The Gambler's Fortune

When the Emperor granted my husband Gidestan estates in recognition of his service in the west, I first met the Men of the Mountains and learned their grave sagas. This piece, much sung at Solstice, reminds us that life in the heights can be as harsh as the climate and we should perhaps be more understanding of their brusqueness in dealings with those bred in gentler lands.

Lidrasoke, 32nd of Aft-Spring

Jeirran tied his hard-ridden pony to a ring carved in a block of marble and poured water from the skin at his saddlebow into a dry hollow in the stone. He turned his back on the grasslands of the valley where new growth was vibrant with flowers turning faces to the warmth of spring. Red, yellow, blue and white, all strove to take what they could from the sun before the snows blanketed them once more. Jeirran stood motionless for a long moment before the forbidding arc of gray wall.

The stronghold rose up from a solid hillock of earth piled up to level an existing rise, claiming immediate advantage of height over any that might approach. The massive wall rose like an outcrop of living rock and the windows of the rekin within were paired like watchful eyes. The stone-crowned fess dominated the wind-scoured valley as the land swelled toward the encroaching mountains.

But this place was an empty boast. The great doors to the compound stood wedged open with rubble, the bar to defy all comers leaning impotently in the angle of the thick wall. The triangular space in the stones above the lintel, where the mighty emblem of the house had once been raised, was as empty as a blind socket. Jeirran kicked the pebbles away from the iron-banded base of the gate and hauled on it, pins in the sockets of the solid stone threshold grating on windblown dust. With a wordless exclamation, he sent the heavy barrier slamming into the carved stop of the jamb. The sharp crack echoed back from the gray cliffs rearing up to the north of the compound, stark in their snow-capped beauty.

Walking into the compound, Jeirran made a slow circuit, pausing to peer into every doorway and window of the stone-slated buildings that clung to the interior of the wall. All were empty, swept clean and tidy, every possession gone, hearths cold. The bitter scowl marking Jeirran’s face faded, gradually replaced by a sadness that mercilessly stripped away the years, betraying a wretched youth.

He looked up at the rekin. The black hollows of the windows defied the searching sun, secretive, baleful. Jeirran entered, ignored the dismantled hearth, and crossed to the stairs. Walking at first, then moving faster, soon running through the dark shadows, he finally emerged onto the flat roof. The hardness returned to his eyes as he bent to take a sight along a groove in one of the stones of the parapet. It pointed to the distant cliff face, to a fissure whose regular sides and angular edges spoke eloquently of hammer and mallet. Jeirran’s expression settled into its habitual frown. The steady breeze, ever present, lifted a stray lock hair from his forehead and dust swirled around his feet with a noise like a curious whisper.

“Are you going to ask me to go in there for the Solstice? To see what the bones of our soke say when Misaen sends the sun to illuminate the sanctuary of our blood? What questions do you want me to ask?”

Only a sharp intake of breath informed against him. Jeirran stood upright and turned slowly. “You speak of my family.” He stressed the penultimate word lightly. “What interest have you in the blood that once dwelt here?”

“For a man who wants to claim a favor on the strength of past kinship, you go about things in a very odd fashion, Jeirran,” the newcomer said critically from her seat on the wall that ran around the edge of the roof.

Jeirran dropped his eyes for a moment, scuffing at the solid slabs with the toe of his boot. “Hello, Aritane.” He smiled at her with a charm that did not reach his eyes. “You’re looking well.”

“Marriage hasn’t changed you,” she commented with an enigmatic edge to her tone. “How is Eirys?”

Jeirran waved a hand dismissively. “Well enough.”

“It’s a shame she’s not breeding yet.” Aritane smoothed her dusky gray gown over her lap, drawing softly shod feet together in an elegant gesture. The color complemented the twilight blue of her eyes, deep set and dominating a narrow face with a long nose unflattered by the way her corn-colored hair was cropped short, combed back from a high forehead. Her lips showed a full sensuality, the clearest stamp of common blood with Jeirran. “I would like to see you secure your posterity in a child, preferably a bevy of them.”

“No child of Eirys’ blood would give me a claim here,” Jeirran sighed.

“No,” agreed Aritane softly, regret naked in her eyes.

“Is it a fair exchange then?” Jeirran demanded belligerently. “Are the arts of Sheltya fitting recompense for abandoning your blood and its land to be claimed by the daughters of our foremother’s foremother’s sister? Do you wield any more power than being able to tell whether or not my wife is finally going to prove herself fertile?”

“You always were a contentious brat, even as a child, Jeirran,” replied Aritane with disdain. “I lost count of the times Father had to dump you into that water trough yonder to quench your temper.”

They both glanced at the long hollowed stone down by the main gate, dry as a wind-scoured bone, a few leaves and fragments of blown grass caught in the unstoppered hole in its base.

Jeirran hung his head for a moment before lifting a challenging face. “So tell me, sister-that-was, what of your life?”

“I travel between the sokes, I give judgment and counsel, I spread news and share appeals for aid or alliance.” There was a dry mockery in her words. “You know full well the duty of Sheltya.”

Jeirran drummed his fingers on the wall, chewing at his beard. “We all know what Sheltya do. What interests me is what Sheltya are. What of the powers whispered of in corners at Solstice and Equinox? What of those times when one lone traveler in gray will become ten or twenty Sheltya, all appearing out of nowhere and closing a fess to travelers while they deal with a pestilence, a crime against the blood, some other offense that only they can see.”

“You know full well that it is not permitted to speak of these things,” Aritane replied in a level tone. “Why do you defy that? What do you want of me?” She might have been inquiring about the weather for all the concern in her voice.

“Have you learned the secrets of their power? Just what it is that Sheltya can do?” persisted Jeirran. “How they can leave behind them empty halls whose people are vanished or scattered mindless to the charity of others? Even when they move on and leave all behind them hale and hearty, why do none have any recollection of what has been done to save or succor them?”

“This is not your concern,” said Aritane, icier now. “Such things are only the province of those of us chosen to serve.”

“Chosen?” Jeirran folded his arms and looked at his sister. “Taken, perhaps. Better yet, stolen. I was only half a season short of my ninth year, old enough to remember your tears, your screams, your anger. I remember you clinging to your bed when they came for you, begging our mother to deny them, cursing her when she did not.” He drew a slow, measured breath. “But then I suppose that proved the justice of their claim on you, didn’t it? Your curse worked well enough; Mother dead inside a year and Father and the rest of us home from a hard season in the diggings to find all we had worked for now owed to some mousy-haired chit from the far side of the heights whom none of us had even heard of before then.”

“Mother died in childbirth, a tragedy but not uncommon.” Aritane’s hands in her lap were white at the knuckles as she clasped them together.

“In childbed as she desperately labored for a daughter to replace you, to safeguard the lands she had inherited.” Jeirran shook his head. “I did hear tell that she forbade Sheltya her bedchamber, terrified they would see true magic in the future of that child as well. Had she allowed them in, they might have been able to save both her and the babe.”

Aritane stood up. “If you have only brought me here to scratch at long-healed scars, I’ll bid you farewell, Jeirran.”

“But Sheltya wouldn’t force her, would they? They won’t use their powers, whatever they might be, without consent, will they? Whatever they can do, it’s always shackled and hedged about with secrets and mysteries and never used openly. What good is strength if it’s never used?”

Aritane was at the top of the stairs now.

“What do Sheltya say of the Elietimm, An?”

Jeirran’s taunting words halted her on the topmost tread. “What did you say?”

“Is that the correct way to say it? Shouldn’t it be Alyatimm?” Jeirran took a seat on the wall now, legs outstretched before him, leaning on his hands.

Aritane turned her head slowly. “What have you heard?” There was irresistible command in her voice.

“I’m not some accused to warrant your compulsion to speak the truth.” Jeirran spat and scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “I’ve just heard what half the lowlanders will be hearing in their ale-houses and taverns before the summer’s out. Songs of these Elietimm, of the powers they wield, of the dangers they pose, of the might of their fighting men. How long do you suppose it will be before some greedy burgher of Wrede decides these blond men from across the ocean are no different from those blond men over the mountains? They’ll seize on any excuse to steal more land, more wealth, to drive us back farther and farther from what was once ours. Maybe that’s what befell the Teyvasoke. You must have heard about that from your new kindred.” Jeirran laughed mirthlessly. “If they drive us back far enough, we’ll all become Men of the Ice, won’t we?”

