her with his commitments and affections. She hastily set that irrelevance aside before Pered could pick it up and then a flood of images assailed her.

A grief-stricken woman hid hysterical tears behind bloodstained hands and long, tangled hair. Her wild emotions struck Guinalle like a slap in the face. Horror at the death of her protector was twisted by guilty relief that her life would no longer be a nerve-wracking dance around his whims and cruelty. A new brutal truth assailed that scant comfort. Without Ilkehan, who might claim her? If she avoided enslavement or concubinage, how would she eat?

Ruthless, Guinalle broke free of the woman’s incoherent thoughts, pulling Pered with her. Noiseless voices and half-glimpsed faces came and went. What manner of Artifice did these Elietimm learn, if they had so little discipline, so little self-control? Theirs was a brutal, caustic art, shocking reactions from people and using such self-betrayal to another’s undoing.

As unrestrained Artifice carried emotions hither and thither, Guinalle saw a balding man with solid, wind-scoured features determined to defend his land and people from whatever might follow from Ilkehan’s long-hoped-for death. A younger man saw his flank exposed by the loss of his ally. The image in his mind’s eye of an undefended keep on an exposed sandbar shifted into a more immediate terror of his own nakedness beneath a descending blade. Vivid imagination saw shining steel cut into white and trembling skin, blood scarlet on the silver blade, flesh and sinew parting. Fear liquefied his belly as he realised no one would care that he had yielded to Ilkehan only to save himself. Guinalle was startled to feel her own bowels gripe in sympathy.

Pered gasped. “I can’t do this, my lady”

Of course, he was far more susceptible than she. That was why she was so shaken. “Stay with me.” Guinalle wove an incantation to give him some surcease from the hubbub of emotion. She bolstered her own defences as hopes and fears and guesses and memories swirled through the aether, battering her self-control.

A woman’s face creased with age exulted at the death of her enemy. Now she could die content. A younger woman close by was furious with something or someone, struggling against some constraint Guinalle couldn’t comprehend and for an instant she saw bars striping that drawn and intent face. Her desperation was her undoing, Guinalle realised with pity, resentment at her situation driving her to impossible pining for what had gone and could never be restored.

The shock of seeing the woman so confined by her regrets distracted Guinalle and she felt the passing brush of a powerful intellect so chilling, it raised gooseflesh on her arms. The impact of this cunning mind swept away all the other whispering emotions and Guinalle hastily shrouded herself with every art that she’d been taught. The questing thought moved on, man or woman Guinalle could not tell, but avaricious, darting from hidden deliberation to masked ambition, eager to take every advantage from this turn of events. Whoever this might be was as well schooled in secrecy as any adept of Ostrin’s shrine.

“A face hid from everyone.” With that conclusion Guinalle retreated carefully down the regular paths of rhythmic incantation and led Pered away from the trackless mire of grief, confusion and anticipation. “Ilkehan’s death has caused more chaos among the Elietimm than kicking over an ant heap.”

Pered opened his eyes, and rubbed at stiffness in his neck. “As you say, my lady.” He winced ruefully. “I feel as if I’ve spent half a day bent over a copy desk.”

“That’s a fair comparison of the concentration required.” Guinalle gestured to her array of cures, their bottles arranged by height and colour. “If you’ve a headache, I can mix you a draught.” It was a shame she had no tincture to still the trembling she felt in her own wits.

“I’ll be fine, thank you all the same.” Pered stood rubbing his neck, eyes inward looking. “That was a remarkable experience, even more so than last time.”

“Guinalle!” Temar’s voice startled them both and they turned to see him beckoning her impatiently to the door.

“In a moment.” Guinalle dismissed Temar with a flap of her hand. “When we have the leisure, you should learn a little Artifice. I believe you could become quite an adept.”

“It’s a shame I didn’t think of learning such skills before.” Pered didn’t bother hiding his bitterness. “Then I might be of some use here.”

“You can be of use to me and to Naldeth, if you’ve a mind to it,” Guinalle said with sudden inspiration. “Ostrin be thanked, his wound is beginning to heal and he has youth and strength to support him while it does.” She spoke in low, confidential tones, gathering up fresh dressings, a pot of salve and a small bottle of dark brown glass from the trestle table. “What he lacks is the will to live. He believes he has failed his calling, his teachers, Parrail and every other unfortunate lost to the pirates.”

“He’s woken?” Pered was visibly taken aback.

“Barely, but I have the arts to hear his thoughts.” Guinalle had to bite her lip at the recollection. She really must get a good night’s sleep as soon as possible. Being with Pered was tempting her to weakness as well; his open friendliness disarmed more people than her, after all.

Pered shook his head vehemently. “Their blood’s on Muredarch’s hands, not Naldeth’s.”

“I cannot convince him of that,” sighed Guinalle. She led the way carefully through the pallets to a bed at the back of the hut.

Pered followed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to him. He can hear you despite his pain and the medicine dulling his senses.” Guinalle laid a hand on Pered’s arm. “Remind him of all there is to live for. Love, beauty, friendship, honesty striving against all that is false.”

“Can’t you do that with some Artifice?” asked Pered, curious.

“Not till I have convinced myself.” Guinalle froze and snatched her hand away, unsure if she’d spoken or merely thought that frank admission. Pered’s instinctive hug of sympathy startled her still further and she pulled herself abruptly back. “That would be an abuse of my powers, with him so vulnerable.” He was vulnerable, not her. She couldn’t afford to be. Guinalle looked down at Naldeth who lay asleep, wearing only a creased linen shirt, long enough to preserve his modesty. “Hold this.”

Pered took the dressings and the salve and Guinalle sensed his instinctive sympathy as he watched her carefully remove the bandages from the mage’s stump. That was another distraction she could do without, she thought crossly. It must be some consequence of the rude shaking she’d been given by those undisciplined Elietimm.

“That looks a lot neater,” Pered said bracingly.

Guinalle looked closely at the lines of stitches black against the white skin. “We had to cut the bone at mid thigh so as to have enough skin to sew together.” She gently wiped away dark encrustation. “That’s no bad thing since it meant all the torn flesh that might have mortified was safely taken off. There’s no hint of rot and the wound is knitting nicely.” She gave Pered a meaningful look and nodded at the mage, his face not relaxed in sleep but unnaturally still.

“He’s enough leg left to take a prop, if he prefers that to a crutch.” Pered’s voice was warm with encouragement but he looked anxiously at her.

Guinalle smiled her approval and smoothed fresh salve over the wound. The mage’s whole body tensed beneath her light touch and she saw Pered cringe in sympathy. Yes, she decided, he was a good choice to help the wounded and, unlike her, he wouldn’t be battered by Naldeth’s constant, unconscious self-reproaches. She took a breath and renewed her defences once more. She really must get some untroubled sleep.

“Why’s that salve blue?” Pered asked abruptly.

“It’s made from woad; it stems bleeding.” Guinalle re-dressed the wound with deft fingers. “A most useful plant, even if preparing it does raise the most appalling stink.” She tied off the ends of the bandage briskly. “Sieur D’Alsennin needs me, Master Mage. Pered is here to watch the wounded while I’m occupied, so he’ll have your dose ready for you when you need it.” She put her arms around Naldeth with impersonal efficiency and lifted him more comfortably against his pillows before gently lifting the dressing on his arm to assess the healing sore beneath. “When the pain rouses him, make him take a spoonful of this. We don’t want his torment setting his elemental powers running loose. Arimelin grant most of the others will continue to sleep and those that wake should be content to wait awhile but if anyone is in great distress, come and get me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She won a grin from Pered but Naldeth lay stony faced as before. Guinalle hid her own misgivings beneath a bland face and left the hut quickly. She’d achieved something at least; setting Pered a task to keep his mind off whatever peril Shiv might be facing. If only the artist’s vivid appreciation of the life all around him could turn Naldeth from the despondency cutting deeper than the bone saw she’d used on him. As she thought that, some pang she wasn’t prepared to identify left her stomach a little hollow.

“What’s the matter?” Temar asked sharply as she reached the door of the hut.

Guinalle lifted her chin to meet his challenge. “I’m concerned for my patients, Naldeth in particular.”

“Oh.” Temar looked sheepish. “How is he? Has he woken yet?”

“Not to speak with any clarity but Artifice tells me he’s wearied by pain and distress,” Guinalle said tightly, ignoring the treacherous thought that the same could be said of herself. What had she been thinking of, betraying her own melancholy like that? There was no comparison. She had a sacred obligation to give her life purpose; to use her skills and learning for the benefit of others.

“Would you like some bread?” Usara appeared with a handful of the long twists of dough the mercenaries were wont to cook over their fires.

“Thank you.” Guinalle wondered when she’d stop missing the fine white loaves she’d been used to. Now that really was a pointless regret, she thought with asperity, worthy of those undisciplined Elietimm women.

“You’re entirely welcome.” Usara smiled at her, eyes warm with affection.

Guinalle dropped her gaze and tore a piece off the coarse bread. No matter how fond Usara seemed at present, the mage would return to Hadrumal when this strife was ended, she reminded herself. She would return to her life in Kellarin, meagre as it was. Letting go of lamentations over bread was one thing; risking heartbreak for the chance that Usara might help ease her sorrows was entirely too much to hazard. She’d sought paltry solace in Temar’s arms, with all his familiar deficiencies as a suitor and against her better judgement, only to have him make his disdain plain. She wasn’t going to lay herself open to such weakness again. But how it would ease all her sorrows to have the support of a love such as Shiv and Pered shared. Oh, this is ridiculous, she scolded herself silently. Get yourself in hand!

“Larissa sent word that Ilkehan is dead,” Temar began as they walked towards the cook fire.

“So Pered said, ”Guinalle interrupted. “From what I can read of the Elietimm, it seems to be so.”

