The Swordsman's Oath

Taken from the Archive of the

Guild of Master Mariners, Peorle,

a letter written by Master Obrim Eschale to his son,

in the 10th year of Emperor Inshol the Curt

Dastennin send his blessings on you, Pennel, and all who sail with you.

I am gravely concerned to hear that you are intending to attempt a voyage to Hadrumal on the spring tides. I would tell you to steer a course well clear of that accursed isle, were I not confident that you will never make landfall there. You fool, don’t you realize that the mages who have made that place their own will only allow those boats they wish to find them? You will never even see the hidden island, let alone navigate the magical defenses wrought around the harbor. All you are doing is risking being lost at sea, along with your crew and hull in a futile quest for a moon’s reflection.

I have spoken with various mariners who have taken the Archmage’s coin to ferry hapless youths to their so-called apprenticeships in the service of those ancient wizards and none of their stories agree. Some have sailed for days beyond the sight of land, only to find themselves surrounded by fog, which hangs proof against the strongest winds. Then the mist magically clears to reveal the island they are seeking. Others tell of enchanted currents seizing their vessels, carrying them this way and that, proof against all pull of wind and sail, to bring them suddenly to an unexpected landfall. No two ships spend the same time on the journey, no two captains’ records agree but for the one incontrovertible fact that, once a ship has taken the Archmage’s coin and set sail for Hadrumal, the sun cannot be seen after the first three days at sea. There is daylight, do not mistake me, but the sun is lost behind a haze of shifting magic, so that no readings or calculations of position may be made.

These wizards do not want to be found, my son. Respect their wishes or risk their wrath. You have heard the tales as well as I of the savage vengeance taken by mages on those that defy them; do you want your eyes blasted from your head? Do you want unquenchable fire burning your ship to the waterline? Why do you think these people were driven into the sea in the first place, if not to save us all from their inhuman powers and unbridled lust for domination? Do not be dazzled by the glitter of the Archmage’s gold, my boy, do not let it blind you to the dangers that ring Hadrumal, more perilous than any reef or shoal.

What is the point of such a voyage? These wizards have no interest in the lives of ordinary folk. There is no trade to be done, no cargo to ferry, beyond those few foolhardy enough to risk their lives in a search for unholy powers. I would call it wiser to sail blindly into the Archipelago and hope not to be ripped apart by the brazen fangs of barbarian warships. Have you learned so little, in all the years I have struggled to teach you wisdom? What is your mother going to say?

The hidden island city of Hadrumal, 29th of For-Summer

Hadrumal was bigger than I expected. Not that I could have said exactly what I was expecting; some bleak and rocky islet, aloof above inaccessible cliffs, storm-tossed and lost in clouds of brooding spray? Possibly, perhaps, certainly not a long island of shelving beaches and wooded lowlands, a swell of green downs rising away to run down its length, unmistakably dotted with livestock of some kind. As the ship with me as its unwilling passenger turned down the narrowing estuary of a little river, I saw docks and quays, warehouses and boatyards, such as you might find anywhere along the coast from Col to Toremal, where a seaside Lord has turned his own modest anchorage into a handy base for passing ships. It was quiet in the noonday heat of a summer’s day, the few people about ready enough to help with line and gangway when the master of the ship drew the vessel deftly alongside the timber piles of the dockside.

I was leaning on the rail, my thoughts grim, when I heard a familiar voice.

“Ryshad, over here!”

I’d been glad to see Shiv the last time he had hailed me like that. I looked for him, unsmiling, and returned his enthusiastic waves with a single desultory gesture.

“Thank you for the passage, Master.” I bowed with bitter irony to the captain of the ship as I passed him on my way to collect my baggage. “Where are you bound for next?”

“Col,” he shrugged, unconcerned.

“Please pass this onto the Imperial Despatch.” I slipped a folded and twice-sealed parchment into his hand, “It’s a letter for my mother.”

He nodded. “I’ll be glad to.”

That was one weight off my mind at least. I’d wondered about writing to Messire or better yet to Camarl, who might just be more sympathetic to my sorry tale, but I had decided against it. These wizards could make themselves useful and send any communication I had a mind to make once I had the measure of this new situation.