Aritane’s face was cold, eyes like the shadows in the cracks of a glacier. “You have no idea what you are talking about. The Alyatimm sought to use the powers of Sheltya to dominate and rule without mercy or consent.”

“I know that these Elietimm, whoever they may be, use their powers to defend themselves. I know that they do not see true magic as something to be hidden and secret but a weapon to save their lands and their people from plunder and rape. I’ll wager every coin of my patrimony that their wise are not taken away from land and family, lest they are ever tempted to use what they learn for their soke’s advantage.” Jeirran got to his feet and walked slowly around the roof, looking down into the compound and over the wall to the grasslands of the valley beyond. “Wouldn’t you rather have had the chance to use your learning to benefit your blood, to take up your inheritance and make it prosper, rather than see our home left empty to shelter passing travelers now that those who claim it cannot even be bothered to dwell here half a season in the year?”

Aritane’s face was bloodless and pale as the flagstones beneath her feet. “Why do you do this, Jeirran? Why stir up the long-dead embers of old wrath and bitter sorrow? Raise a fire like that and it will burn your hands. What’s done is done and there is no way to change it.”

“But what if there were?” Jeirran said softly, crossing over to her and taking her hands between his. “You cannot tell me you are happy with your lot, Ari! If you were, you would hardly have come to meet me here. I saw you at Solstice, in the Parthfess, having to dance attendance on that stupid old man. Everyone else may have thought his ramblings were the mystical wisdom of Sheltya but you knew full well it was just senile nonsense. I could see it in your eyes. They promised you power and knowledge in return for losing your home and family. What have they given you? The role of nursemaid to some incontinent old fool who still gets more respect than you when he’s drooling gruel down the front of his night-shirt! How is it right that the powers of true magic are kept from desperate people by the fears and cowardice of the Elders?”

“By rights, I should denounce you myself,” Aritane spat at him, “or very least wipe this conversation from your memory, together with all this festering hate and whatever half-truths you think you’ve garnered from lowland gossip!”

“Do so,” shrugged Jeirran. “No matter, it won’t change anything. Inside half a season, someone like me, someone selling his ingots or another trapper trading with the lowlands, he’ll bring back these songs and tales. Yevrein will be wondering why these people, who must surely share our blood, why are they so feared by the lowlanders? Why are these Elietimm using all means at their disposal to protect homes and families, while we are robbed and assaulted at every season’s turn? Peider and his friends will start wondering too, start asking questions of Sheltya, demanding answers too. Whoever among you decides to find those answers—well, that’ll be the one who finally takes the whip out of the hands of the old and fearful, won’t it? To govern how the true magic is used, to see that wisdom tempers raw power that the so-called wise are too fearful to use?”

Aritane looked down at her hands, still clasped between Jeirran’s broad palms. “You said you had a favor to ask of me?” She looked up, her face emotionless but her eyes boring into his.

Now it came to the point, Jeirran hesitated. “It is said that Sheltya can speak to each other across the mountains and valleys, send word to their colleagues far distant, farther than a season’s travel.”

Aritane nodded slowly. Jeirran continued more boldly, breaking into the tense silence with sudden urgency. “Could you contact these Elietimm? Could you find out more about them? Could you see if they might help us, teach us, maybe even make common cause with us? If they were to attack the lowlanders in the east, while we came down from the mountains, we could reclaim our lands, regain our pride!”

Aritane pulled her hands free to hug herself, shivering despite the sunshine. “You do not know what you are asking,” she murmured. “I have heard of these Elietimm, of course I have. We have been forbidden to seek them.”

“I am asking you to help your people,” Jeirran said softly. “Sheltya took you away from your own that you might serve all those of the mountains. Is there anything else but such service in what I am asking? Do you want to go back to solving squabbles between silly women, arbitrating rows over grazing, dealing with death and foulness when some traveler brings pestilence to a remote valley, while all the time our people are made poorer and meaner by lowland greed?”

“You are a curious choice to be arguing for the greater good and selfless risk-taking,” said Aritane dryly. “What’s in this for you, Jeirran?”

“Power, what do you think?” He spread his hands wide. “The power to hunt Eirys’ lands without fear of losing the best pelts to some lowlander’s snares. I want to see her brothers able to sell the ores they labor to dig for a fair price. Power. I want to be rich, Ari, I want to keep Eirys in all the luxuries her little head can imagine and to stop the mouth of that mother of hers with an endless diet of honey and cakes, if that’s what it takes to silence the hag. I want to hand my sons a handsome patrimony and to see my daughters set up to claim every right over and under the land that their blood allows. I want to be a power in the mountains, Ari, one to make the lowlanders look to the hills and fear my wrath more than the cold winter wind.” He grinned at her. “I want to be a brother once again to the new leader of Sheltya. I want to have the ear of the woman who restores true magic to its rightful place of honor and influence.”

Aritane shook her head but she was smiling now, a thin, heartless smile with a spark growing behind her eyes. “I’m not surprised that silly child Eirys fell for your blandishments, Jeirran. You always did have a tongue quicker than a mountain stream and more slippery than the rocks beneath it.”

“Will you do it?” Jeirran persisted.

“I shouldn’t even waste a moment’s thought on it.” Aritane pursed her lips. “I could find myself turned out on the bare mountainside with my mind as empty as a midwinter barrel. If anyone found out—”

“Who’s to know?” demanded Jeirran. “I’m hardly likely to go gossiping to any passing Sheltya, am I? I’m as deep in this as you are, more so. You are the one with the power over me, you said so yourself. Your word alone could have me shunned across the breadth of the mountains, no reason given or asked.”

“I can use my skills to try and get a response but with scarcely more certainty than setting a signal fire in the mountains and hoping someone will see the smoke. The trick will be reaching far enough away before raising the cry to escape notice closer at hand.” Aritane was talking to herself more than to Jeirran. “If I do find these Elietimm, what then?” she challenged him abruptly.

“Then we have something to tell those who feel as we do,” Jeirran said confidently. “There are plenty of us fed up with being bilked and cheated by the lowlanders. Deny there are Sheltya chafing under the constraints of custom and the Elders? We tell them that there are men and women of our blood beyond the ocean who do not bow and scrape and ever retreat in the face of lowlander aggression.”

Aritane tilted her head to one side. “You always were shrewd enough, I’ll grant you that much.” She moved with sudden decisiveness, shaking out her unadorned skirts. Looking toward the mountains to the north, she checked the position of the sun overhead, moving this way and that to assess the shadows before crossing to one side of the roof and squinting at the misty shapes of higher ground. Nodding at some inner conclusion, she turned to Jeirran, her face animated with daring and defiance for an instant before resuming the mask of her earlier indifference.

“Sit with your back to the chimney, facing north.” He hurried to comply.

“You do not interrupt me, you do not touch me, you do not move or say anything,” Aritane ordered in a tone of absolute authority. She sat cross-legged, heedless of her dress on the dusty roof. Elbows resting on her knees, she laid her face in her upturned hands and began to breathe deeply, regularly, in through her nose and then forcing the air out of her mouth in an ever lengthening exhalation, pushed deep from within her.

Jeirran jumped, startled, when the low sound halted and clenched his fists against the urge to go to her. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. He moved a hand as if about to wipe it away but stilled himself. His lips moved in what might have been a muttered curse, had he dared to speak. His eyes were unblinking, bright sapphire as he fixed his gaze on Aritane, who was now taking shallow breaths, pauses between each. Jeirran found himself following the same ragged pattern, the color beneath his beard fading to an unhealthy pallor until he lifted his chin with an explosive intake of breath, panting uncontrollably for a few moments before a natural rhythm was restored to his lungs.

High above, a hawk’s thin cry was wheeled away on the wind, serving only to emphasize the vast silence of the empty valley. A flurry of dust and nameless debris skittered across the roof as a fugitive gust swirled around Aritane’s motionless figure. Jeirran blinked and spat out some fragment, shaking his head a fraction before forcing himself to immobility once more. The breeze vanished and the sun pressed down on his head, striking up from the stones and laying black shadows across the white surface of the roof. The chimney at his back was solid and reassuring but cold and silent where once it had been the warm heart of the rekin. A trickle of perspiration rolled down the side of Jeirran’s face to vanish into his beard. Another followed, this one moving sideways to sting the corner of his eye.