“Seems?” said Halice sharply. “It could be a lie to deceive us?”

“No.” Guinalle chose her words carefully. “Ilkehan is truly dead. What I cannot divine is precisely by whose hand or when.”

“Where are Livak and the others?” Halice demanded.

“Safe, for the moment.” Guinalle shrugged. “Beyond that, those holding power in the islands and who know of Ilkehan’s fate are in disarray.”

“We need to know how Muredarch’s Elietimm are reacting.” Usara’s face was intent on this new question, tenderness for her vanished. Treacherous disappointment piqued Guinalle, but she rebuked herself. This turmoil was folly.

“Guinalle?” Halice was looking curiously at her. “Are you all right? You seem distracted.”

“I’m tired.” She managed a thin smile. That must be why these idle fancies were distracting her.

“Not too tired?” Usara was concerned.

“Don’t worry.” Guinalle waved away Temar’s hand as she brushed aside the perplexities that had inexplicably come to plague her. Familiar incantations warded her with the uncomplicated purity of Artifice. Armoured with aetheric magic, she reached out to the pirates’ lair and searched for the enchanters.

“They know he’s dead.” Guinalle couldn’t hide her own elation. “More, they have lost their grasp on the aether. All their training was focused on Ilkehan, not any understanding of independent enchantment. They’re completely at a loss.”

She opened her eyes to see Temar and Usara gazing at her. Halice’s face was unreadable as she chewed on a twist of bread. Allin stood beside her, a slowly dripping spoon held above a cauldron over the fire, her round face anxious.

“Can they recover their Artifice?” asked Temar urgently.

“Once they’re over the immediate shock, perhaps,” Guin-alle allowed. “But with nothing like the same potential.”

“We need to attack while they’re still off balance.” Halice took a pace in the direction of the open beach.

“There’s more,” said Guinalle hastily. “They haven’t told Muredarch. If they’re of no use to him, they fear he might try to trade their lives for his own and his closest confederates.”

“No danger of that,” spat Temar.

“We definitely have to attack while he doesn’t know they’re crippled.” Halice accepted a steaming bowl from Allin.

“We set sail as soon as we’ve filled our bellies.” Temar found a horn spoon in his pocket and took a bowl of the meaty frumenty. “Thank you, my lady mage.” He ate hungrily, smiling all the while at Allin.

Guinalle accepted a bowl herself, savouring the swollen grain thickening the broth. Allin had even found a little dried apple to add, doubtless for Temar’s sake.

Halice jabbed her spoon at him, words muffled by her mouthful of food. “You need to decide what we’re doing about prisoners. If I don’t tell my lads while they’re still calm enough to heed me, they’ll just kill them all as usual and trust Saedrin to sort them out.”

Temar swallowed slowly. “The pirates’ lives are plainly forfeit but we should give those who were captured the chance to surrender. We can mete out justice in due course, can’t we?”

Halice shovelled down her food. “That oath of Muredarch’s seemed to bind those who swore it pretty tight.” She looked at Guinalle. “How will that affect them if they want to turn their coats in a fight?”

Guinalle’s spoon hesitated in mid-air. “I’ve no idea.” What a perversion of aetheric power that was. If nothing else, her presence in this age should help put a stop to such foulness. That unbidden thought came as unexpected comfort.

“Your guess?” Temar persisted.

“Guesses are no good and no gold. We could talk till sunset and be no further on than a louse’s skip.” Halice dropped her wooden bowl into the emptied cauldron. “We’ll take prisoners but no one’s parole, man or woman. Let’s be on our way.” Her long stride took her rapidly down the beach where everyone bar the recently freed captives was preparing for battle.

“It’s hard to tell the mercenaries and the men of Vithrancel and Edisgesset apart,” mused Guinalle. Men and women checked blades and baldrics, adjusted straps and jerkins, boots and belts, faces set with determination. Some of the sailors were already rowing longboats out to the anchored Dulse.

“It’s all the drilling.” Usara was at her side. Guinalle blushed with irritation. She hadn’t meant to say that aloud either.

“We’re all fighting for our future, be it in Kellarin or just on the road with a pocket full of gold.” Temar gave his bowl to Allin who was pouring hot water from the kettle into the cook pot. “Leave that for someone else. Let’s get aboard.”

Allin smiled nervously at him. “Let’s hope we can put an end to all this today.”

“I’ll be glad to get back to Kellarin and a proper bed.” Temar took Allin’s hand and tucked it through his arm, keeping her close.

“Shall we?” Usara offered Guinalle his arm. “We’re all to go, if this is the final assault.”

Guinalle took a deep breath. “Will this be an end to it all?”

“If we all give it our very best.” Usara gazed at her intently. “Then we can look to the future.”

Guinalle had no answer to that so settled for a noncommittal smile and resting her hand lightly on the wizard’s forearm.

They followed Temar and Allin whose conversation had turned intense.

“I want you safe on the Dulse, out of any danger,” he was insisting.

Allin pulled Temar to a halt. “I can’t work the magic Halice needs unless I’m close at hand.”

Temar seized her by the shoulders. “Then be careful, do be careful.”

She gazed up at him. “I will and so must you.”

Guinalle watched Temar kiss the mage-girl, her own thoughts in turmoil once more. Was this how he managed to rise above the torments of memory and regret?

“No time for that, Messire,” some anonymous sailor safely out of sight chuckled lewdly.

Allin was scarlet but her eyes were bright and she raised herself on tiptoe to kiss Temar back.

“Nice to see the Sieur doing his bit to boost morale.” Halice grinned as Temar, colour burning on his cheekbones, ran the gauntlet of approving ribaldry and whistles from mercenaries and colonists alike.

He laughed, unconcerned. “Cohort commanders always reminded us we were fighting for hearth and home, wives and daughters.” Allin giggled as he helped her into the longboat from the Dulse.

“Demoiselle.”

Guinalle followed with Usara, all the doubts and confusion she’d thought she had safely ignored whirling around her mind.

Halice helped her up over the rail with a grim light in her eye. “Let’s get this battle done.”

Kehannasekke, Islands of the Elietimm, 10th of For-Summer

Any sign of pursuit?” demanded Ryshad.

“None so far.” Sorgrad was a little way behind us all, searching for any trace we had left in the pathless thickets of berry bushes. Shiv had held up the whirling veil of dust until we were past the first rise beyond the keep. As we’d disappeared like coneys into a heath, he’d sent the dust storm out to dissolve on the seashore. With any luck, the Elietimm would think we’d disappeared with it. Not that we were trusting to luck, naturally. Getting caught and shown up for Planir’s assassins painted as Eldritch Kin was not something we were going to risk.

So now we were crouching beneath more berry bushes, on a rise that gave us a view over both keep and the hargeard that was our next target.

“Too busy chasing their tails in there,” ’Gren remarked with satisfaction.

The breeze brought us indistinct shouts from ramparts and courtyard. Tiny figures in black livery and in none ran to and fro across the gaping hole in the wall where the gate had stood.

“Good,” said Shiv fervently. I looked at him with a frisson of concern; he looked exhausted.

“Not necessarily,” frowned Ryshad. “Not if we want an audience to see us wrecking their hargeard.” He banged his elbow on the salvaged chest and cursed under his breath.

“Are you up to bringing down a whole stone circle?” I asked Shiv. As a general rule, I’m grateful magecraft takes such a toll on its users. It’s most reassuring to know any wizard with ambitions to rule the world would die of exhaustion before he managed it but at this particular moment, I felt that Saedrin, Misaen or whatever deity ensured that was being unduly meddlesome.

“Are we still doing that?” ’Gren was redistributing his loot into more secure pockets and tucking the larger items into his pack. “We could get back in time to fight the pirates, if we didn’t.”

“Mercenaries.” Ryshad’s sudden grin was white against his blue-painted face. “Never want to finish a job properly.”

“Regular troops,” Sorgrad countered with mock sorrow as he came up to join us. “No imagination beyond their orders.” He nodded at the chest. “Get that open, my girl. I’m not carrying it all the way back to Olret.”

“We don’t want him cutting himself in for a share.” ’Gren buckled his pack, which gave a satisfactory clank. “You know, we could rob the Tormalin Emperor with a shadow play like that.”

“Try it and you’ll have half the sworn men in Toremal after you,” Ryshad growled with half-feigned ferocity.

“You don’t think Planir might object, ’Gren?” mused Sorgrad. “Though he’s never short of coin. Maybe that’s how he fills his own coffers.”

I had the chest open and lifted the lid to reveal bundles of faded velvet. “Can we save the banter for a safe fireside?” But I was also feeling the elation that comes after taking an insane risk and getting away with it. “Ideally one with an inn wrapped round it.”

“Who gets first pick?” ’Gren reached for a close-wrapped lump but I slapped his hand away. “This isn’t loot, ’Gren, it’s people’s lives and don’t you forget it.” I locked gazes with him until I was sure he was heeding me and then stirred the velvet with a careful dagger point to reveal a handful of trinkets. Sorgrad squatted beside me and weighed them in one hand before handing them to his brother.

“I’m already carrying enough weight,” objected ’Gren.

“Then the loot’s what you dump,” Sorgrad said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You fail to bring someone back to themselves from that cavern and you’ll answer to me.”

“And Halice,” I added.

“And half the people of Kellarin.” Ryshad knelt beside me and took my dagger to move the smaller pieces aside, revealing a couple of swords and a handful of daggers.

“One each,” said ’Gren irrepressibly.

“I’d say it’s best to spread these around.” Ryshad suited his actions to his words, passing us each a weapon with antique moulding and tarnished decoration. Mine had a particularly fine amethyst for a pommel stone. “Do your best not to use them though. We don’t want unexpected visitors inside anyone’s head.” He tried to make light of it but the attempt fell miserably flat.