“I can’t say how relieved I am to see you again!” Shiv clapped his hand against my shoulder. “Come on, I’m to take you straight to Planir.”

“Why?” I was going to make it clear from the start that my days as anyone’s slave were over. There had been no point in taking out my frustrations on the captain of the ship; he had been simply doing as he was ordered and I had to respect that. Now I felt slow anger building within me; if Planir thought he had bought me, body or mind, he was going to find he’d got more than he bargained for.

“He wants to meet you, congratulate you, hear all you have to say,” replied Shiv. “There’s much your experiences can tell us, information we can use against the Elietimm. Planir needs that straightaway.”

I nodded. All right; I had no problem with letting Planir know just where I stood right at the outset. If he wanted to argue about it, he’d have a fight on his hands and that didn’t worry me in the slightest. The sooner everything was clear, the sooner I could leave this cursed place and get back to my own life. I wondered fleetingly where Livak might be. Turning to Shiv, I was about to ask him, but something in his expression deterred me.

The doubts and diffidence that had been so marked in Shiv last time I had seen him were strikingly absent. He was looking far more confident and assured and, as a result, far more distant than I remembered him, his dark hair cut level at jaw length, a formal gown belted in with a tooled leather strap. Not at all sure I’d find him my ally now his feet were firmly on Hadrumal’s soil, I decided I could wait to find out where Livak was. Shrugging my bag on to my shoulder, I followed Shiv up the dock to a boggy pool of the river where a bridge marched across on stout foundations toward a road Misaen himself would have been proud of. Close-laid stones were laid on a solid foundation, ditches at either side to carry the run-off from the curved surface. I tried not to be too impressed as I saw the city of the wizards for the first time. After all, compared to somewhere like Toremal, or even Zyoutessela, it was no bigger than a middling market town.

The road curled away across a broad, shallow plain, great halls of the soft gray stone standing four-square at intervals along it, long and lofty roofs rising above quadrangles of lesser buildings, in each case the whole surrounded by purposeful walls, towers at their corners looking out and around like careful sentries. The overriding impression that Hadrumal gave was of watching and waiting; the tall buildings seemed to loom above me as I came closer. The sun emerged from behind a cloud and, in a sudden alchemy, the stone glowed gold and inviting for a moment, glazed windows shining like jewels. The moment passed and I could see where smaller houses, workshops, stores and the like had filled in the gaps between the forbidding, implacable fortresses of arcane learning. There was no wall around the city as a whole to protect these lesser folk, I noted; what was there to defend them in time of danger? The arts of the wizards, presumably and I wondered how sure a protection that might be.

I slowed my pace unconsciously, finding myself falling further behind Shiv, who had to stand and wait, his expression startled when he turned to find himself so far outstripping me. I took my time catching him up, wiping sweat from my forehead and swapping my kit-bag to my other shoulder. The street was busy; men and women of all ages and styles of dress walking this way and that, their only common feature an air of self-absorption and an unconscious arrogance in their carriage.

“This way.” Shiv led me through an archway of ancient stonework and across a flagstoned court where my sandals scuffed uneasily on the hollowed stones. Pushing open a door, Shiv ran lightly up the flights of dark oak stairs, eagerness in his every move. I followed slowly, deliberately placing each step on the polished boards, trying to decide what I was going to say to this Archmage of Shiv’s.

“Ryshad Tathel, how pleased I am to see you again.” Planir had been seated, poring over a leather-bound book when Shiv pushed open the heavy door without any particular request for admittance and he sprang to his feet, hand outstretched in welcome.

I nodded an acknowledgment. Planir looked much the same as when we’d met before; tall, dark, fine-featured and at first sight younger than you eventually realized he must be. His eyes were as opaque as ever, his schemes and motives as hidden as the far side of the lesser moon. He was plainly dressed in an indeterminate style, neither Tormalin or Soluran, neither overtly rich or incongruously commonplace. I was not impressed, having seen various noblemen try the tactic of putting the soldiery at ease by dressing down to them. Most fail with it.

“I was most concerned when I learned what had befallen you, but everyone assured me that if anyone could rise above such challenging circumstances, you were the man to do it.” Planir smiled broadly at me and gestured toward an elegant array of crystal and decanters. “Can I offer you any refreshment.”