A great crash reverberated around the circular wall of the compound, echoing back and forth with a sound like a hot rock shattered by the shock of cold water. Terror leaped in Jeirran’s eyes for an instant, fear naked as the mask of arrogance and confidence was torn from his face. The noise came again, the rap of wood on stone and Jeirran took a long, trembling breath. It was the gate, wasn’t it? Set swinging by a wind rising up from the valley bottom, that was it, surely?

He looked at Aritane, who was motionless as stone.

Was it the gate? Had someone else come here, Jeirran wondered suddenly. Would Sheltya be using their powers to watch over Aritane? Could some distant gray-bearded Elder have been listening in on their conversation? Was the sound the first warning they had been discovered, that Sheltya were come? One always seemed to be on hand when needed, but were they here now, to frustrate their plot?

Jeirran’s breath came faster. He was sweating copiously, even when a new breeze cooled him. Hands clenched by his sides were shaking, tremors running up his arms to jar the stiffness in his neck and shoulders. The heat and the silence pressed down unforgiving, as if they would pound the rocks to dust.

Aritane lifted her face, dropping her hands in the lap of her dress. Livid spots blossomed on her forehead where her fingertips had been digging into the skin. Jeirran pressed against the stone at his back as she turned her eyes to him. They were featureless pits of blackness, no white, no color, no life within them. He scrambled to his knees, a whimper of nameless terror escaping him.

Aritane blinked and her eyes were normal again. A warm rose softened her cheeks, and elation set her face alight. She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Oh, Jeirran,” she whispered in tones of wonder. “I found them!”

“I—” He coughed to quell the shaking in his voice. “I knew you could,” he answered more boldly. “So what—”

Aritane shook her head. “Wait, let me compose myself.” She stood, moving stiffly, brushing awkwardly at the dirt on her gown. Hugging her arms to her, she turned to stare out eastward. “They are out there, Jeirran, out beyond the Easterlings, beyond the ocean.” She laughed with pure delight. “They didn’t know me, of course, but they acknowledged my power, my right to come seeking them. They congratulated me on my daring, praised my skills. I can’t recall the last time anyone did that here!”

“So what did you say? What did you tell them? Will they help us?” demanded Jeirran, striding over to stand at her shoulder.

“What?” Aritane’s eyes were distant again.

Jeirran moved to block her view of the valley and the east. “What are they going to do for us?” He laid a hand on her, a breath away from shaking her.

“Oh, Jeirran, you always want everything all at once, don’t you?” Irritation replaced the exhilaration in Aritane’s expression. “I have told them I wish to discuss matters of grave importance and that I will contact them when I am next at leisure.”

“Ari!” Anger roughened Jeirran’s words. “Why the delay, why not simply—”

“Do not question my methods, Jeirran,” she warned him. “This is my task and I know best how to go about it. Believe me, I have no desire to find myself answering to Sheltya before I have allies with the means to back me and defend me.”

“So how long is it likely to be before you have the necessary leisure?” snapped Jeirran crossly.

Consideration furrowed Aritane’s brow. “I think I had better come to visit your wife. I will let those to whom I answer think that she is concerned about her lack of a child. As long as you keep from her bed for a while, that should satisfy any curiosity. If I can have privacy, a decent room and a few comforts for a change, I should be able to concentrate all my energies on discussions with our new friends.” She smiled with a predatory satisfaction.

“Eirys’ mother will not be pleased,” Jeirran scowled. “She’ll start poking her long nose where it’s not wanted.”

“Then you will get your wife to assert herself as mistress of her own hearth,” said Aritane crisply. “It’s about time that girl showed a little backbone.”

“That’s hardly likely,” Jeirran scoffed. “I wasn’t looking for spirit when I wooed her!”

“It’s up to you.” Aritane turned to the steps down into the rekin. “You need me, if you want to pursue this further. Persuade Eirys to start fretting over her barrenness, and then no one will wonder at my visit. I know that you’ve been having words on that subject, haven’t you? And doing your best to swell her belly, whether she’s agreeable or not.” This last remark was tossed casually over her shoulder as she descended.

“How do you know that?” demanded Jeirran, a furious blush staining his cheeks scarlet. He cursed under his breath and rubbed his hands roughly over his face before pursuing his sister. Running down the stairs, he skidded to a halt at the bottom, nailed boot soles grating on the stones. Aritane was nowhere to be seen.

“A pox on your games for the witless, woman,” he shouted into the empty room, dust thick upon the flagstones, unmoved, unmarked save for Jeirran’s footprints.

“Drown you!” He ran out into the center of the fess. “Aritane!” He stormed over to the workshops, but they were as desolate as before. “What do you think you are playing at? Aritane!”

The echoes of his wrathful bellow mocked him as they came bounding back from the impassive walls. As the noise faded, the silence pressed down even more heavily than before.

Jeirran shivered involuntarily before marching down to the gateway. He paused on the threshold to wedge the open door again but halted with a stone in his hand. Muttering under his breath, he moved instead to clear the stones from the base of the other, pulling the two together. With their weight and some trick of construction working to hold them closed, Jeirran turned his back on the gates, untied his pony and beat the reluctant beast into a weary canter.

The Chamber of Planir the Black, Archmage of Hadrumal, 1st of For-Summer

A hesitant rap on the outside of the door was followed by a more confident knock.

“Enter.” The single occupant of the room was relaxing in a leather-upholstered chair by one of the tall lancets of the window. He did not look up from the closely written letter he was reading. Sunlight brightened the dark wood-paneled room with sparkling fingers playing on the expensive mossy carpet, the polished furniture and the orderly rows of books and scrolls on the numerous shelves. The heavy black oak opened noiselessly on well-tended hinges.

“Archmage.” The newcomer bowed. He was a tall, long-boned man with straight black hair cut off at jaw length, a sallow complexion and circumspect eyes. He cleared his throat. “So we are expecting to hear from ’Sar this morning?”

“Shiv, take a seat.” The Archmage did not lift his eyes from his document. “Larissa will be here in a moment or so.”

Shiv sat at a satiny table where a steel mirror stood on a mahogany pedestal. A silver candlestick stood in front of it, the creamy beeswax with its snowy tuft of wick as yet unmarred by flame. He opened his mouth to speak but cleared his throat instead.

“Take some water if you have a cough.” Planir looked up briefly, gray eyes stern.

Shiv looked at his hands for a moment then poured himself a glassful. He set the carafe carefully on a nearby sideboard whose rich brown frontage was inlaid with garlands of flowers and sprays of leaves in all the shades that wood could offer the joiner.

“Is this really something Larissa should be privy to?” he said abruptly. “She’s barely out of her apprenticeship and while I know you favor her, as a pupil I mean—”

“She has a double affinity, Shivvalan,” interrupted Planir in a quelling tone. “That automatically makes her the Archmage’s pupil. As my pupil, I deem it fit to involve her in my concerns. To do otherwise would seriously hamper me at present, since Usara has gone and Otrick is still insensible. Her affinities also mean that we can use her talents to weave a full nexus, rather than have to draw two other people into the circle. I am surprised you see fit to question my judgment on this.”

Shiv set his jaw and gazed out of the window. “Is ’Sar having much trouble getting Livak to do as he wants? When I was traveling with her, well, she could certainly be very headstrong. Perhaps I should have gone with them. Better yet, you could be using ’Sar’s talents here instead of mine.” He fell silent as the Archmage folded his letter precisely, securing the creases with deft hands and using a touch of magic to soften the wax and reseal it.

“Usara is not having any trouble directing Livak’s actions because he is under explicit instructions to let her do just as she wishes and, moreover, to keep his own presence as inconspicuous as possible,” Planir stated firmly.

Shiv reluctantly turned his face to the Archmage. The senior wizard looked Shiv straight in the eye. Shiv dropped his gaze and frowned at the carpet. “Isn’t this all a little too important to let Livak run loose after her own game? I’d have thought—”

“Would you, Shiv?” interrupted Planir. “Would you have thought, or would you have simply gone headlong after the first scent, let the consequences go hang?”

The glass of water slopped as Shiv’s hand tightened around it. “Elietimm magic has left the Cloud-Master of Hadrumal comatose and unrousable, a double handful besides him in the same situation. I personally feel that finding a means to remedy the situation warrants rather more effort than letting Livak go off on some random search for any debased knowledge the ancient races might still possess.”