“As far as Guinalle could make out, it’s a sense of danger and strong emotions generally that penetrate the enchantment and stir the hidden mind.” Shiv’s face was intent, deep lines drawing down either side of his mouth. “The people were never meant to be hidden for so long. The enchantment’s worn horribly thin.”

From Ryshad’s expression, horrible was an apt description of the consequences of the incantations unravelling. He lifted one of the swords with visible reluctance.

“I’ll take that.” Shiv stuck the weapon through his belt, velvet wrapping and all.

“Do you know how to use that?” asked ’Gren with a touch of derision.

“No, but that’s the whole point,” Shiv retorted. “I won’t be tempted and risk rousing the sleeping mind within it. Who’s taking the other one?”

I saw Ryshad steeling himself to what he doubtless saw as his duty and forestalled him. “I will.”

“Are you sure?” He looked at me, concern darkening his brown eyes.

I wasn’t but this wasn’t the time to admit it. I avoided his gaze as I adjusted the awkward weapon, trying to make sure it was secure at the same time as not inadvertently stabbing myself in the leg. None of us needed that kind of delay.

“I’ll take it,” ’Gren offered. “I dealt with Eresken when he came knocking round the back of my mind.”

“You killed him, ’Gren,“ I pointed out. “The whole idea is to bring these people back to life. Anyway, how long do you think you could carry a weapon without using it?”

He nodded sagely. “You’re so good at hiding at the back and letting other people do your fighting.”

I grinned at him. “Quite right.” He chuckled with appreciation.

“Have you any notion how many people still sleep in Edisgesset?” Shiv frowned, as I shared out the rest of the little parcels, more valuable than ten times their weight in gold or diamonds.

“Thirty or so, wasn’t it, at last count?” I felt guilty that I couldn’t be more certain. I tucked mine inside the breast of my jerkin, the weight heavy beneath my breastbone, my stomach hollow with the responsibility I now carried.

“Thirty-seven,” said Ryshad with biting emphasis.

Sorgrad scowled. “Then we’re still missing some.”

“That’s assuming all these are true Kellarin artefacts,” I pointed out reluctantly.

“So the rest’s fair booty?” ’Gren was shaking out the remnants of cloth left in the base of the chest, just to make sure nothing was overlooked.

Shiv and Ryshad were looking back in the direction of Ilkehan’s keep.

“They look too busy to send anyone scouting for us,” said Ryshad. “Let’s have that hargeard down to put an end to Muredarch’s enchanters.”

Shiv pulled his belt tighter and settled the wrapped sword on his hip. “Sorgrad, you’re going to have to help me with this.”

“Very well.” Sorgrad’s voice was unemotional but I could see a gleam of eagerness in his blue eyes. Was this going to be entirely safe? I wondered.

“It’s this way.” Sorgrad cuffed his brother lightly round the head and ’Gren reluctantly abandoned his attempt to pry off the brass fittings of the chest.

More cautious than ermines in the wrong colour coat, we eased our way through thickets of berry bushes thick with leaf, pale pink bell-shaped flowers and squat green berries yet to ripen. I froze with disbelief as I heard a familiar sound from the other side of an upthrust of rock. That first light-hearted jingling was joined by another and then came the clip of small hooves.

I looked at Ryshad who looked at Sorgrad and, at his nod, came to my side. As I drew my dagger and we headed for the far side of the sprawling clump, ’Gren and Sorgrad went in the other direction. Shiv crouched down, catching his breath and keeping watch. I rounded the bushes to find a rocky cleft sheltering the thickest and oldest berry bushes we’d seen and a spring all but dry in the summer’s heat.

Being goats, the animals were stripping the berries from the bushes with single-minded determination before moving on to the leaves and any tender twigs they could reach. Being lads, the youths were waving a spray of fruit on the end of a stick to tempt a bold kid out along a weathered knife-edge of outcrop rock. Every time the little goat took another cautious step with small black hooves, the first tow-headed boy edged the berries a little further away. The second boy wanted his turn at the tease, reaching for the branch.

Behind me, Ryshad bent to whisper soundlessly in my ear. “My father always reckons one lad does the work of one lad, two do the work of half a lad and three gives you no lad at all.”

This pair were so intent on their nonsense, they wouldn’t have heard him shout that aloud. They didn’t even notice the goats pause in their chewing to stare in their peculiar, slot-eyed way.

Sorgrad and ’Gren appeared at the head of the defile, startling the boys who backed away. The kid sprang lightly down the crumbling rock to bolt the fallen berries with muffled bleats of triumph. One nanny licked a stray leaf from her tufted chin with slow deliberation as she watched me and Ryshad get behind the lads.

It was the work of a moment for me to grab one and Ryshad had the other. The lad froze before easing his head round to see what had snared him. After a sudden gasp, he all but stopped breathing, as entranced as a rabbit by a dancing weasel. I smiled but wondered how effective the disguise might be this close.

If my lad stood stiff as bone, Ryshad’s was spineless. He sagged at the knees, hunching over, hands covering his face as Sorgrad and ’Gren advanced with a measured pace. I felt my lad tremble to the very soles of his boots and tightened my grip. He snapped out of his terrified stillness. “Who are you? What do you want? We’re no one, nobody. Take the goats, just don’t hurt us.”

Sorgrad reached us and, still silent, laid a finger on the lad’s mouth to hush him. The other boy looked up from his half-crouch between Ryshad’s merciless hands, blue eyes wide with fear, blond hair tumbled all over his face. If we frightened him any more thoroughly he’d wet himself.

Sorgrad beckoned with one finger before turning to walk back the way he had come. Just as before ’Gren matched his step precisely.

I gave my lad a breath or so before smacking him smartly between the shoulder blades. He stepped forward before he could help himself and I followed close, urging another step with another blow.

The other lad’s legs were as useless as if he’d been hamstrung. Ryshad growled deep in his throat, grabbing the lad’s tousled hair and pulling back his head to stare deep into his eyes with cold menace. That sent the boy scrambling over the stony ground to cower beside his pal who was now forcing his reluctant feet onward without my intervention.

Ryshad looked a question at me and I shrugged. We followed at the same leaden pace that soon had my nerves twitching. Theatrics were all very well but what if a troop of Elietimm turned up to avenge Ilkehan while we were playing masquerades? On the other hand, we didn’t want this pair running off to raise the alarm. Shiv appeared at the head of the defile, standing with ’Gren and Sorgrad. I jerked my head at the three of them with silent insistence that we get on with whatever ostentatious destruction they had planned.

Sorgrad led the way over a shoulder of the land, and I got my first sight of Ilkehan’s hargeard. As a symbol of his might and of the reach of that power, it was daunting enough, even without ancestral bones and his inescapable Artifice to sanctify it for his people. We walked round the base of the great mound, flattened on top like an upturned bowl, so steeply sided there was no need for a ditch to deter the profane. A pale scar on the turf showed where countless feet had made this circuit before us. The boys stumbled; fear tripping both now, terrified whimpers escaping the weaker one.

I slowed to get my bearings. The keep was pretty much at my back, unseen over the shallow hills that formed a half-circle here to frame the hargeard. On the shore side, more hummocks and hillocks hid the dunes and sea. On the far side, turf reached out to an abrupt wall of unforgiving rock where the ground had fallen away like a broken piecrust. The grey stone cut into the land like a knife blade, shallow enough to step up nearest the hargeard but rising into the distance until it reached five and six times the height of a man. Ahead I saw a fan-shaped expanse of grass dotted with scrubby growth. A road marked with tall grey pillars marched down this long plain, a flange carved on the inner face of each one. They were imposing stones but raising them must have been a mere trifle compared to setting up the sarsens crowning the mound. I did my best not to gawp like some country bumpkin on her first visit to Toremal. A slack jaw wouldn’t befit a dread messenger from the Eldritch Kin.

Steps were cut into the side where the approach road met the mound. ’Gren, Shiv and Sorgrad stood on successive treads.

“Kneel,” said ’Gren, lowest and closest to us. The boys fell to their knees and at ’Gren’s gesture, Ryshad and I left them grovelling to go and flank him.

“All we require is that you bear witness.” Sorgrad’s words were sonorous with the archaic accents I’d heard from the Sheltya. “Life cannot thrive without death. Acknowledge this debt and those who have gone before will guard and guide you.” I saw the boys pale beneath the tan of their summer duties, eyes huge.

“But there is a balance to be observed. Ilkehan profaned it.” Sorgrad’s words were as implacable as the tread of the hangman to the gallows. “He returned ill for ill thrice and fivefold. He visited profligate death on the innocent and defiled the exile of the guilty with blood. He has died at our hands for these offences.”

The weaker lad huddled ever closer to his companion. The bolder one gazed at Sorgrad in horrified wonder.

“We will destroy Ilkehan’s power root and branch. Malice and greed desecrate this place and the dead will not suffer such taint. Bear witness,” Sorgrad repeated. “Whoever will rule this land must bring clean hands and raise a new sanctuary or suffer our wrath.”

He turned and walked slowly up the steps, Shiv at his shoulder. ’Gren and I followed with Ryshad.

“What now?” I asked out of the corner of my mouth.

“Stand in the middle and keep still,” Shiv murmured.

Where Shernasekke had been happy with roughly hewn stones for their hargeard, Ilkehan’s were smooth and regular, evenly spaced and looked so precisely upright you could test them with a plumb line. The circle was as perfect as one drawn with Pered’s compasses. Each stone was twice as tall as Ryshad, maybe more, not squared at the top but cut at an angle, all the same, edges so sharp you might fear to cut yourself.

The stones were not the tallest monument to Ilkehan’s arrogance. An inner circle was made of wood. Great pines had been stripped of branches and bark, smoothed and then more prosaically steeped in pitch to stop them rotting. This dark, sterile thicket towered above our heads, forbidding, around the innermost sanctuary where four triangular stones waist high and concave on every face marked the corners of a paved square in the centre of the whole edifice.