I was tempted to ask for ale, just to see his reaction. “No, thank you.” He could keep his flattery as well.

“Please, be seated.” Planir took his own chair again and leaned forward on one arm, a friendly smile on his face. “You’ve done sound work, there, Ryshad. We weren’t even sure if there was an Elietimm threat in Aldabreshi, though we had our suspicions, given the information you helped recover last year. We have good reason to be grateful to you again, have we not? As soon as we realize the Elietimm are worming their way in, before we’ve even begun to form a plan to counter them, you discredit the bastards in a storm of scandal that will carry from one end of the Archipelago to the other before Solstice. Saedrin will lose his keys before they secure any base or alliance among the Aldabreshi now!”

“It was all entirely accidental.” I took a seat, but only because my bag was weighing heavy on my shoulder. “Incidental to keeping myself alive, since I had no illusions that anyone would be helping me out of there.”

Planir leaned back in his chair, his smile vanishing. “I can understand that you might feel abandoned,” he said seriously, “but that was by no means the case. Dev is far from my only agent in the islands.”

I didn’t respond, unconcerned whether he took the contempt in my face for Dev personally or not.

“Right then, let’s hear your tale,” Planir said briskly, rising to his feet and striding to a table set under the tall windows looking out across the towers of Hadrumal.

“I was sold in Relshaz, made slave to a Warlord’s lady and found I had to denounce another in order to save my own skin.” I folded my arms and waited for the Archmage’s reaction, ignoring Shiv who was frowning at me as he leaned on the mantel above the fire less hearth.

“There’s much more to it than that and you know it, man!” Planir folded his arms and abandoned his attempts at flattery, which was one relief. “We suspect the Elietimm were responsible both for your enslavement and for your purchase by Shek Kul’s women. It’s the sword, Ryshad. We thought it would be important and the degree of sympathy you’ve established with it is beyond anything else we’ve seen. Even without that, the Elietimm have betrayed its importance. They wanted that sword so desperately that they broke cover and exposed themselves completely.”

I was not at all convinced of that, rather suspecting that young D’Alsennin had been somehow roused in Relshaz, the Elietimm only taking advantage of the situation. These wizards were looking to do much the same, weren’t they? “So I was the goat tethered to draw the wolves out of the wildwood?”

“Not intentionally, but I’ll grant you the effect was the same.” Planir nodded, unperturbed. “Now we need to know just why they were prepared to run such risks to get their hands on that blade.”

“You want the sword, it’s yours.” I shrugged again. Messire wouldn’t take offense, not when he heard my side of this sorry tale. “You can find someone else to dream D’Alsennin’s dreams for you.”

Planir shook his head with a half-smile. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, Ryshad. Once a sympathy has been established there is no going back, no handing it on. No one else will be able to hear the echoes of D’Alsennin’s life but you, not if we pass the sword around every man in the cohorts.”

I looked at him, stony-faced.

“Nor will disposing of the sword relieve you of his presence in your sleeping mind,” continued Planir. “As I say, this can be no more undone than an egg can be unbroken.”

I shot Shiv a grim glance that promised a reckoning between us and he colored, looking down at his notes.

“So, we can all move on and learn what we may from this.” Planir broke the tense silence. “What have you learned about the man who owned the blade, what can you tell us about the colony and its fate?”

“Very little.” I shrugged, keeping my face expressionless.

Planir leafed through a handful of documents to find a sealed letter, which he handed to me without further word. I set my jaw as I recognized the imprint and scribe of Messire D’Olbriot on the outer surface. Cracking the wax, I was surprised to find only a handful of lines in Messire’s own, unpracticed hand:

Dastennin send that you receive this, Ryshad, that you have come safely out of the perils of the Archipelago. I do not pretend to understand all that I have been told about lost magics and mysteries hidden in dreams but know this; the Men of the Ice are enemies, to my House and to our Empire. This is a peril we cannot counter with swords or the strength of our arms and resolve. The Archmage is our best hope of defense at present and I charge you, on the oath that binds us, to tell him all you can and to spend all your efforts in his service, even to the hazard of your life. You are sworn to my service and so I command you.