“I’m used to that kind of pomposity from Kalion, Shiv, but that’s only to be expected from our revered Hearth-Master, after all,” observed Planir, a cutting edge to his voice. “It really doesn’t become you, nor will it further the aspirations Troanna tells me you currently have to claiming a seat on the Council.”

Shiv’s lips narrowed but he made no reply. Planir laid his letter aside and crossed to a table where a row of decanters stood behind a rank of crystal goblets. “Wine?” he invited in a more friendly tone.

“No, thank you,” said Shiv stiffly.

Planir smiled to himself and resumed his seat, a full goblet of rich plum-colored wine in one hand, the glass ornamented with precisely incised diamonds. “I confess I hadn’t expected to have to lay it all out for you, like some first-season apprentice unsure of conjuring a candle flame, but I am happy to do so.” He waved aside Shiv’s inarticulate protest as he sipped from his drink. “Why did Trydek the first Archmage bring wizardry to the sanctuary of an island?” the Archmage asked, his air mock didactic.

Shiv looked irritated. “What—”

“Why?” demanded Planir with a sharp glare from beneath his fine black brows.

“Because of the fear and superstition the powers of the mageborn provoked among the mundane populace.” Shiv rattled off his reply in a sarcastic singsong.

“What makes you think that so much has changed? How many apprentices do we get here who have been sent away from home so fast they’ve barely had time to pack a change of linen? How many ships that call send their sailors ashore for leave or recreation?” Planir leaned forward in his chair. “Enough of the former that no one even remarks on it and so few of the latter that one dockside tavern barely sustains itself on their custom. Don’t be a fool, man; you know it as well as I. Why else have generations of Archmages hidden Hadrumal in mists of enchantment and legend?”

“Legends that you have told the Council only foster suspicion and mistrust of wizardry,” retorted Shiv.

“Quite true,” Planir nodded. “And wizards out and about on the mainland seeking out any records of ancient magic would soon be noticed, wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t that foster unease and misgiving, especially at a time when we are doing our best to bring wizardry to a more active role in the world? Alternatively, of course, the notion that mages need to go out and seek knowledge, that we lack something apparently vital, might lead others to think that we are sadly reduced in influence these days, powerless even. In which case we can bid a fond farewell to the courtesies, the respect and, most importantly in this case, the cooperation that mages are still able to command, as long as they don’t appear any kind of threat, that is. In either case, we’re looking at a losing hand of bones, aren’t we?”

“But Kalion—” Shiv began hesitantly.

Planir waved a dismissive hand. “Forget Kalion for the moment.”

“You have mages searching the archives at Col and the histories at Vanam for any hint of ancient enchantments,” insisted Shiv. “How does that differ?”

“Firstly, those I have sent have had the need for discretion most forcibly impressed upon them.” The Archmage smiled. “Secondly, I am relying on the resident scholars at both of those universities finding the single-minded pursuit of arcane knowledge so entirely reasonable as to let it pass unremarked, should any of them lift their heads out of their own studies long enough to notice, of course.”

Shiv could not restrain an answering grin at Planir’s dry tone but his face soon became serious again. “But what about Livak? I know Casuel didn’t think so but this song book sounds like a promising lead. She’s no mage, no scholar. What if she misses something? Come to that, what if she discovers something that ’Sar doesn’t get to hear about? She is working for D’Olbriot’s coin this time. That’s another thing—”

“I think you might show a little more confidence in ’Sar, you know,” chided Planir. “As for Livak, as I understand it, she sees ferreting out knowledge for D’Olbriot as her best hope of a blessing from his strong room or whatever else it might be that she’s seeking. From what I have seen of that girl, I’d say her own self-interest will be a more effective goad than any we might devise.”

“But what if she hands something vital to D’Olbriot and we don’t get to hear of it until later? Otrick—” Shiv’s voice rose in exasperation.

“I am as concerned about Otrick as you are, Shiv,” Planir said sharply, “but I have a great many pieces on this board, and if I fail the result won’t just be a White Raven ending up back in the game box. You were in Toremal over the Solstice with the rest of us; use your wits, man! What have the events of the past year told the princes of the Empire? That their ancient dominion was based on magic and the failure of that magic brought the whole edifice crashing down around their ears! Now they are threatened with magic from beyond the ocean. How many do you think will bother to distinguish between our magic of matter and its disciplines and the Elietimm magic of mind and illusion? Stand in their shoes and it’s all one, a threat.” Planir set his goblet aside, unemptied and unheeded. “D’Olbriot has the wit to realize he needs to fight fire with fire but he’s not about to just set his house alight and make a dash for safety. He needs to feel that he has the upper hand, that we are doing his bidding, if he is to have any dealings with Hadrumal. Equally important, nothing short of his clear control will satisfy the other princes that he has not ran mad and deserves to forfeit his preeminent influence in consequence.”

“But Kalion—” frowned Shiv.

“Forget Kalion. Consider where this play is leading the game,” stated the Archmage crisply, ticking off his points on long fingers. “I have Livak, a girl of no little resource and determination to shame a stag-hound searching out translations for this song book of hers. It came from D’Olbriot’s library, his badge is around her neck, plain to see for anyone who might get wind of her activities, be they Elietimm spy or suspicious local ruler. Whatever she finds out, this new allegiance gets her recompensed by D’Olbriot, not a charge on my purse this time, by Raeponin’s grace! D’Olbriot then has the information and can tell himself and any other Tormalin noble that this buys him our services, in defense of his lands and property. A clearly defined and entirely respectable deal, which is no threat to the Emperor’s sovereignty or any prince’s power.” Planir’s voice roughened with emotion for the first time. “This saves me the humiliation of going on bended knee to the Emperor, offering him all the gold Misaen ever made, imploring him to let me send my mages to counter these bastard Elietimm, since whatever threat they might be to Tormalin, they will be death to Hadrumal, if they find us out before we have a means to counter their enchantments. What price the mystery and might of wizardry then?”

Shiv could not restrain a shudder. “It’s just that I wanted—”

“You wanted to go too,” Planir completed the sentence for him in a softer tone. “You wanted some revenge for the suffering you endured at the hands of the Elietimm. You wanted to find some way of saving Otrick from that deathless sleep he’s trapped in. You wanted to be a hero.”

Shiv bit his lip and laced his hands together in his lap, knuckles white.

“That many do see you as quite some hero already is one of the reasons I have kept you here,” continued the Archmage in a conversational tone, picking up his wine glass. “You have fought the Elietimm twice now, once on their own ground and once in Kel Ar’Ayen. Your defense of the colonists was a tale vivid in the telling around the winter salons of Tormalin. Didn’t you hear? If you travel, there will be plenty of eyes and ears turned your way. ’Sar on the other hand,” he shrugged, “he’s a nonentity, Planir’s cloak carrier, always two steps behind his master. It’s a wonder to see him let out on his own.”

Shiv laughed reluctantly. “That’s hardly fair.”

“It suits us all that people see him so, doesn’t it?” Planir shook his head with a grin.

“Have we any idea whether or not Livak is following a true scent?” persisted Shiv after a moment’s silence, broken only by purposeful steps in the courtyard below.

“Nothing definitive either way so far,” Planir shrugged. “All the more reason to use our resources in more conventional researches. This quest is Livak’s gamble; if it fails, the loss is hers. If she wins, we collect without risking any of our own credit. She will fail or she will succeed and unless you have some means of foretelling you are not telling me about, we have no way to know if our involvement would help or hinder. I’m going to let the runes fall as they may and play the spread as it lies.” The Archmage’s expression brightened with mischief. “Besides, had I sent you off on some new commission, I’d have had Pered to reckon with and I confess I didn’t relish the notion of a row with your beloved in the middle of the quadrangle.”

Shiv colored vividly. “He wouldn’t have—”

“No?” Planir queried. “I rather think he would have, you know.”

Shiv coughed and took a drink of water, looking around the room in all directions save the Archmage’s. The timepiece on the mantelshelf chimed softly as the pointed indicator clicked a notch along its scale. A knock came instantly, a quick double tap on the oak. The door opened immediately, no summons expected. A strong-faced young woman entered, hazel eyes only for the Archmage as she brushed a wisp of nut-brown hair from her forehead and settled her cerise shawl decorously over her elbows.

“Larissa.” Pleasure colored Planir’s voice and softened the planes of his lean face, a smile deepening the fine lines around his keen eyes. He ran a hand over his close-cropped black hair. “Wine?”