“What would you say the breadth of this is, compared to Olret’s?” Ryshad looked around with a calculating eye. “There’s some constant measure used here, I’d bet on it.”

“Shall we worry about that later?” The five of us stood between the stones; Shiv at the centre, Ryshad behind him and Sorgrad in front. ’Gren and I at either side. I frowned. ”Where are those cursed goatherds?”

“They can’t have got far. They’ll see this regardless.” Shiv raised his hands and the hargeard responded to the elemental magic with a crashing clangour like a bell tower collapsing. I hastily clapped my hands to my ears. Eldritch dignity be cursed, I didn’t want to go home deafened. Unperturbed, Shiv wove his spell and hail hammered down on the stones. Only on the stones. The ice melted and steamed in the evening sun, dark stains trickling down the grey sides before the water paled to frost. Now chill, like the breath of winter, floated off the rocks like smoke. The smooth stones began to split, hairline cracks widening to ragged fissures, flakes and chips of rock falling away.

I saw Shiv concentrating on one particular stone. The great sarsen began to tremble until a blue-green knife of magelight clove it from top to bottom with a sound like the slam of Saedrin’s door. Which meant I missed whatever Shiv said to Sorgrad but the results spoke for themselves. Sorgrad rubbed his hands together to summon a ball of magefire and threw it at the wooden pillar on the off-hand side of the steps. The fire wrapped itself around the smooth black surface, bright tendrils spreading like some creeping plant, clinging to every crevice, flames blossoming on the dead wood. Crimson fire writhed, vivid beneath the smoke that billowed up. The ever-present breeze fanned the flames and the erstwhile tree became a column of golden fire and black smoke.

We could feel the all-consuming heat where we stood. I had no desire to end up toasted but bit my tongue on a plea that Sorgrad be careful. Distracting him would be even more dangerous. Then a veil of turquoise mist shimmered all around, cooling us. I mouthed silent gratitude to Shiv.

Sorgrad raised his hand and scarlet fire flowed from the burning timber to the next, flames tumbling down like water, soaking into the pitch. Natural flames took hold as the crimson magefire bowled across the ground, turf unscorched by its passage but the next wooden upright soon blazing.

“Where do you suppose Ilkehan got these trees?” I asked Ryshad.

“Dalasor,” he shrugged. “A shipyard maybe, raiding someone’s mast pond.”

With no more to do than either of us, ’Gren joined the conversation. “Me and ’Grad were wondering if Ilkehan had been stealing sentinel pines.”

“Interesting idea.” Ryshad had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the roar of flames.

“The trees that mark the drove routes?” What I know about Dalasor can be told in one of Ryshad’s mother’s jam verses. Grasslands endless enough to lose even the biggest herd of cattle in hold no attraction for me.

“They were planted by the Plains People.” Ryshad shrugged. “Ilkehan may have known some lore we’ve lost.”

I looked a little guiltily at Shiv. “Do you think Planir fetched any of those books away?”

The mage didn’t answer, still intent on the destruction of the hargeard. The steady crackle of burning wood raised a menacing threnody all around, the shattering of the great stones a savage counterpoint.

“They’ll hear this racket clear over in the keep!” I said with exaggerated loudness.

Shiv grinned. “They’ll see it as well.”

Flames were licking up high into the evening sky, scorching the smoke with red and orange hues. “I had no idea you could do this kind of magic,” I told him with unfeigned admiration.

“You never know what you can do until you try.” The wizard turned serious. “That’s half the trouble with Hadrumal these days. Libraries and learning are all very well but apprentices end up thinking if some authority doesn’t say they can do a given thing, that must mean they can’t. We need more mages like Otrick. Unless several sources stated categorically something was impossible and gave clear reasoning why, he reckoned it’s always worth a try.”

“That sounds like Otrick.” Agreeing strained my throat. The magefire was spreading ever faster, leaping over the rubble of the disintegrating stones. We’d soon be encircled. “How are we planning to leave?”

“Over there!” But ’Gren wasn’t answering me. He was pointing to a column of black-leathered men running down the approach road. They fanned out, hefting maces in practised hands.

“We wanted witnesses to see Ilkehan’s power go up in smoke, didn’t we?” Sorgrad weighed a new ball of magefire in one hand, picking out a target.

“Can you see any gorgets?” Ryshad stood beside me, searching the oncoming line.

“I can’t tell them apart at this distance, not with the smoke.” I shook Shiv’s elbow. “We can’t risk you or Sorgrad to someone with Artifice. We’ll never get off these rocks without you.”

“Sorgrad, let the fire go.” Shiv swept his hands around as if cradling an unseen sphere. We’ve got too many elements active and I’m too tired to handle the conflicts.”

The Mountain Man obeyed, which sparked a look of amazement from ’Gren. Azure magelight threaded through the roiling smoke and, ignoring the teasing breezes, wove an impenetrable veil around the blazing wooden pillars.

“Time to disappear,” Sorgrad announced cheerfully.

I looked at Shiv, bracing myself for whatever sorcery had carried us over the ocean and another bout of nausea. Instead, Shiv was on his knees and prying up the slab he’d been standing on. With a scrape to set my teeth on edge it revealed a narrow, stone-lined stair.

I gaped. “Where does that go?”

“Somewhere not here.”

’Gren was already down the first few steps.

“There’s a chamber down there.” Sorgrad cocked his head quizzically at me. “We found it when we scouted the place.”

“What made you think to look?” I took one step down.

“No one would go to the trouble of building something like this and not make best use of it.” Ryshad urged me on down.

“Build it?” I said stupidly.

“You don’t suppose Ilkehan’s forefathers just happened to find a perfectly round hillock, do you?” Sorgrad retorted with amusement. “Get a move on, girl.”

As I followed Shiv I began to see how the mound had been raised from successive layers of that local stone with the useful property of fracturing into handily flat and even pieces. Then I couldn’t see anything at all. With another nerve-shredding scrape, Ryshad let the slab fall back into place and we were wrapped in total darkness.

“I know Mountain Men and Forest Folk are known for their night sight but this is a bit excessive.” I reached out a hand until I felt Shiv’s shoulder.

I felt rather than heard his low chuckle. A faint glow rose from the stones, as if some moisture reflected a distant light. It vacillated between the palest of greens and a whisper of blue before sliding into a suggestion of red and gold.

“We don’t want to give ourselves away,” Ryshad warned from behind me.

“They’re bound to know this chamber is here.” Sorgrad nudged me and I moved carefully after Shiv.

The radiance trickled down the stones alongside us. The stairs twisted oddly, curving back and around but the regular pattern of the stacked stones defied my sense of direction. After creeping around in unlit houses on many occasions and never losing my bearings, that unnerved me.

“They can only send down one man at a time.” ’Gren’s voice changed as he spoke, ringing louder in a wider space. “That means we can kill them all.”

“If they dare come down here.” Shiv stepped carefully off the lowest step, which was an uncomfortable stretch down even for someone with his height. I sat on the bottom tread and swung my feet down to the dark floor below.

Shiv’s vaporous magelight slid away to leave the stairs a black void in the wall of a conical chamber. There were other holes, niches an arm span across. Caught unawares, I shuddered as I saw long bones laid haphazard between ribcages still linked to hip bones by spines and leathery cartilage. Skulls tucked to one side or set one atop another regarded us sardonically, sockets dry and empty. Some of the niches were crammed with tumbled bones but no skulls, some all but empty save for several bony faces keeping watch. Something grated between my boot and the flagstoned floor. Looking down, I saw a small bone from a finger or toe.

I swallowed my revulsion. “Are we giving these people a decent burning?”

“No.” Sorgrad’s sharp response echoed round the charnel chamber.

I looked to see what Ryshad thought but he was studying a section of wall. The stones between the niches were large slabs set upright in the layers that made up the mound.

“We’re here to destroy the seat of Ilkehan’s power.” Shiv looked around before bringing his gaze back to Sorgrad.

“We’re not touching these bones.” The Mountain Man was adamant.

“If you say so.” I shivered again. “So we wait until whoever’s up top goes away?”

As I spoke, the sound of the slab at the top being lifted reverberated down the stair. Without magic to fan the flames, someone bold enough or scared enough of his commander must have darted between the burning tree trunks.

’Gren flattened himself to the wall by the entrance, dagger in hand. “Come and join your ancestors,“ he murmured with glee.

“Or we could try this.” Ryshad leaned all his weight on one side of the slab that had so intrigued him. It moved on a hidden pivot to reveal another black void.

“More bones?” I asked with distaste.

Ryshad peered inside as the elemental light explored the darkness. “No.”

“Looks like a rat trap.” ’Gren barely spared the hole a glance. “Kill enough of them good and loud and the rest’ll think twice about following.”

Sorgrad was already easing past the slanted stone on hands and knees. “If it’s anything like a tyakar, there may be another way out.”

That was good enough for me so I hurried after him, Shiv helping me with a boost to the rump that would have earned anyone else a slap in the face. He wriggled past me to fold himself up next to Sorgrad.

“Get in here, ’Gren,“ Ryshad ordered curtly. The Mountain Man obeyed, reluctance just about visible as Shiv’s fading illumination chivvied him across the floor. The chamber returned to the silent blackness of before.

“What do we do if they come knocking?” ’Gren grumbled under his breath as he tucked himself opposite me.

“Hush.” Ryshad eased the slab closed with barely more than a whisper of stone on stone. This was a mason’s work I could certainly appreciate.

We were sat hunched, shoulder to shoulder, boots uncomfortably tangled. We all tried to calm ourselves, as much to hear what was happening on the other side of the slab as to avoid giving our hiding place away. A faint noise sounded and we all held our breath, straining to hear.