So Dev had been wrong when he taunted me about being sold to the wizards. This was far worse; my honor was being held before me as a challenge. I stifled a disloyal anger toward Messire, that he would lay such a burden on me with no certainty of its weight or the length of the journey he was sending me on. Then I remembered the vision of the Elietimm flaunting the Emperor’s head on a pike and sighed heavily.

“I hope you are not going to prove Messire D’Olbriot’s word false, when he gave me his personal assurance of your co-operation and good faith, Ryshad,” said Planir crisply as he spread a yellowing chart over his highly polished table, anchoring its corners with books, an empty goblet and a random lump of rust-colored stone. “Tell me about your dreams before you were separated from Shiv, all of them, especially the night you were attacked.”

I crushed Messire’s letter in my hand, fixing my eyes on a distant weathervane and began my report, as detailed and dispassionate as any I had ever given Messire. Shiv motioned to me to slow down a little; as he took rapid notes, I remembered the time I had been sent to find the truth of a massacre of camp followers on the Lescari border where it abuts D’Olbriot lands. That hadn’t been a pleasant task, but it had to be done, and I had drawn the reversed rune. A sworn man had his orders to follow and his oath to protect him—that was the way of things, wasn’t it?

I talked and talked; Planir asked many questions, some so obvious as to be irritating, others obscure in the extreme. I didn’t notice him or Shiv ring for wine and bread, but drank and ate gratefully when sustenance arrived, snatching mouthfuls between answering yet more questions as we went over what had happened a second time.

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Planir was leaning over his chart, measuring something. He threw his rule down and turned on me, eyes bright.

“How do you mean?” I wasn’t about to give him a touch-by-touch account of my night with Laio, if that was what he was after.

“The dreams, Ryshad, the dreams,” said Planir softly. “Tell me about the waking dreams.”

I took a deep breath but could not bring myself to answer, not wanting to discuss the echoing sensations that kept trying to pick their way out of the back of my mind of late, if I ever let my guard slip.

“You see, I can help you with that.” Planir lifted a book from a neat pile on the window ledge. “We’ve recovered an ancient archive from a shrine sacred to Arimelin and learned a great deal about the dream lore of the ancients. We have a way to close your waking mind, to let us reach those dreams and learn all we want directly. Once we wake you from the trance the dreams will be gone, and we won’t need to make anymore demands on you. You will be free to go and you won’t be troubled any longer by dreams or visions.”

That was an offer so tempting there just had to be a hook in it somewhere, especially with the Archmage on the other end of the line.

“Just what exactly would you hope to learn?” I asked, puzzled. “I’ve told you everything I can remember and to be frank, none of that has seemed especially important. Anyway, the venture failed, didn’t it?”

“It was certainly lost, that’s true, but we still want to locate this colony, not just hear about it. We’re not simply trying to fill in the gaps in the archives to satisfy the scholars.” Planir poured himself some wine and offered a glass to Shiv, who closed his inkwell and folded up his notes. “If we are to counter the Elietimm threat, we need to know more about this aetheric magic, these powers the Ancients called Artifice. From what you have already told us, it’s clear people were being trained in these skills at this colony. There might be records, archives, even training regimes and instructions possibly.”

“Keep your coin to buy a pie!” I scoffed. “When was this? Twenty-six generations past? Anything they left will be rotted to dust and dirt by now!”

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Planir was unbothered by my unrestrained scorn. “We can do much with air and fire, the sympathies of earth and water, to restore even the most damaged and stained parchments. Don’t forget the resources I have to call on, Ryshad: the finest minds of wizardry are to be found in Hadrumal. Anyway, finding nothing is a risk I’m prepared to take. You, on the other hand, would find yourself central to finding a lost land of considerable resources. I know full well your patron has already spent a great deal of coin and effort tracing every reference and record concerning Den Fellaemion’s expedition and would dearly love to reclaim that colony for the D’Olbriot name. Performing a service like that would go far to raising you to chosen man, wouldn’t it?”

There were a whole string of hooks nicely baited on this lure, weren’t there? No, for a man reputed to be someone you wouldn’t play at Raven for a bet, the Archmage was being about as subtle as a farmer tethering a mare in season to fetch a wild stallion into stud. Did he think I was stupid?