Larissa nodded. “That would be very welcome, thank you.”

Planir rose and poured her a measure of the deep ruby wine in a goblet. He refilled his own glass, raising it in a salute to the girl before returning to his seat.

Larissa took a chair next to Shiv. She smiled at both mages, smoothing her sky blue skirts as she sat and sweeping her long glossy plait back over one shoulder in a negligent gesture. “Good day to you, Shivvalan,” she said.

He nodded an acknowledgment, avoiding her eye but unable to help noticing the little blue flowers embroidered on the sides of her stockings, the Ensaimin fashion for shorter hems exposing her shapely ankles and the swell of her calf. He cleared his throat. “Archmage, are you bespeaking ’Sar or do we wait for him to contact us?” he asked.

“ ’Sar is bespeaking us.” Planir looked thoughtful as he sipped his wine. He joined them at the table. “It should be any time now. Are you both ready to make a nexus?”

Shiv flexed his hands thoughtfully. “I think I would like a glass of wine, Planir.”

“Help yourself,” the Archmage nodded. “Larissa?”

“I’m still drinking this one,” she answered a little awkwardly. “I’m ready, though.”

Planir caught her gaze and held it until she smiled at him, a faint blush highlighting her broad cheekbones.

Shiv was lifting his goblet to his lips when a glow appeared, hovering in the air above the center of the table. It grew and spread, spinning outward from its center, impossibly thin and edged with amber brilliance.

“Planir?” A voice came thinly from the center of the shining disc.

“Usara, good to hear you.” Planir snapped his fingers and the candle sprang into life with a spit of scarlet magic, the flame turning yellow in an instant, rising up tall and steady despite the open window. “Link hands, Shiv,” commanded the Archmage curtly. “Larissa’s too new at this to do it without.”

The girl jumped a little as the two men gripped her hands and a desperate frown of concentration furrowed her brow. The metal of the mirror began to glow with an inner light of its own, scarlet, azure, amber and aquamarine rising and fading, coiling around each other, finally merging into a diamond radiance that reached out to draw the glowing disc into itself, a golden brilliance burning for an instant before fading into the mirror. A nimbus of coppery magic now fringed the metal and Planir turned it so that the three could all see the image within it. “Good,” he said with satisfaction, dropping Larissa’s hand, the last remnants of magelight fading unheeded from his fingers.

“Have you anything to tell me about these Sheltya?” demanded Usara without ceremony, his voice sounding unnaturally high and tinny. The mirror showed him sitting on a plainly made bed in a small plastered room. The whole image was overlaid with an amber tint that subtly changed hue as circles of power spread from the center of the magic.

“Nothing of any real use or substance, I’m afraid,” Planir spoke frankly to the mirror. “Casuel has been able to find nothing in the Tormalin archives and all that the scholars of Vanam or Col can offer are half-remembered snatches of Mountain sagas.”

“Most of the references give no clue as to their role.” Larissa was rubbing at her fingers, deeply scored by the bite of the Archmage’s ring. “A few seem to suggest they are arbiters or lawgivers.” She looked at Planir for confirmation.

Shiv leaned back in his chair, mouth thinning as he sat in silence.

“What have these Mountain Men you’re traveling with been able to tell you?” asked Planir.

“That it’s best to let the Sheltya explain themselves.” Exasperation was giving Usara’s words an increasingly sharp edge.

Curiosity knotted Shiv’s brows. “And Livak’s accepting that?”

“For the present,” said Usara tightly, “because pressing the point would mean she’d have to back me against her friends.”

“But you said the sagas do suggest they have aetheric lore, now you’ve had them translated.” Larissa won a smile from the Archmage for that encouragement.

“Their so-called wonders could still all turn out to be mere accident of nature and timing.” The little image in the mirror grimaced.

“Whereabouts are you now, ’Sar?” Planir interrupted.

“The lower reaches of what they call the Pasfall Valley,” the mage replied. “Where the river runs through the hills, rather than out on the plain.”

“There will be men and women of part Mountain blood in the villages, won’t there?” Shiv looked thoughtful.

“Those whose parents married out, like in Gidesta? Could you ask them the significance of these Sheltya?”

“I’ve already tried,” answered Usara with a shake of his head. “Either they genuinely don’t know or they’re just not telling.”

Planir, Shiv and Larissa shared a look made up in equal measure of dashed expectation and impatience. A silence fell as all four mages looked down at their hands, faces united in disappointment for all the countless leagues separating them.

“Perhaps the Solurans might know more.” Shiv rubbed his upper arm. “We know their healers are very effective, and by every indication their cures are wrought by Artifice. I’d be a hand short of tying my own laces if they hadn’t worked for me.”

“Don’t let this business sidetrack you from your other errands, ’Sar.” Planir looked faintly concerned. “Keep track of the season.”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Usara smiled wanly. “I think I can spare the time to amuse myself with a trip to take the Mountain air.”

“You certainly look somewhat overtired.” Planir looked at the image critically. “Go on your rest cure and let us beat our heads against the walls for a while. We’d better break this link before you exhaust yourself any further.”

“The nexus is supporting me,” insisted Usara. “It’s just rather early in the day here and we were traveling until late yesterday. Has anyone bespoken Naldeth recently?”

Larissa nodded absently. “I was talking to him a few nights ago. Everything seems fine in Kellarin.”

“And Guinalle?” persisted Usara.

“She said to pass on her regards, last time I was bespeaking Nal.” Shiv looked up from his thoughts a little guiltily.

Usara’s smile was plain in the image before them. Larissa looked from Planir to Shiv, a faint question in her face as the two other mages shared a conspiratorial look.

“I have other calls on my time, ’Sar,” Planir said abruptly. “We’ll speak again in five days, at noon by your reckoning, all right?”

Usara nodded, the reflection in the mirror fading rapidly as the magic unraveled, leaving the metal surface gleaming dully in the sunlit room.

“What’s between Usara and Guinalle?” demanded Larissa.

“Could be something, could be nothing,” Shiv said a little enigmatically. “I rather think he’s like to make it something, but she’s a lady who takes her responsibilities seriously.”

“That he be the one to find a key to unlock the mysteries of Artifice is important to Usara in more ways than the obvious,” agreed Planir. The Archmage’s eyes slid over to Larissa and warmed. “Don’t let me keep you, Shiv.” The dismissal was unmistakable.

“I’d like to discuss this further.” Shiv looked a little put out.

Planir rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Later.” His eyes stayed with Larissa and a faint smile hovered around his lips.

Shiv hesitated on the threshold. “Larissa?”

“I’ll be along in a moment or so.” She lifted her chin but a faint blush colored her cheeks. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Shiv arched a sardonic eyebrow at Planir but the Archmage’s face held impassive so the younger wizard left to walk noisily down the stairs. Shiv paused for a moment as he heard the lock secure itself behind him and his expression hardened. Emerging from the darkness of the stairwell, he blinked in the bright sunlight of the courtyard.

“Good afternoon,” a passing apprentice called out, crossing the well-worn flagstones from the arch of the gateway to one of the numerous doorways flanking the quadrangle. Shiv nodded an acknowledgment and took an apparently idle seat on the rim of the little fountain playing a cheerful pattern of air and water in the center of the court. He glanced around, as if waiting for someone, checking the position of the sun and looking toward the great bell tower that dominated the four courtyards that made up this Hall of wizardry. A maid went past with arms full of linen for the laundry.

Shiv dabbled a hand in the fountain’s spray and studied the basin intently. A shimmering image lay on the surface of the water. Planir was embracing Larissa, lips locked in a passionate kiss. The Archmage’s fingers deftly unfastened the buttons down the back of her dress. She released him for a moment to push the gown off her hips, dropping the garment disregarded on the floor. Planir’s hand around her waist drew her close, the other unlacing the top of her shift. Shiv could see little blue flowers embroidered on cotton so fine the rosy nipple showed hard and dark beneath it. The Archmage pulled away to strip off his own shirt and a certain regret mingled with the irritation on Shiv’s face as he gazed down into the water. Larissa caught up the hem of her shift, revealing lacy garters, and Planir unbuckled his belt.