I brought a hand up to my mouth and bit down on the knuckle of my forefinger. Halcarion only knows why but I had a quite insane urge to giggle. I scolded myself silently. That would be ridiculously stupid and quite possibly fatal into the bargain. With us packed like the fish in Olret’s barrels, Ryshad felt my shoulders shaking and took my hand, squeezing it in mute reassurance. I closed my other hand over his strong fingers, feeling familiar square-cut nails and the rough skin over his knuckles.

We heard a determined thump as someone jumped that last deceptive step. A second thud and a third joined whoever had drawn the reversed rune and come down first. Emboldened by the fact they weren’t yet dead, the newcomers risked some light. A torch flame traced an orange thread around the stone protecting us. I couldn’t make out what the muffled voices said but their puzzlement was plain enough as was an encouraging undercurrent of consternation.

“Honoured dead, forgive this intrusion.” A stern voice made us all stiffen. Someone with authority had arrived. A chill gathered like cold sweat in the small of my back as this new voice began what could only be an aetheric chant. What had Sorgrad said about a second way out of this death trap?

“Where am I?” The cry froze the blood in my veins and the enchanter’s incantation died on a strangled gasp.

“What do you want?” This second voice was lower and resonant with the rhythms of the Sheltya that Sorgrad had mimicked.

“Where am I?” repeated the first frightened voice and, gathering my wits, I realised it spoke old Tormalin, the tongue of the original settlers. It was a solid gold certainty that these Elietimm in the charnel chamber had no notion what it was saying.

“Is that you?” It was another lost Tormalin voice and I felt Ryshad go rigid beside me. This was a bad enough place for him to find himself in without people from the shades that had so nearly claimed him joining us.

“What do you want with us?” That was the Elietimm bones again, this time several voices resonating through the stone. I screwed my eyes shut but it was no good. I couldn’t close my mind’s eye on a vision of dry skulls talking, jawbones flapping like some ghastly marionette.

“Where are the people we seek?” That was the enchanter leading our pursuers, his voice was strained with what I sincerely hoped was panic at what he’d started with his incautious Artifice. Gripping Ryshad’s hand, I wished fervently for a chance to strangle the bastard with his own gorget.

“Lost, so long lost.” The ancient Elietimm sighed, more voices joining in their lament and sinking the words beneath meaningless ululation.

“I cannot see!” A Tormalin wail rose above the murmur, prompting another despairing cry. “Are we dead?”

“The darkness, oh, the darkness. I cannot bear it!”

That voice was in the hollow with us. I swear my heart missed a beat and the hairs on my neck bristled like a startled cat. By the greatest good fortune or Misaen’s blessing, all five of us jerked so hard in our instinctive desire to flee, we effectively stopped each other from moving at all. Then fear of discovery overrode fear of the disembodied voice and we all froze, still as hiding hares again. Blood pounded in my chest so hard I was surprised not to hear the sound echo back from the stones. The artefacts hidden in my jerkin weighed down on my hollow stomach like lead and a bruise where someone had kicked my leg throbbed.

“The darkness is peace.” The Elietimm bones outside offered rebuke not comfort.

“The darkness is ours.”

“The darkness is knowledge.”

“The darkness is ours to hold and defend.” The menace grew as the voices came thick and fast. The only good thing to be said about that was the noise drowned out the incoherent voice trapped with us.

“Who challenges us?” The dusty rasp had a ring of ritual, something to be said before formal battle or a duel to the death.

“You are demons!”

“We are forsaken.”

“We are lost!”

“Is there no light? Where is the light?”

The Tormalin frenzy nearly, but not entirely, drowned out the sound of boots hammering on the stone steps as the Elietimm who’d pursued us into the chamber broke and fled. If I hadn’t had someone pinning my legs and Ryshad between me and the way out, I’d have followed them and be cursed to the consequences.

The Elietimm voices were shouting now, Tormalin shrieks cutting through the clamour.

“Sorgrad!” I hissed into the darkness. “You said there was another way out.”

“I said there might be,” he retorted. “If there is, I can’t find it.”

“Use some magelight and look harder,” I told him forcefully.

“I’m not going out through that lot,” ’Gren said with complete certainty.

“I’m not raising any elemental magic until I know how they’re going to feel about it,” stated Sorgrad tightly. “Sheltya ban anyone mageborn from even approaching a tyakar and I’ll bet they’ve good reason.”

“Can shades actually harm the living?” Shiv managed a wizardly tone of detached enquiry for the first half of his question then his voice cracked with concern.

“I’ve no intention of finding out.” Ryshad’s voice was harsh and I caught the scent of fresh sweat. Then I realised my own forehead and breast were damp with cold apprehension.

“Isn’t there any Artifice you can use, Livak?” Sorgrad asked with commendable calmness.

“How am I supposed to read it in the dark?” Besides, the parchment in my pocket might as well have been blank, for all I could remember of what was written on it. The chaotic sounds outside rose to a higher pitch and the voice in with us started a low keening like an injured cat.

I hadn’t been so terrified since I was a child. This was worse than waking to the impenetrable cold of a winter’s night with the candle stub guttered and me scared of the dark but more scared of what might be waiting if I got out of my truckle bed or what might be roused if I called out for someone. At least back then, my mother always had an ear for me stirring and would appear with a fresh light, putting the shadows to flight with no-nonsense reassurance mixed with rebuke. My father, on those rare occasions he stayed with us on his travels, would use a song, turning the darkness into a comforting blanket wrapping me round. That song was a Forest song, no jalquezan that I could recall but anything was worth a try.

“Let’s run quickly, quickly, quickly, let’s run quickly,

little lass,

Let’s run quickly, quickly, quickly, let’s run quickly,

little lass,”

Breath all ragged, I missed more notes than I hit in the old lullaby but I persevered doggedly.

“For the trees still cluster thickly and the shades of night

are gathering,

Let’s run quickly, quickly, quickly, let’s run quickly,

little lass.”

Shiv’s tuneless voice told me the song had a place in the remote Kevil fens. He matched me in slowing the pace of the jaunty tune to match the words.

“Not so fast now, fast now, fast now, not so fast now,

little lad,

Not so fast now, fast now, fast now, not so fast now,

little lad,

See the moons and stars above us and the shades of

night are stilling,

Not so fast now, fast now, fast now, not so fast now,

little lad.”

Ryshad’s murmured version had a few different words and turns to the tune but the gist was the same and I fervently hoped that was all that mattered.

<>Walk more slowly, slowly, slowly, walk more slowly, oh

my love,

Walk more slowly, slowly, slowly, walk more slowly, oh

my love,

See the lantern in the window as the shades of night are

settling,

Walk more slowly, slowly, slowly, walking slowly, oh my

love.”

I left the story to the others and concentrated on the soft harmony my father added as soon as I was old enough to carry the tune myself, just in case that’s where the Artifice lay. The brothers lent their voices; ’Gren picks up a tune as easily as he pockets anything else.

“Now we’re resting, resting, resting, now we’re resting

safe at home,

Now we’re resting, resting, resting, now we’re resting safe

at home,

Work is done, the day is over and the shades of night

are sleeping,

Now we’re resting, resting, resting, now we’re resting all

at peace.”

We finished more or less together and sat in the blackness. The voices beyond the slab were silent. That much I’d hoped for. What I didn’t expect to hear was snoring.

“If that’s Artifice, it’s worked on Shiv,” said ’Gren with barely repressed hilarity.

I fought a laugh of my own; I could all too easily give way to inappropriate hysteria.

Ryshad hissed beside me. “I’ve got cramp.”

“Let’s get out of here,” suggested Sorgrad. “Anyone after us must be long gone.”

“It’s the longest gone that concern me most.” But I was eager enough to untangle myself and scramble out of the confined space once Ryshad had half crawled, half fallen out.

“Dast’s teeth!” He stumbled over something that clattered in the darkness.

My heart leapt until I realised it wasn’t the hollow ring of bone but the solid clunk of wood. Steel on flint raised sparks that stabbed at my eyes. I rubbed them and then Ryshad had the torch he’d found lit, soft flames warm and reassuring.

“Do you suppose they’re keeping watch?”

’Gren moved to the black entrance of the stairway, weapon in hand.

“I would be,” said Ryshad curtly.

“I say we stay put.” Sorgrad was still by the hole we’d hidden in, using his cloak to pillow Shiv’s head. The wizard was sleeping as soundly as if he were in the finest inn in Toremal. “We all need some rest and we’re probably safer here than anywhere else in these islands.”

I wished I shared his unconcern. “Unless the real Eldritch Kin turn up to hold us to account.” That wasn’t a joke.

Sorgrad turned to survey the niches with their stacked bones and watchful skulls. “We should be safe enough, as long as no one uses any kind of magic”

Ryshad handed me the torch as he bent to dig fingers into his calf and ease his foot up and down. “That’s a curse. We have to get word to Temar and Halice as soon as possible.” His voice strengthened with determination to think about anything but the unnerving experience we’d just shared.

“Tomorrow’s soon enough.” ’Gren was pillowing his head on his pack as he lay himself down at the base of the stair. Anyone coming down there would tread on him and that would be the last mistake they made.

“You’ll have to wait for Shiv to wake up anyway.” Sorgrad got back into the hollow next to the wizard and settled himself down.

I sat down, concentrating on the torch flame so I wouldn’t have to look at the dry bones on all sides. Ordinarily, I’d have my back to a wall if one offered itself but here that meant having bits of ancient skeletons behind me. That notion made my skin crawl. But I soon shuffled round, frowning. There was no way I could sit without some bone-filled void at my back.

“Lean on me.” Ryshad sat back to back with me. We rested on each other, knees drawn up.

“What’s a tyakar cave, Sorgrad?” I asked suddenly.