“You’ve done this? With other people you’ve foisted these artifacts on?”

“It’s not without its risks,” Shiv spoke up from his corner, his face somber. “We’ve been unable to rouse one girl from her sleeping state.”

“There’s no denying it can be perilous,” agreed Planir gravely. “I blame myself. We undertook the experiment with her before we had recovered the archive and had all the information we needed. Obviously you’ll need to think very carefully before any such undertaking, though, of course, since you say young D’Alsennin had some initial training in aetheric magic, it might be that we find some clue to restoring the poor girl to her wits.”

So if temptation didn’t bring me into his hands, the Archmage wasn’t going to leave me with a way out that didn’t make me feel lower than a louse’s stones, was he? I shook my head as I drained my glass and the eighth chime of the day rang out across the city, startling a bevy of mottled fowl from the leaded roof opposite Planir’s tower. After my time in the Archipelago, it was an incongruously familiar sound, especially in these unnerving surroundings.

“You need time to think about it.” Planir took a gown from a hook on the back of his door and pulled it over his simple shirt and breeches. I have to admit the transformation set me back on my heels a little. It was not a gaudy robe, neatly cut of matte black silk, but the close collar lifted Planir’s chin to give him an imperious gaze. The breadth of his shoulders was more apparent beneath square tailored cloth than soft linen, and as he strode from the room the fabric swept around him like half-bated wings, his questing face hawklike in its intensity.

I looked at Shiv. “Planir wouldn’t get very far in a Convocation of princes, if that’s his idea of sweet-talking someone.”

“You can stick all the roses you want in a pile of horseshit, it’ll still stink,” shrugged Shiv. “Planir knows you’ve been around the provinces, Rysh. Trust me, you should take plain speaking from the Archmage as a compliment. Come on.”

Shiv picked up my bag and his tone carried something more like the friendship I had first looked for, which weakened my defenses more effectively than any of the Archmage’s sallies. I followed him down the stairs and out into the court where the stone buildings overhung me on every side, oppressive and confining, the shadows dark and chill. A woman crossed the court, her eyes turning toward me, and two youths coming out of a doorway halted their conversation to stare for a moment before hurrying away. For a city built so close to the water, there was precious little scent of the sea in Hadrumal and I felt the dust of dry and ancient stone catch in my throat.

“I don’t suppose you want to stay in the hall, so I told Pered you’d be staying with us.” Shiv was talking blithely as he led the way out along the main street, heading inland where I was relieved to see the lofty halls give way to more normal row houses of pitted gray stone and tile-hung roofs. I began to notice all the other businesses that kept these wizards free to pursue their arcane studies; scribes, booksellers, apothecaries and not a few tisane houses where younger mages laid aside their parchments and robes to gossip with their fellows over a cup of steeping herbs. Wizards had to eat as well, it seemed; shopfronts had their shutters laid down to form counters laden with summer fruit and plump vegetables where canny eyed women were doing their marketing and catching up on gossip with their cronies. Children hung at their skirts and a more venturesome group scampered in the roadway with a rag ball. There was a light drift of debris around a barrel fallen into a gutter and two men were arguing over who exactly had let it fall from their handcart. Hadrumal began to seem less outlandish, but I warned myself not to let apparent familiarity breed carelessness.

“We prefer to live down here; most of the other mages don’t give a cut-piece whether someone’s sleeping with a man, a woman or a donkey but there are always a few who are Rationalist enough to make themselves offensive. You remember Casuel, don’t you? Anyway, we find it’s better this way; nails that stick up get hammered down, after all.”

Shiv’s back was to me as he stepped ahead through the gap between two carts. I allowed myself a grimace. Still, unsure as I might be about meeting Shiv’s partner, anything had to be better than lodging in one of those grim halls with a covey of wizards staring at me from every side like crows waiting out a dying beast. I got on well enough with Shiv, didn’t 1? A more urgent consideration that had been tugging at my cloak since I landed now seized my attention and held it.

“Where’s Livak?” I inquired, stepping off the curb to draw level as Shiv made his way along the crowded walkway.

“She went to see Halice. There are some Soluran scholars here who are trying to improve her leg. Some aetheric magic has remained in their healing traditions, but you knew that, didn’t you?”