“Halcarion’s tits, what is he thinking of?” Shiv shattered the image with an angry sweep of his hand, myriad glittering fragments dissolving beneath the patter of the fountain. “Other calls on your time, O revered Archmage? Yes, and we’ve all heard just what those might be.” He stamped out through the archway into the busy high road of Hadrumal.

Othilsoke, 3rd of For-Summer

“Keis!” Jeirran’s hail was blown away unheeded as he picked his way over tussocks of coarse grass. He left the track worn between the meager, wind-stunted bushes crouching among the rocks and entered a narrow gorge cutting in the broad sweep of the valley side. The breeze was baffled but the noise of metal on rock rang loud in the confined space. Jeirran stood and watched. Teiriol raised a pick high over his head, and then plunged it into the rocky soil with an explosive shout, ripping it back. He was at the uppermost narrow of the defile, digging waist deep below an outcrop of stark gray rock. A second man was shoveling the rubble with its blue-green streaks into a stream channeled on one side. A third raked and stirred, peering through water clouded with sand and soil. At his nod, another man shoveled stone into a long wooden trough where Keisyl was wet to his elbows, sorting through rocky fragments washed a second time in water brought down in a series of wooden pipes. All were dirty, sweating and grim-faced with concentration.

“Keisyl!” Jeirran picked his way uphill over the cording of rock and mud that marked the annual progression of the digging up the little cutting.

“What do you want?” Keisyl’s displeasure was uncompromising. He dumped a handful of tinstone in a sack and knuckled the small of his back. Swinging a dripping shovelful around to the pile of debris behind him, he splashed Jeirran’s polished boots.

“I brought some baking from my wife.” Jeirran opened the lid of his basket, unfolding the layers of cloth within, thick wool surrounding snowy linen.

“Food,” Keisyl bellowed, hands cupped around his mouth.

“Shut off the leat!” An answering wave beyond a rise in the ground was followed by the rattle of a sluice and the stream slowed to a trickle barely deep enough to dampen Teiriol’s mud-caked boots.

“It’s Theilyn should be ferrying the food. You should be working here,” Keisyl growled. “That would be one less share in the season leaving the soke.”

“It was your mother made the deal to bring in her kin,” Jeirran said curtly. He beckoned to the hastening diggers with a smile.

“If we hadn’t wasted so much time on your idiotic schemes, she’d have had no call to do so.” Keisyl bit crossly into a pasty.

Jeirran peered critically up the pitted and ravaged hillside. “This cut is just about worked out. You and Teir between you would have cleared it by the last half of summer. The stupid crone has given away half the paltry pickings.”

“She wanted this working finished before we started a deep mine,” hissed Keisyl. “The shaft paid for with the riches you were going to bring back from Selerima?”

“The old busybody had no business making any deal for labor.” Jeirran was intent on his own grievance. “That should have been Eirys’ decision.”

“Eirys wasn’t here, was she?” Keisyl’s sarcasm was unmuted by his mouthful. “You insisted on dragging her all that way and she hasn’t even got a belly on her to show for it.”

“Is everything all right?” Teiriol was the first to reach them, looking uncertainly between Jeirran’s appearance of good humor and his brother’s scowl.

“The women have been baking.” Jeirran gave the basket over into eager, dirt-speckled hands. “My wife said you deserved better than waxed cheese and twice-cooked bread. Caw, Fytch, Cailean, good to see you.”

“How do, Jeirran.” The rake man, wet to mid-thigh, nodded a greeting. “You look mighty prosperous for a man who wasted half his season being gulled by the lowlanders.”

Jeirran shot a hard look at Teiriol, who returned it with a defiant shrug. “Cailean asked. I wasn’t about to lie to him.”

Jeirran forced a smile. “We made a profit over what we’d have got in the valley bottom but I’ll admit it wasn’t as handsome as I’d been led to hope.”

Keisyl’s contemptuous bark of laughter was lost in a racking cough as a crumb caught at the back of his throat.

“Well, at least you tried, didn’t you?” The one who’d been filling Keisyl’s sorting trough looked around uncertainly. “Can’t hardly blame you if the lowlanders all turned out dishonest dogs, can we?”

Jeirran passed the man a folded pastry with a rich golden glaze. “I thought I could find a fair deal, Fytch, but in the end we were little better than robbed and that’s the truth of it.”

“All thieves, lowlanders,” grunted the man who’d been tending the sluice at the upper level. “We should keep to our own.”

“We may want no dealings with them, but they’re determined to have dealings with us.” Jeirran shook his head. “Did you hear about the Teyvasoke?”

All the men nodded grimly. Teiriol’s workmate took a second pastry. “Breed like rats in a midden, don’t they?”

“I’ve a cousin with kin the far side of the Gap,” volunteered Cailean. “He was saying that when they had to fight for their diggings, they’d lost before a sword was swung. Every one lowlander they sent back bleeding to his mother whistled ten more up and ready inside a day and a half. There’s no use you looking at me like that, Elzer, it’s the truth. Why do you think Kernial and his sons came west to herd goats for the summer, begging work from any fess that they can?”

“That’s no work for a man in his prime,” growled Elzer in disgust. “Kernial’s a waterman nearly as good as me, knows streams and flow better than any mother-poxed lowlander, deep mines as well as surface work.”

“The problem is we’re so spread out,” mused Jeirran. “By the time a messenger bird has flown from one fess to another, the damage is done and the ruffians fled.”

“There’s no helping that in this country,” shrugged Fytch.

“Every soke keeps to its own,” stated Elzer firmly. “That’s the way it’s been from generations back.”

“Generations back didn’t have greedy lowlanders carving up their land like mutton,” retorted Jeirran. “Generations back, Sheltya kept the sokes in touch with each other, passed on news for ordinary folk, didn’t just keep their powers for themselves.”

A wary stillness touched the other men sitting on the heaps of broken stone.

“Just think about the old tales,” Jeirran continued. “Kell the Weaver wouldn’t have stood for lowlanders cutting his snares and stealing his pelts! No more than Morn stood by while thieves drove Isarel’s daughters off their land. True magic defended the sokes in those days.”

“That’s me done.” Keisyl flung a crust onto the coarse turf and wiped the grease from his fingers on the tail of his mud-stained shirt. “I’ll walk down to the path with you, Jeir.” Keisyl picked up the sack of ore and hefted it over one shoulder.

“Yes, I’ve a few things to say to you.” Jeirran followed him out of the gully to a stack of sacks. Teiriol and the others exchanged glances of mingled apprehension and anticipation.

“There’s a flask of dew in there as well,” Jeirran called back, “but don’t mix it too strong or all you’ll be fit for this afternoon is sleeping!”

Laughter echoed around the defile and Jeirran grinned. When he turned back to Keisyl, his smile vanished. “I need you back at the fess.”

Keisyl sat on the dusty sack of ore, scarred leather trews coated with muck. “You can go on needing. I’ve work here.”

“And I’ve work at home,” snapped Jeirran, “with Aritane.”

“I told you I want nothing to do with your schemes,” Keisyl retorted. “I don’t like your sister either, tormenting Eirys. I found her crying her heart out in the scullery, worrying she was barren!”

“Blame your mother. What of all her talk about Ilgar’s problems breeding those red cattle?” demanded Jeirran. “Wondering if the bull or the heifer was at fault? If I’m going to have some Sheltya asking questions about my tool or technique, I’ll have one of my own kindred do it.”

“But she’s no kin of yours, not now, not since Sheltya took her,” Keisyl challenged him. “You’re an idiot, Jeirran. That woman gets wind of your schemes, we’ll all be neck deep and drowning! Her first loyalty is to Sheltya.”

“Aritane is loyal to her powers and to her people,” said Jeirran confidently. “She’s as eager as me to see glory and liberty restored to the mountains.”

Keisyl snorted. “She’d better have something more impressive up her sleeves than those lily-white arms.”

“Oh, she has,” chuckled Jeirran. “And now that your mother has done enough cooking to ensure none of us starve in the next four days, she’s taking Eirys and Theilyn off to visit their uncle over the crag. That’s what I came up here to tell you. Ari can finally get things moving.”

“What things?” demanded Keisyl suspiciously.

“We need allies against the lowlanders, don’t we? Like Noral said, there are just too many of the rat-spawn.” Jeirran’s face was alive with zeal. “Aritane’s found them— powerful allies, Keis, willing to help us.”

A flurry of little brown birds squabbled over pastry crumbs among the tussocks. “Alyatimm?” Keisyl’s voice dropped to a whisper.