“Where we keep our ancestors’ bones in the mountains,” he said sleepily. “Where Sheltya seek guidance at Solstice.” Grim satisfaction coloured his words. “What all the lowlanders dismiss as superstitious nonsense. Our charlatan priests bamboozling us ignorant fools with their lies and self-serving deceptions.”

Ryshad cleared his throat. “It’s truly necromancy?”

“You’d have to ask Sheltya about that,” yawned Sorgrad. “If you dare.”

Whoever might go asking, it wouldn’t be me. The trivial charms of the Forest or the earnest enchantments to cure and protect that Guinalle excelled in were as much Artifice as I wanted. I’d found the ill-defined powers of the Sheltya unnerving enough without knowing they went around stirring up the shades of the dead. That was all too reminiscent of the darker practices of the Elietimm. I’d been right to mistrust magic for so many years, I decided. In all its forms.

Silence hung around us. I was pretty certain Sorgrad and ’Gren were asleep.

“You sleep, if you can,” Ryshad invited. “I’ll look after the torch.”

I settled myself against his broad and reassuring back. “I couldn’t sleep in here if I’d earn a lifetime’s gold by it.”

“Me neither,” he admitted.

“I daren’t even suggest a game of runes,” I said with a reasonable attempt at a laugh. “Not seeing the Forest Folk use them for fortune telling.”

“Let’s not do anything that might stir up the aether.” I heard a faint grin in his voice.

We sat silent for a while longer.

“So what are we going to do when we get home?” Ryshad asked suddenly. “The garden will want clearing for a start.”

“Good thing I never got round to planting anything.” I leaned my head back to rub it affectionately against his shoulder. “Did I tell you I was thinking of going into wine trading?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Ryshad reached his hand round, and I laid mine on his upturned palm. He curled his fingers around mine and I did the same. “You’ll need some storage, proper cellarage ideally.”

“I reckon Temar owes me the land to build a warehouse by now.” I feigned concern. “Have you any notion where I might get the bricks to build that?”

“I think I might know someone who could help out.” I heard the laughter in Ryshad’s voice and smiled. “There are so many wines to choose from,” he continued thoughtfully. “You should visit the vineyards, see how they store their vintages.”

“And sample them,” I pointed out.

Ryshad squeezed my hand. “We’ll sail for Tormalin as soon as we’ve settled all this, shall we? Spend Aft-Summer and both halves of autumn putting together a cargo?”

“That’s an excellent notion,” I approved. “Where shall we start?”

Suthyfer, Inner Strait, 10th of For-Summer

Temar stood on the aftdeck and gazed at Allin as she concentrated on filling the sails of the ever-hastening Dulse. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the rail.

Halice climbed up from the main deck. “She may not have Larissa’s affinity but she’s doing a good job.” She handed Temar his sword. “You could shave with that if you’ve a mind to go into battle with a clean chin.”

“I’ll wait till we’re done and bathe then.” Temar continued to watch Allin whose concentration hadn’t wavered in the slightest. He could still feel her lips on his.

Halice was looking at the billowing canvas. “ ’Sar said something about air and fire being paired in some way.” She turned to check on the Fire Minnow cutting a swathe of white foam through the water beside the Dulse. Her sails didn’t have the constant curve of the Dulse’s but she was parting the waves like a sword slicing through silk. Temar followed Halice’s gaze to Usara right in the prow of the ship, one hand on the bowsprit as he craned to see the sea beneath.

The door from the aft cabin opened beneath them and Guinalle came out on to the plunging deck. Temar bent over the rail. “What of the watchpost?”

The demoiselle’s eyes fixed on a scar cleared in the all-enveloping forest. “They’re scattered and confused. None will recall their purpose before nightfall.” Guinalle’s voice was resolute but her face betrayed distaste.

She could have knocked them senseless at the very least. Temar bit his lip before he voiced such thoughts. No, Guinalle would never forswear her vows with such aggressive Artifice.

“We want to hit them like a storm out of a clear sky,” murmured Halice over the soft sweeps of her whetstone on a dagger.

Temar looked up and saw that the sky, while clear, was perceptibly darkening. “Is there enough time to win this battle before dusk?”

“If we get a move on,” Halice grinned. “And I doubt they’ll expect an attack this late in the day, so that’ll work to our advantage.”

As she spoke, the vessel wheeled and shot into the narrow opening of the inlet, pace barely slackening. Guinalle retreated to the sanctuary of the cabin again.

“Dast’s teeth!” A sailor’s nervous exclamation made Temar look up. He realised the crew were as tense as cats in a water-mill. Every man moved vigilant among the spars and ropes, making the finest adjustments often before the boatswain’s whistled orders.

Pride in Allin’s abilities swelled in Temar’s chest as the Dulse sped through the narrow channel. The little ship raced past looming green hills thick with tangled trees that gripped the very shoreline with belligerent roots. The fighting men ready in the waist of the ship swayed and cursed as the ship heeled and jinked like a bolting horse. More than a few turned pale and Glane dashed for the rail, clutching at his belly, other hand clapped to his mouth. A cry of consternation from the prow prompted anxious looks all round until the boatswain waved reassurance with a broad hand. A swell of nervous laughter ran the length of the boat.

“What is it?” Temar asked Halice.

“Something about the reefs.” She peered over the side rail and surprised Temar with a chuckle. “Look at this.”

Temar grinned along with Halice when he saw the waters seething furiously as jagged rocks and water-smoothed boulders tumbled over each other to pile against the shore, clearing the channel for the speeding ships. Usara was leaning on the foremost rail of the Fire Minnow, head bowed, wizardry turned on the unseen hazards beneath the waters.

“Careful.” The Dulse lurched and Halice grabbed Temar’s arm.

“Thank you.” Temar took a deep breath as the unrelenting speed and motion made his own stomach protest.

“When we get ashore, you play your part but you watch your back,” Halice warned him sternly. “You need to stay alive to reap the rewards for Kellarin—and to finish what you seem to have started with young Allin.”

“You keep your hide whole,” Temar retorted. “I’m not done needing you.”

Halice grinned. “I’m a mercenary. We’re expendable. That’s what we’re paid for.” Her words won a cheer from the fighting men closest to the aftdeck.

“Just make sure we get paid, Commander!” called Minare.

“First pick of the loot,” shouted Peyt with relish.

“Secure it first and then we’ll argue shares.” Challenge rang in Halice’s voice.

“We’re nearly there.” Allin’s strained words drove all other considerations from Temar’s mind. The ship lurched as the elemental wind fled. Crewmen scrambled up the ratlines to trim the sails.

“Ready to land!” Halice shouted and her banner sergeants called their troops to order.

“Ready?” The Fire Minnow was some way behind but Usara’s shout echoed over the waters.

“Yes.” Allin’s voice broke on her tension.

“Yes!” Temar drew his sword and waved it. He saw pirates running down to the water, hate-filled weapons catching the sunlight, their shouts soon drowned beneath the abuse the mercenaries on deck were hurling. The foremost brigands stood in the swirling surf, daring the invaders to risk a landing, their taunts raucous.

A deafening roar smashed through the uproar. Flames exploded from the merchant ships broken and dishonoured on the beach. Magefire ripped the masts asunder, wood splitting and metal melting. Burning brands and red-hot splinters scattered the waiting pirates. The troops on the Dulse jeered as their ship drove at the shingle, straight as a die. Stones grated beneath the hull, keel biting deep. The sailors caught the last of the wind to force her on, adding their skills to this new magic.

“ ’Sar’s pretty good with water,” Halice noted with approval. Temar looked back for Allin. Her feet were firmly planted on the deck, hands tight folded as she turned all her skill to destroying the stolen ships. She didn’t flinch, even when someone jumped screaming from the stern of the Tang, flames consuming the man even as he fell towards the futile hope of quenching in the sea.

“Ware arrows!” Minare perched on the side rail, sword in one hand, the other holding a rope. The Fire Minnow reared up beside the Dulse, Usara leaning perilously over the prow as he forced the shingle to bank and hold the hull secure.

Temar put himself between Allin and any hostile arrow but the scattered shower had all but spent its force by the time it clattered among the masts and ropes. Then crossbow quarrels thudded into the wooden side of the Dulse, one sending a Kellarin man reeling back clutching his chest and screaming. A second flight of arrows hissed through the air like geese taking fright but this time Allin was ready. A shimmering curtain of magelight swept the shafts toppling and tumbling back to the shore and into the sea.

“Any chance she could use those to pin down a few pirates for us.” Rosarn appeared at Temar’s side, her bow strung, reaching for her quiver.

Temar was surprised. “I thought you’d spent all your arrows.”

“Nearly.” Rosarn narrowed her eyes on a distant target. “But it’s not arrows that makes the archer.” She drew her bow up in one fluid movement and loosed the shaft. A distant scream told Temar it had found its quarry. “It’s the aim,” Rosarn concluded with satisfaction.

Other archers picked to win full value for every precious arrow were on the aftdeck now. A second contingent on the sterncastle of the Fire Minnow was picking off enemy crossbow men.

“Have at them!” Halice roared. Sailors flung ropes and nets over the side of each ship. Some of the mercenaries barely seemed to use them as they poured on to the beach, running to engage those pirates holding their ground despite the flaming embers or spent arrows cascading down on them.

“Go on!” Rosarn shoved Temar towards the main deck. He didn’t need her urging, aware of every man’s eyes on him.

It was he and no other should lead the men of Vithrancel and Edisgesset into this battle. The loyal tenants of D’Alsennin’s vast holdings had once trusted him to lead them within the cohorts of the Emperor fighting for Tormalin glory. Now his duty was to lead these men to victory such that as many as possible would live to enjoy it.

By now he was over the side and knee deep in the water. Ahead, Halice led her troop up the sloping shingle. Swirling waves dragging at their boots, the snarling mercenaries fought as one, each man arm’s length from the next, ready to defend each other, all the while attacking with all the savagery they could muster. The pirates went down like wheat before a scythe, bodies falling to taint the foam with a rush of scarlet.