I have to confess I’d hardly given Halice and her problems a passing thought since we’d been separated. Mentally shaking myself, I determined to stop dwelling on my recent experiences and get a grip on the reins again. Would there be some magic that could mend so severe a wound, and one now several seasons mended and healed? That would certainly be something to see and, more importantly, something to bring to Messire’s attention. I’ve not seen too many men left with only stumps of leg or arm in order to save them from green rot, but hearing one screaming, weeping, pleading with the surgeons to no avail had been enough for me when Aiten and I had been working for Messire along the Lescari border. The reminder that I was not the only one with troubles was salutory as well.

“What about Viltred?”

“He’s back in his old hall, catching up with whoever he trained with who isn’t dead yet.” Shiv’s tone was nevertheless affectionate. “Here we are.”

He opened a stout door to usher me into a modest abode in the center of a well-weathered terrace. I blinked as my eyes adjusted after the sunlight outside and I saw the front of the lower rooms was laid out as a workplace, a sloping desk set to catch the best of the light, parchment, pigments and binding agents neatly arranged, ready for use. I vaguely recalled hearing that Shiv’s partner was a copyist or an illuminator, something of that kind, certainly not a wizard, which was the most significant thing to me.

“Pered!” Shiv stepped into the rear room and then shouted up the tight curve of the boxed staircase. “No, he must be out, probably getting some food in. Look, make yourself at home, there’s wine in the kitchen or you can have a tisane. I have a few things I need to do but I’ll be back soon.”

Before I could protest he was out of the door, pulling it to behind him with an emphatic slam. Not wanting to upset anything in the study, I went through into the kitchen, a little surprised to find a modern charcoal stove standing in the fender of the hearth where a damped-down fire was making the room stuffy in the summer heat. Other than that it was an unremarkable place apart from a collection of wildly differing and highly decorative herb jars with a shelf to themselves on the far wall. I opened a couple, sniffed, stoked up the fire and put a kettle onto boil, but then decided I didn’t really want a tisane after all, took the kettle off again and went out into the narrow yard at the back. Shiv’s neighbors evidently kept chickens and on one side a pig, as you might expect, but the sty and run in this yard were swept bare and empty. I poked around a bit, finding a handful of stones and tried my hand at hitting a large, pale stone high on the wall of the piggery. Striking it every time, I was about to look for more missiles when I heard the door behind me open.

“You should follow a plow and earn yourself some coin stoning the crows. That’s some skill,” a cheerful voice complimented me.

“It is, but it’s not my own,” I said without thinking.

“That sounds like a line from a bad ballad! You must be Ryshad, I’m Pered.”

I turned to see what manner of man Shiv had returned to so fondly. As with the island of Hadrumal itself, I couldn’t have told you what I was expecting. I had the sense not to be looking for a masquerade matron, all feathers and flamboyant gestures, but perhaps I was anticipating something a little more obvious than a stocky, blunt-featured man with curly brown-blond hair and hazel eyes. His Tormalin was excellent, his accent that of Col and I recalled that city’s reputation for letting folk follow their own path.

“Go on then, tell me the tale.” Pered sat himself in a bench to enjoy the sunshine, arms folded, muscular legs outstretched at his ease.

I hurled my last stone and struck a chip of rock from my target. “I have a fair eye but this particular talent belongs to a man many generations dead whose memories are somehow cluttering up my dreams.” It sounded rather improbable put like that, but Pered didn’t look surprised.

“So our revered Archmage has entangled you in one of his schemes, has he?”

I liked the almost total absence of respect in his voice and thought that Pered and I could probably be friends.

“Like a fly in a web.” I nodded.

“This is all to do with some lost colony and this unknown magic that has all the mages fluttering like doves with a cat in the cot, is it?” Pered shook his head. “Good thing too, if you ask me. It’s nice to see some of them learning a little humility for a change.”

No, I decided, we were definitely going to be friends. “Shiv’s told you about it?”

“Enough,” shrugged Pered. “So, what’s he like?”

“Sorry?”

“This lad who’s wrecking your nights, the one with the throwing eye, what’s he like?”