Jeirran shrugged. “Their forefathers were, perhaps, generations since. That’s not important. What matters is they are kin, with no more love of the lowlanders than us.”

“Why should they help us?” frowned Keisyl.

“Why not? They share our blood and have been attacked by Tormalin themselves. It’s only the lowlanders who won’t act unless there’s something in it for them!” Jeirran’s words hung in the air. “This isn’t just about me, Keis!” Jeirran gestured toward the diggers. “Half the sokes this side of the Gap are being bled, truth or lie?”

“I won’t be involved in anything that goes against Sheltya.” Keisyl’s tone was uncompromising, but his face betrayed a hint of curiosity.

“All I want is your presence.” Jeirran’s hands were placating. “You don’t even have to speak. But Ari will receive a visitor tonight and I want us both there to show she has men to back her. Someone born to this soke should be present.”

“Where’s this stranger from?” Keisyl gazed down the valley.

“Ari didn’t tell me.” Jeirran waved to Teiriol and the others still watching intently, horn cups in hand.

“What if Sheltya meet him, ask his business?” asked Keisyl. “Have you run mad?”

“Sheltya are no longer the power they would have you believe.” Jeirran shook his head. “Ask Aritane! That’s one reason we’re in this parlous state. Lowlanders have their wizards’ trickery while Sheltya Elders hoard away true magic and take it to their graves unspent!”

Keisyl kicked at the sack with one heel. “I suppose we’ve enough tinstone to get the ore mill ready. The wheel will need checking and I know the stamps want resetting.” He stood. “I’ll come and play Aritane’s bully boy for this visitor but then you can get the mules up here and pack this lot down while I open up the mill. If you’d had the wit Misaen made for a mouse, you’d have brought a mule now rather than wearing out your boot soles!”

“Your mother took the mules, Keisyl.”

“Then you find someone to lend you another, otherwise you carry this ore down on your back.”

Jeirran’s beard bristled as Keisyl went back up the gully, shouting to Teiriol, “You’re in charge until I get back, but take heed of the others. They’ve been at this work longer than you have!”

After brief consultation with Cailean and Fytch, Keisyl rejoined Jeirran. “I’ve said I’m going to do an assay. That’ll make some use of the time.”

Jeirran set off in silence. A little way down the track, Keisyl turned off for a hollow where the ashes of a campfire were being stirred by an idle breeze. He fished in his pocket for a ring of keys. “It won’t do the lad any harm to learn that being in charge isn’t all picking the easiest job and counting coin.” Keisyl pulled a bag and a blanket roll from a low stone-built shelter and snapped the lock shut again with a decisive snick. “And at least I’ll get a bath.”

Jeirran laughed but fell silent at an uncompromising look from Keisyl. They walked down the trail in long silence, reaching the sheltering walls of the fess as the sun slid behind the snow-capped peaks. Keisyl rapped on the main gate with an exasperated oath. “Where’s Fithian?”

The gate swung open. “I was wondering how much longer you were going to be,” said Aritane critically.

“Where’s Fithian?” demanded Keisyl.

“I sent him to check on the goats.” Aritane walked toward the rekin past dark and shuttered buildings lining the compound.

Keisyl’s lips thinned. “You insult my father’s brother by ordering him around like some herd-boy?”

Aritane paused where warm firelight spilled out over the threshold. “I wanted him out of the way.”

Keisyl did not enter the house. “What gives you such a right?”

Aritane raised one disdainful eyebrow as she negligently brushed a hand over the breast of her plain gray gown. “A man of his age with no patrimony or marriage to recommend him can hardly expect anyone to polish up his dignity.”

“Fithian chose to stay and support my mother after our father’s death. He made over his portion to Teiriol and me.” Keisyl’s words were clipped with anger. “You know nothing of our history.”

Aritane turned her attention to Jeirran. “You had better eat. You need a bath,” she added to Keisyl.

“I’ll bathe when I’m ready.” He took the basket of ore from Jeirran. “I want a quick look at the mill and I may even do an assay.”

Aritane turned on her heel, leaving the two men at the door.

“Do it tomorrow,” Jeirran urged him. “You’ll have the daylight and I’ll help. Once we’ve finished this business tonight, you can sleep in a real bed and be fresh for the morning.”

Aritane was stirring a pot hung over the fire and Keisyl’s stomach growled unbidden at the savory scent.

Jeirran shrugged. “Sheltya are used to everyone running at their command.”

“That’s the closest I’ve ever heard you come to an apology,” sneered Keisyl. ‘This must be important.”

“It’s important to Eirys and her children,” Jeirran snapped. “Weigh that in your scales against your assaying.”

Keisyl swung the basket of ore in one hand and walked away without a word. The reddish light cast shadows on Jeirran’s face that deepened as he scowled. He slammed the door behind him but Aritane tended the fire in the center of the room unperturbed. “Eat,” she commanded.

Jeirran took a steaming bowl with grunted acknowledgment. Hunched on the long bench, he ate gracelessly, shoveling down stew thick with vegetables and herbs. The slate top of the wide table was marked with a few notes made next to a clutter of leatherwork and sewing was heaped on the far seat.

Aritane peered up into the beaten metal of the hood that hung above the fire. “There’s something wrong with the draw on this.”

“There’s something wrong in every room of this wind-blasted fess,” Jeirran said sourly. “The roof of the rekin leaks, every shutter is warped, most of the upstairs hearths smoke.”

“No wonder Ismenia was so keen to let Eirys take a husband so glib with his promises and free with his patrimony,” Aritane smiled without affection.

“You’re going to help me make good on those promises though,” Jeirran countered in similar vein.

The door opened and both turned, momentarily disconcerted. “I’ll eat then bathe,” Keisyl said slowly. “Wait for the daylight, as you say.” He emptied the pockets of his trews onto the top of a dresser standing against the off-hand wall of the room. There were four such, shelves above packed with oddments, and cupboards below locked shut. Hanging his cloak on a hook, Keisyl took a bowl of stew. “Is there enough hot water?” he asked.

“I lit the copper earlier,” Aritane replied with a certain aloofness. “I’ll go and stoke it.” The two men watched her leave for the scullery.

“Did she always have the charm of a bag of nails?” asked Keisyl through a mouthful of meat. “Or is that something Sheltya teach?” He ate in silence then followed Aritane.

Jeirran rose from his seat and made a circuit of the broad room. He checked that each window was locked and then barred the door. Returning a moment later, he unbarred it. Peering up the dark stairwell, he closed and locked that door, fumbling the keys as he shoved them in a pocket, bending to retrieve them with a muffled oath. He crossed to the fire and swung a kettle across the flames.

“I’m going to contact Eresken,” announced Aritane as she reappeared. She moved the kettle off the heat. “I’m not wasting any more time on Keisyl’s convenience!”

“Very well,” said Jeirran slowly. “What am I to do?”

Aritane crossed to a half circle of chairs set around a rag-woven rug on the near-hand side of the room. “Just wait.” She set an embroidered cushion at her back with nervous hands. “He said he would come when I called. He’d be here soon after.”

“Like Sheltya?” Jeirran sat on one end of the long bench. “How is it you people are always where you are wanted, just as you’re needed?”

“That is none of your concern,” retorted Aritane with her habitual iciness. “Be silent and let me work.”

Jeirran cleared his throat but subsided at Aritane’s glare. She settled into the pattern of altered breathing and hid her face in her hands. The crackle of the fire was the only sound in the room. Jeirran watched intently until a sudden shiver forced him from his seat. Lighting a spill at the hearth, he prowled around the room, lighting lamps in the center of the table, on the dresser by the stairs, two set on stands either side of the door. He started as the scullery door swung open, but it was only Keisyl looking surprised at the flood of light as he toweled his hair.

“Hush.” Jeirran’s voice was tight with tension. “Don’t disturb her.”

Keisyl looked nervously at Aritane and both men froze as she drew a long shuddering breath. She held it for a moment before a long exhalation of satisfaction and pleasure opened her eyes, heavy-lidded, pupils huge and dark.

“Well?” demanded Jeirran eagerly.

Aritane seemed oblivious to Keisyl’s dubious gaze and Jeirran’s question alike.

The latch of the door lifted with a sudden snap.

“May I enter your home?” The figure on the threshold was hidden in a long dark cloak, hood drawn up and face shadowed. His words were harshly accented but fluent in the Mountain tongue.