Temar and his troop followed hard on their heels. “To me!” he yelled as they gained the solid ground. Halice and her mercenaries met the pirates’ main force in the centre of the landing. Immediately in front of Temar, Minare sent his men to either side, long practice spreading claws to crush the enemy. Some of the pirates broke, fleeing to the scatter of huts and tents on the rise beyond. Minare’s men fell on the rest like starving dogs on meat.

Blood flung from a sweeping sword spattered Temar’s face but he paid it no heed. He saw his moment and ran, blade questing before him. “Now! For Kellarin!”

Some men echoed his cry. Others settled for wordless screams of hatred as they pursued the fleeing enemy. Temar hacked at a leather-clad back scrambling up the slope. Honed by Halice, his blade slashed a deep gash through jerkin and shirt, skin and flesh. The pirate wheeled round, back arching with the pain and throwing his stroke off so Temar could parry with ease and an upward sweep of his blade. He rolled his wrist round to hack at the man’s neck, feeling bone splintering through sliced flesh. Temar pulled the blow short lest his sword bite into the clinging spine as the pirate fell. He ran on, eyes on the enemy, heedless of a body trampled beneath his boots. A man who’d overtaken him felled a pirate in one ferocious sweep of a broadsword. The corpse rolled away and Temar leapt it as he ran, drawing his poniard. His grandsire always said two blades were better than one.

Now they were at the huts and tents, Kellarin’s men slashing and cutting with indiscriminate fury at pirates and screaming women.

“Clear every rat hole,” yelled Temar.

A man erupted from a crude shelter walled with the deck grates of a merchant ship. He swung a billhook once destined for peaceful duty in Vithrancel’s thickets. Temar swept his sword up to guard his head, thrown on to his back foot as the double-edged and lethally heavy head swung towards him. The man with the bill came on, jabbing forward. Temar feinted to the open side, careful to judge the polearm’s reach. The pirate thrust again and Temar darted forward to catch the shaft with his dagger, angling the blade to lock just below the vicious lower spike of the bill’s hacking side. In the same movement, he sliced down the shaft with his sword, all but severing the man’s foremost hand. The pirate screamed but even as blood gushed from his shattered wrist, he wrenched the gleaming metal head free of Temar’s dagger, stumbling backwards. He whirled the bill around his head one-handed, hazel shaft whistling through the air with murderous intent towards Temar’s head. Temar jumped back and the bill swept past his face with scant fingers to spare. The heavy head sank toward the ground, the man unable to recover it one-handed. Temar stamped down hard on the flat of the metal. The spike of the bill’s crescent face dug deep into the soiled earth pulling the pirate forward, fatally unbalanced. Temar thrust his sword full into the man’s belly, ripping it out in a sideways slash.

As he recoiled from the stench of blood and entrails, Temar realised Glane was at his shoulder, an unknown miner from Edisgesset on his other side. “Bring these down!” he shouted, kicking at the flimsy wall of the billman’s shelter. Glane darted forward as a muffled scream came from beneath the tumbled wood. He pulled a young woman out of the wreckage, dark hair tangled over her face, an overlarge bodice laced crooked over a filthy shift. She cowered away from them all, grizzling like a child.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” protested Glane, distressed.

“Tie her up,” Temar ordered harshly. “Trust no one till we have cause.”

Glane hesitated but the miner didn’t. He flung the girl face down on the ground, one knee dug into her back as he cut strips of canvas to bind her wrists and ankles, heedless of her sobs.

Temar caught his breath and assessed their situation. Elated, he saw the ramshackle camp falling to Kellarin boots and blades, pirate men and women sprawled in the untidiness of death. Vengeful colonists, eager swords joining them with every passing moment, surrounded the few pirates still fighting.

“Take her yonder, boy.” The miner rolled the tightly trussed girl over with a brutal boot. He jerked his head towards the gravel of the foreshore where Vaspret barked instructions to men standing guard over bound and gagged captives. Glane looked uneasy but hefted the girl on one shoulder, carrying her down the slope like a sack of grain. The miner hastened to join a gang of his fellows who were grappling with some fools who’d thought they could hide in a tent.

Staying alert for any threat, Temar looked along the shore to see Halice’s forces fighting the most brutal pirates, men whose only hope was to kill or be killed. They grudged every step of ground, boots digging into bloodstained turf, spitting and cursing at the implacable mercenaries just as determined to force them back. Blades scraped and rasped, scant room to swing freely. Swordplay gave way to punches, fists wrapped around daggers that twisted to gouge at faces and scalps. He looked at the line and lessons from his days in the cohorts rang in his memory.

“They’re wheeling, curse it! To me!” Temar bellowed, waving his sword to summon his troop. “Don’t let them reach the shore!” If the circling fight curled round much more, the pirates would have a chance to dash for some weed-covered boats lurking in the rocks beyond the stockade. Sailors from the Dulse and the Fire Minnow were wrecking everything that could float on the main strand but without the benefit of Temar’s higher ground, they hadn’t seen those few longboats. Wrathful, he ran, boots thudding on the turf. He’d be cursed if he’d let any of these murderous scum slip away.

Then, as he ran, he saw movement at the stockade. The gates of the rough fortification flung open and Muredarch led a howling mob of his most loyal marauders down on the mercenaries. Those pirates tired by fighting scattered, many paying a heavy price in blood, as the unwearied newcomers hit the mercenary line. The forces met with a crash like the roar of a breaking storm. Muredarch was at the centre of his men, unmistakable with his great height, his immense reach soon leaving dead and wounded littered around him as he swung a two-handed sword in a deathly arc.

Temar wished fruitlessly for a bow, a crossbow and the skills to use either, even as he plunged on with his men. They had to cut the pirates off from the shore. They weren’t going to make it. Anguish wracked him. He wasn’t going to make it. Another failure would curse him.

Then a shudder ran through the fighting men. The pirates’ malice yielded to astonishment that turned visibly to horror. Halice’s mercenaries seized the first hint of weakness and smashed into their foes with redoubled violence. Temar and his men forced their way past the end of the battle line, sliding on the shingle but determined to deny the pirates passage.

Temar struggled to see what had rolled the runes of the battle anew. It was Darni and his fugitive troop, crashing out of the trees beyond the encampment. Some carried clubs of green wood instead of swords but the raking stubs of branches scored viciously into exposed arms and faces. There were as few of them as Temar had feared but determination to purge the shame of being put to flight made every man fight with the strength of two.

“Hold fast!” Muredarch’s resonant voice pierced the uproar as the pirate line quaked once more. Then it held, pirates bracing themselves in an ominous parody of trained troops.

“Back!” At Muredarch’s command, the line began a slow retreat.

“Break ’em!” Halice’s roar rose above renewed abuse from the mercenaries.

“To me!” His troop drew up either side of Temar, a solid rank of leather and steel. Temar thrust and cut, intent on blood and revenge but the pirates held their line, trading chances to wound Temar’s men for the safety of incoming blows. This was no rout but a disciplined retreat, step by slow step, towards the safety of the stockade.

If Muredarch secured himself in there, Temar thought furiously, they’d have to burn him out. As he thought this, scarlet flames soared beyond the melee, taking him so completely by surprise that a pirate sword darted over his guard to slice deep into his forearm.

“Curse you!” Temar rammed his blade full into the face of the man who’d wounded him, obliterating the bandit’s shout of triumph. He ripped his sword free, gouts of blood and mucus on the dulled steel. As the dying man fell backwards, Temar broke free of his own line, men on either side of him instinctively closing the gap. Temar darted this way and that to try and see what was happening by the stockade, straining to hear any clue in the all-encompassing noise.

The stockade was ablaze. Scarlet magefire licked ever higher, black smoke billowing into the clear blue sky. Was this Allin’s doing? As Temar wondered, pain erupted inside his head and he staggered with the shock, clapping a hand to his temple expecting to feel some dart or the score of an arrow. He squinted at his palm through tear-filled eyes but there was no blood.

The battle fell into chaos; all-pervasive pain wracking friend and foe alike. Men and women fell to their hands and knees, some clawing at their heads so fiercely they drew their own blood. Others folded around their anguish like wailing babes. Temar’s legs wavered beneath him but he forced himself to stay upright. Feet numb, he staggered towards the beached Dulse, clumsy waves of his sword sufficient to turn away a shrieking pirate who crossed his path.

“Oh my little son, who will guide you to manhood? I am burning, all is burning, fire all around. I have not the strength of will to turn it aside. Forgive my weakness.” Moin’s anguish tore at Temar. Had his own father burned thus with searing grief even as the fever of the Crusted Pox consumed him?

Darige wept for his parents’ loss, eyes parching faster than tears could refresh them, sore lids sticky and slow, unable to hide the brilliant death flickering all around. “How will you live without the bounty I earn you? Who will bring you fuel and food to ward off the killing cold of winter?” Skin reddened, blistered, scored and splitting, Darige envisaged his aged father grey and frozen, starved to death in his bed.

Temar dashed guilty tears from his own eyes. If he hadn’t sailed for Kel Ar’Ayen, bold and foolish, he’d have been there to comfort his grandsire on his deathbed. Why had he left the old man to die bereft of any of his blood?

“Why did I never tell you I loved you, Duhel? Now I will die and you’ll never know. I’ll never know the touch of your lips, your body meeting mine. Ilkehan said we should keep ourselves free from such ties but where is he now I die so utterly alone?” Yalda struggled for breath even as the false air scorched her throat and lungs. Her hair curled in futile retreat from the ascending flames, crumbling to nothingness, all the beauty she’d been so proud of turned hideous.