I looked at Pered and found myself at a loss for words. The Archmage had asked so many things, teased out so much detail about the colony, found far more information that I had realized I knew, but he hadn’t once asked about young D’Alsennin himself.

“He’s not a bad lad. He still has an unholy amount to learn about women but he’s growing up fast, squaring up to his responsibilities all right. He has got plenty of character but it needs tempering, polishing up.” It seemed strange to be talking about Temar like this.

“What does he look like? Can you describe him?” Pered pulled a scrap of reed paper from the breast pocket of his shirt and found a broken length of charcoal in his breeches pocket.

I closed my eyes to picture Temar more clearly and Pered sketched swiftly as I spoke, charcoal deft in his stubby fingers. “He’s a skinny lad,” I concluded. “He’ll fill out a bit in a few years, but he’s outgrown himself just at the moment. I suppose you’d call it a wolf’s face, long jaw, thin lips, angular, if you know what I mean. He certainly has a wolf’s eyes, really intense light blue, which is strange when you consider he has black hair.”

“How does he wear it?”

“Long, straight, mostly tied back.”

“Anything like this?” Pered turned his sketch toward me and I smiled involuntarily.

“Are you sure you’re not a mage? Actually, his nose isn’t that prominent and his brows are finer but that’s a better likeness than many a portrait I’ve seen. You’re wasted in a copy-house.”

It was strange, seeing that picture, imperfect as it was, the face of a youth so alive in my dreams and reveries but so long lost on the far side of the pitiless ocean. I felt an odd tug of affection, almost. Besides, I owed the boy, didn’t I? He’d saved my stones against Kaeska’s enchanter.

“As my father said when he apprenticed me, it’s a fair trade and it keeps bread on the table,” grinned Pered. “I’ll turn my hand to proper portraiture when Shiv finally gets fed up with being ordered about by Planir and we find ourselves hurrying for the next ship to somewhere different. Until then I’ll bide my time and mix my inks.”

“Don’t you mind the way Shiv has to go running every time Planir tugs his leash?” I asked curiously.

“Yes,” said Pered simply, “but that’s Shiv’s choice and I have to respect that if we’re to be together. The trick is making sure Shiv himself comes out ahead when all the runes are drawn, whatever game the Archmage is playing. That’s what you need to do, trust me.”

This struck me as an unusually intense conversation to be having with someone I’d only just met. “You seem very well informed. Shiv must have told you more than you’re saying.”

Pered shook his head. “Not Shiv, Livak. Anyway, what you need to work out first is just what you want. Then make sure whatever Planir tries to talk you into works for you as well as for him. Watch your step if he’s being all honest and open with you as well—there’ll be a barb in the honeycake, mark my words.”

I heaved a sigh. “I just want to get clear of all this, have ordinary, nonsensical dreams about swimming through deep water with talking fish or whatever; to be allowed to go and pick up the threads of my own life again.”

“Then keep your eye on that target and don’t let Planir or anyone else distract your throw.” Pered raised a hand and stood up. “I think I heard the street door.”

We went into the kitchen, the inner door opened and Shiv came in, moving to one side to reveal Livak, who stepped directly into my arms, tucking her tousled auburn head under my chin. I breathed in the scent of her as I kissed her hair and felt her arms tighten around me. Holding her close like that was a feeling worth more than a season in Laio Shek’s embraces. I could have stayed like that for ever if Shiv hadn’t needed to reach the range to put the kettle on the heat.

“What’s for dinner, Shiv?” Livak peered into a basket full of vegetables that was standing on the scrubbed table-top.

It proved to be a sturdy pottage that had been simmering away in a cook-pot on a tripod in the hearth and only awaited the addition of the vegetables. Shiv skimmed the fat and thickened the mix with the marrow from the bones while the rest of us peeled and chopped.

I caught Livak looking thoughtfully at me and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Are you planning to keep the beard?” she asked with a faint smile.

“Do you like it?” I did hope she was going to say no.

She tilted her head to one side, considering this. “It definitely makes a difference but—”

That was good enough for me. “Shiv, do you have a razor I can borrow?”

Shiv laughed. “Certainly but I’d wait a bit before you use it. Shave a beard like that off in high summer, especially after spending time in the Archipelago, and you’ll have a piebald face. Your chin will catch the sun too, unless you’re careful. Trust me, I’ve done it!”