Aritane sprang to her feet. “You are most welcome,” she said hastily, smoothing the front of her gown.

The stranger entered and lifted his hood back to reveal a long, angular face, at once similar to those facing him and yet outlandish, dominated by eyes green as grass and penetrating in their intensity. His hair was barely light enough to be called blond, more brown than golden, but it framed his face with the same line as Keisyl’s and had much the wiry texture of Jeirran’s. “Aritane!” Her name was a caress on his lips. He caught up her hands, dropping a light kiss on one palm.

She caught her breath, momentarily at a loss.

“My sister is mistress of this house,” Keisyl’s words sounded harsh and he coughed. “I am here to welcome you in her stead,” he concluded with a forced smile and milder tones.

The newcomer bowed low. “I am honored to be received here.”

Jeirran rubbed his hands briskly together. “Have you traveled far? Let me take your cloak. Can I offer you some refreshment?”

A faint smile lit the stranger’s eyes. “It has been a long journey, all in all. I would welcome a drink.” He unpinned the brooch securing his voluminous cloak, black as the shadows outside. Keisyl stepped forward to take it, eyes wary. Beneath the cloak, the visitor was dressed in black leather, ornamented with silver studs on the outer seams of close-cut trews and patterned around the shoulders of a buckled jerkin. A gold gorget protected his throat, and from the tight stiffness of the leather Keisyl guessed metal plates lay beneath the forearms and breast of the garment. The cloak, dark as it was, would have passed anywhere between the mountains and the sea but this bellicose livery was like nothing he had ever seen.

Aritane was busy at a cupboard by the half-circle of chairs. She turned with a tray bearing a crystal flask and small gilded glasses brilliant in the lamplight. As she saw her visitor uncloaked her hands shook for an instant, the glasses ringing like tiny bells. “Please, sit and take your ease.” She poured tiny measures of clear spirit, her hands steady now as a sharp scent of fruit filled the air. “Eresken, this is Jeirran, and Keisyl, the brother of his wife.”

Eresken lifted his glass to all in mute salute before sipping at it. ‘This is very fine,” he said admiringly.

“The women make it.” Jeirran was recovering his bullishness. “My Eirys flavors hers with cloudberries.”

“I must compliment her on her skills,” Eresken said smoothly.

Keisyl did not sit. “What is it that you offer in return for her hospitality?”

“I admire a man protective of his household’s interests,” nodded Eresken. He looked at Jeirran, green eyes unblinking. “I came to assist in whatever way I might. How best can I serve you?”

“We are still discussing how to proceed.” Jeirran chewed at his beard.

“The Solstice sun will shed light on the question, when it stirs the bones of the soke,” added Aritane.

“And we will abide by that counsel.” Keisyl looked to the others for agreement, mollified to see them nod.

The newcomer stared steadily at Jeirran. “We are both threatened by those sprung from Tormalin. We both wish to hold those lands we have right to, without fear or threat. We have shared blood to bind us to each other.”

“Where exactly have you come from?” Keisyl asked, unnerved by the trusting way Aritane gazed at the man and the fatuous look of satisfaction driving the scowl from Jeirran’s brow.

Eresken turned his full attention to Keisyl. “From islands in the far ocean, many days’ sail from the farthest east. My people left these shores many generations past. We have bided our time against the day of our return for countless years.”

“Then you are indeed Alyatimm?” Keisyl swallowed hard.

“We call ourselves Elietimm,” Eresken smiled. “Many generations since, perhaps our forefathers said Alyatimm, but what does that signify?”

Keisyl felt there was something important eluding him. He shook his head as Aritane proffered the dew flask. Alcohol after a weary day and a hot bath must be blunting his wits.

“We can raise a good-sized band from the sokes hereabouts.” Jeirran was circling the hearth, all eagerness. “Why wait? We can clear out those stinking huts and hovels from the valley bottom. That will bring more men to our standard. Working together, we can take back the mines the muddy-feet have stolen, let every man who joins us claim a share to add toJüs patrimony!”

“And the lowlanders will send up a double militia company to fight us for them before spit can dry.” A massive yawn interrupted Keisyl, tiredness pressing down on him.

“So we send their horses back with corpses strapped to the saddle bow!” Jeirran poured himself another drink.

“There are advantages to letting your enemy set events in motion and pacing your moves to his,” said Eresken thoughtfully. “We must go through the detail of your plans, to see where I can assist.”

Keisyl struggled with another yawn. “Just what assistance are you offering?”

“I have commanded troops, I have fought to defend my lands and my family,” Eresken replied with a smile.

Keisyl opened his mouth to ask against whom, but profound disinterest flooded through him. “I’m going to bed,” he said thickly.

Eresken stood to bow to him. Keisyl shook his head, bemused as he unlocked the door, and then trudged wearily up the stairs.

“You can get the lay of the land while I gather men together.” Jeirran was pacing around the room again. “And you can contact your people in the east. Yes, a double-pronged attack would be best. We’ll raise a beacon here to carry light the length of the mountains, all the way to the ocean! That’ll give every thieving lowlander notice to quit our lands!”

Eresken resumed his seat and took Aritane’s hands. “Have you spoken to those friends of yours? Did you use the incantation I taught you?”

“I contacted Cleris and Bryn,” Aritane smiled shyly. “I taught Bryn the charm and Cleris tried to eavesdrop as I sought him. She couldn’t find either of us.”

“I told you it would work.” Eresken tightened his grip. “Do they see the wisdom of claiming rights in their own skills?”

“Oh yes,” Aritane nodded vehemently. “And there will be others. Cleris knows several Sheltya in the Middle Ranges treated with courtesy scant enough to be insult. As for Bryn,” Aritane floundered a little, “he has friends who have been rebuked for affection and removed from such intimacy, just as—”

“Just as he had you stolen away from him.” Eresken picked up her trailing words with a fond smile. “I will try not to be too jealous of him, my prize.” He lifted Aritane’s hand to kiss her palm once again. She colored fiercely and glanced at Jeirran but he was still circling the fire, debating the best prospects for battle with himself.

“We must curb his enthusiasm for bloodshed until we have enough men to make a real army.” Eresken gazed intently at Aritane, his eyes unblinking as a hawk. “We need Sheltya as perceptive as you. Once we have power to back physical force, I will make you queen of this land, my heart’s delight. None of your kin need walk in fear of the lowlanders ever again!”

“And what of your kin, your home?” Aritane struggled for words, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Home is where the heart is.” Eresken brushed a kiss against Aritane’s cheek as he stood up. She looked up at him, mouth half open.

“What do you say to that?” Jeirran halted, bold confidence in his stance and expression.

“The lowlanders won’t know what has hit them!” Eresken gripped Jeirran by the shoulders. “Great destiny lies ahead for you, my friend. I am fortunate to share in it!”

“It’s late. Let me set a warmer in your bed.” Aritane took a stone from the edge of the hearth, fussing with a length of flannel.

“I didn’t secure the gate when I came in.” Eresken released Jeirran. “I wasn’t sure if others needed entry.”

“What?” Jeirran looked bemused for a moment. “I’ll see to it, don’t worry.”

As he closed the main door behind him, Aritane disappeared up the stairs. The sudden crossdraft sent the fire flaring, sparks spitting up the hanging hood. Eresken moved to the center of the room and both doors slammed themselves at his harshly accented command. After three rapid breaths, he shut his eyes. When they opened, the vivid green was gone, replaced with calculating brown, and when Eresken opened his mouth, another voice sounded in the silence, an older voice, with a curious hollow quality to it, as if it came from far, far away. “Are they open to you?”

“Both vacant as newborn babes.” Eresken’s tone was coldly jubilant. “Whatever skills the Sheltya teach these days, defense is not one they value.”

“So nothing has changed.” The other voice rang with contempt. “Are they fit for our purpose?”

“With the right encouragement,” said Eresken confidently.

“Is the brother likely to make trouble?”

“He stinks of mistrust for Jeirran and all his works. Simplest just to discourage him.”

“What of the rest of the household? Will you leave before they return?” the distant voice inquired.

“I think not, now I am here. From what I read in the woman, they are few enough and easily dominated with a little skill.”

“Then you have your base. Get to work,” commanded the unnatural voice.

Eresken blinked and the green of his own eyes was restored, a smile curving his thin lips as the doors released themselves at his word.