Screaming with all the living torment of death consumed by fire filled Temar’s mind. Fighting the pain, the excruciating memories and regrets, he reached the ship and seized the tarred and knotted netting hanging down the side. Blood from his wound made his sword hand slippery. Howls and weeping assailed him from all sides and the pain in his head felt as if it would crack the very bones of his skull. “Tur-ryal,” Temar gasped. “Tur-ryal en arvenir.” That gave him enough clarity within the sanctuary of his own mind to haul himself up a few meshes. “Tur-ryal en arvenir mel edraset.”

The aetheric ward pushed the pain that surrounded him to the outside of Temar’s skin. Even if he still felt flayed alive, it was just sensations of burning assailing him, not the searing bitterness of futile self-recrimination. He gasped, frozen with dread as he felt a death wish pass over him before realising, agony aside, he was of no interest to Muredarch’s three adepts. They were intent on spending their final breaths in visiting bloody retribution on the mages who had brought this fiery fate to consume them.

Temar felt the dying Elietimm turn their murderous will on Larissa. Soaring flames filled his vision, eyes open or closed and he saw the girl ringed in silver magelight. Her defences were tarnishing, melting before the Elietimm onslaught and Temar wished with every fibre of his being that he’d studied more Artifice. He racked his memory for any incantation that he might use to aid the embattled wizard. It was no good, he was no use, he just didn’t know. That realisation was more painful than the agonies hammering at his half-warded mind. There had to be something he could do. If he couldn’t reach Larissa, he had to try to help the other mages. He fell over the rail of the Dulse to land with a resounding thud on the deck. Sailors all around were struggling with the overwhelming pain, one man screaming, fallen from the rigging to shatter both legs into splintered bone.

Temar struggled to his feet to see Guinalle on the aftdeck, kneeling beside Allin who lay in a crumpled heap. Temar’s heart twisted with the worst torment yet.

“Guinalle,” he rasped, staggering towards her. “As you hope for Saedrin’s grace, help me!” She looked up, ashen, clinging desperately to Allin’s hands. “It’s the Elietimm. I’ve shielded Allin and ’Sar but I can’t reach Larissa.”

Temar nodded and wished he hadn’t. “They’re in there.” He pointed towards the inferno that was the stockade and took a deep breath. “You have to end it. You’re the only one who can reach them. It’s the only way to save the mages.”

Guinalle looked at him, horror struck.

Temar seized her hands. “You’re the only one who can give them mercy. By Ostrin’s very eyes, would you let them die like that?”

If Guinalle had been pale before, now her face was the bloodless ivory of old bone. She crushed Temar’s hand against Allin’s cold fingers so hard he feared he’d carry the marks for the rest of his days.

“Do what you can for her,” Guinalle whispered hoarsely, screwing her eyes closed, dark bruises in their hollows. “And ’Sar.”

Temar struggled to wrap his fragile ward around Allin. His inadequate skills were immediately thrown into disarray by an elemental chill, slippery and hard as ice as he tried to reach past it. The still cold of lightless caverns lost beneath the earth penetrated her very bones, refuting the Elietimm Artifice’s insidious boast that inexorable fires consumed her. Temar struggled to lend Allin whatever strength he could in denying the insidious appeal to the affinity within her, as the Elietimm sought to let elemental fire loose to destroy the wizard from within. What about Usara? The cold numbed Temar’s wits like a fall into freezing water but he tried again, holding Usara in his mind’s eye as he sought in vain for the mage. The chill became the bitter burn of midwinter wind and Temar recoiled from it but, before his skills deserted him utterly, he realised the cold protecting Allin was preserving the other wizard too.

“Eda verlas Moin ar drion eda. Verlas Yalda mal ar drion eda. Darige verlas ar drion eda.” Guinalle was chanting a litany that Temar had never heard before, tears streaming from her closed eyes. “Ostrin an abrach nur fel,” she added in fervent prayer.

The screaming agonies of the dying enchanters faded but slowly. Temar could still feel the scarifying pain through the shreds of his untutored warding as he scrubbed cold tears from his face. Down on the shore, he saw some were recovering faster than others.

Muredarch was one. The big man was charging up the slope towards the edge of the trees where Darni stood swaying over a fallen figure that could only be Larissa. Intent on his prey, the pirate leader didn’t realise Halice was pursuing him, mercenaries behind her dragging themselves to their feet with desperate determination.

“Look after Allin.” The effort of leaving her behind nearly broke Temar’s resolve but he drove himself to a cable hanging over the side of the ship. He welcomed the burn of the rope on his palms, the throbbing ache of the gash in his forearm; any pain to distract him from his frantic worry for Allin.

He ran past pirates and mercenaries stirring and senseless, the echo of the enchanters’ death pangs lessening with every step. Determination to exact full penalty from Muredarch filled him with new energy. The pirate leader had reached Darni now and was hacking at the warrior’s guard. The big man was defending himself but with nothing like his customary skill, every block weaker, every movement too slow for safety. Temar nearly cried out to give Darni new heart but seeing Halice was there, he held his tongue. Darni fell and Muredarch roared with triumph but Halice cut his jubilation short. The woman fell on the marauder’s unprotected back, her clotted sword sweeping across to lay open bloodied flesh and the white gleam of rib bones.

With a roar like a wounded bull, Muredarch turned on her, great two-handed sword wheeling round. Halice took a double grip on her hand-and-a-half blade and met the stroke with a block that stopped it dead. She stood braced then jabbed at Muredarch’s eyes with the pommel of her weapon, sliding out from beneath the killing arc of his sword as he recoiled. He swung at her again, to cut her legs from under her but Halice met the blow with a low parry that turned into a slicing thrust of her own. She moved lithely out of danger and spat at Muredarch.

Temar wanted to shout, to let Halice know he was coming to her aid but dared not lest he distract her. Muredarch raised his mighty blade above his head but the mercenary didn’t stay to be poleaxed. She darted forward and sideways and brought her own sword upwards to slice beneath Muredarch’s armpit. Temar couldn’t restrain a breathless cheer as he saw fresh blood bright in the sunlight.

Halice’s move had taken her past Muredarch and the pirate looked murderously at Temar. One arm was clamped to his side but he could wield that colossal sword single-handed. He lunged towards Temar, madness in his eyes. Halice stabbed him in the back, the point of her sword emerging just above his hip. Muredarch fell to his knees and Temar swept a single fluid stroke to cut his mighty head clean from his shoulders. The warm gush of blood from the stump of the pirate’s neck soaked Temar’s side and thigh. He barely felt it in the hot exultation at the black-hearted villain’s death.

“Nicely done, Messire.” Halice wrenched her own blade out of Muredarch’s corpse and saluted Temar with it. Beneath the sweat and grime of battle, she was pale. “I take it that was enchanters trying to split all our skulls?”

Temar grimaced. “Sharing their death agonies when they were caught in the fire.”

“Did Allin fire the stockade?” asked Halice.

Anguish closed Temar’s throat for a moment. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She’s hurt.” He moved to head back to the ships. A groan halted him.

“Shit, Darni.” Halice dropped to her knees by the fallen warrior. His face was a ghastly mask of blood, cheek sliced and broken teeth white where a blow had shattered his jaw. Muredarch’s second blow had hit lower, cutting a huge gash into the big man’s shoulder, muscle and sinew severed. Darni’s blood soaked a crumpled figure beneath him.

“Help me,” commanded Halice. “That’s Larissa.”

Temar’s hands shook as he stripped off his jerkin and tore off his shirt, damp with sweat and stained with his blood and others‘. Darni groaned, chest labouring as they laid him flat on the gory turf. Temar winced as he did his best to staunch the warrior’s grievous wounds. “Will he live?”

“It might be better for him if he didn’t.” Halice was grim faced as she felt for the beat of Larissa’s heart. “This one’s making her excuses to Saedrin. Shit. Darni could have taken Muredarch. It was trying to defend her body did for him, the fool!” But the woman’s tone was more sorrowful than angry.

Temar frowned. “I can’t see any wound.” All the blood on Larissa was Darni’s; spent in defence of his master’s beloved. He had half expected to find the mage-woman a blackened, contorted corpse.

Halice shook her head in bemusement as she searched the mage’s body with careful hands. “Poldrion only knows what killed her—and he won’t tell.”

Darni groaned again, eyes rolling in his head as he tried to blink away the blood blinding him. He hauled his uninjured arm up to point at the still blazing circle that was now the Elietimm’s pyre.

Temar groped for his meaning. “Larissa fired the stockade?”

Darni’s closed his eyes in unmistakable confirmation.

Temar looked at Halice. “She took the full force of their hatred. I felt it.” He found himself on his feet. “I have to see Allin and ’Sar.”

He stumbled, running for the ships without waiting for Halice’s answer. Mercenaries recovering from the assault of Artifice were slaughtering still-stunned pirates with brutal desperation, not even a thought of offering any chance to surrender. Rosarn on the shore was directing her troop to strip fallen and captive alike of every weapon and anything of value. Temar didn’t care. Halice could order division of the spoils as she saw fit. All Temar cared about was Allin.

Every joint and bone in his body protested as he hauled himself up the side of the Dulse yet again. The cut in his forearm was a burning gash. “Demoiselle Guinalle, where is she?” he barked at a sailor slowly coiling a rope more from habit than need.

“Aft cabin,” the man answered in deadened tones.

“Does she live?” Temar demanded as he flung open the door.

Guinalle knelt on the floor, face cupped in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Allin lay motionless in one bunk, face turned to the wall. Usara had been laid on the other side, hands folded neatly on his breast, head tilted back, cheeks hollow and bloodless in the gloom.

“Does she live?” Fury born of terror hardened Temar’s tone.

“Barely.” Guinalle scrubbed tears from her face, leaving smears of dirt. “I can’t get them warm,” she sobbed suddenly. “Neither of them. No matter what I do. I can’t get them warm.”

Her eyes rolled up in her head and Temar only just caught her before she crashed to the unforgiving floor.