Pered’s artist’s imagination was instantly caught by this picture. “When did you wear a beard?” he asked, intrigued.

“Soon after I came to Hadrumal,” replied Shiv. “I thought it would make me look older and force some of the senior wizards to take me a bit more seriously.”

“Didn’t it work?” Livak asked with a wicked smile.

“No.” Shiv shook his head ruefully. “The only thing that impresses master mages is how you handle your element.”

In very little time we were sitting down to an extremely satisfying dinner. Whatever the mages might be doing, someone with more practical skills was raising very good beef on Hadrumal, and while I couldn’t identify the wine it was of a quality I associate with feasts and festival days. Best of all, we spent the entire meal talking about everything and anything and nothing to do with Planir, arcane dreams or lost colonies. It was almost as if my life were turning normal again.

As Shiv eventually rose to stack the plates in the sink, Pered looked out at the night. “You might as well stay, Livak. There’s no point in you heading back to the hall now and Halice will be asleep, if she’s anything like as tired as she was after the last session with those Solurans mauling her leg about. So, am I making up the bed in the garret as well or will the one in the back bedroom suffice?” he inquired with the first trace of archness I had seen in him.

I looked at Livak, who hid a smile in her wine goblet. “One bed will do, I wouldn’t want to put you to too much trouble.”

“You two can wash up then.” Shiv tossed me a dishcloth and he disappeared up the narrow stairs with Pered.

“You wash, I’ll wipe,” said Livak, taking firm possession of the towel.

“Thanks,” I replied dryly, before taking the kettle from the hearth to pour scalding water on to the crocks and blinking in the steam. “You and Pered seem to get on well.”

“We do,” agreed Livak. “Halice likes him as well.”

“How is she?” I asked belatedly.

“Better.” Livak’s nod was emphatic. “Much better.”

“Shiv was as good as his word then.” I was glad something positive seemed to be coming out of all this, for Halice’s sake as much as anything, though a part of me was also selfishly glad that Livak would be freed of that particular burden.

“By the time we arrived, he didn’t have a lot of choice,” laughed Livak, evidently well satisfied with something.

“How so?” I was intrigued, pausing in my work to look at her.

“Well, there was this archive Planir was desperate to have,” Livak began, her expression gleeful.

“From a shrine to Arimelin?”

“That’s right. Well, Lord Finvar, the old grayhair who had it, was absolutely dead set against giving it up. He’d got it into his addled head that wizards dealing in natural science is only one step away from Rationalism and he wasn’t about to hand over sacred texts to godless mages and risk who knows what wrath from an outraged deity.” Livak’s eyes gleamed wickedly.

“What changed his mind?” I was smiling myself now.

“There were a whole series of portents, strangely enough.” Livak shook her head in mock perplexity. “The old boy would wake up and find things in his bedchamber had been moved around while he slept. He kept finding an ancient set of runes laid out on his reading desk, up in his study, with something he was convinced was a mystical message. All his staff and retainers were questioned and, of course, the first people he suspected were Shiv and Viltred but the captain of his guard kept them under constant watch and they couldn’t possibly have been responsible.”

“Of course not.” I nodded solemnly. “So what finally convinced him?”

“Oh, waking to find his own birth runes laid out in the middle of the floor when he was sleeping in a high bedchamber with only one, inaccessible window.”

“Inaccessible?” I couldn’t restrain a chuckle.

“That’s right,” confirmed Livak, pulling up a sleeve to examine a long graze, now nicely healing. “Inaccessible and cursed narrow as well.”

We both burst out laughing but then fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the clatter of crockery and the sounds of shifting furniture on the floorboards above our heads.

“I thought I’d lost you, you know,” Livak said abruptly, a faint hint of red beneath her summer freckles as she stared blindly out of the window into the darkness.

“Not so easily done,” I said as lightly as I could manage. “I’m just glad to find you here. I wouldn’t have wanted to go all the way back to Relshaz to search for you again.”

Our eyes met for a long moment until Livak turned to lay a plate on the table. “I’ve been thinking—if the offer’s still open, I could come back to Zyoutessela with you for a while. Whatever the Solurans are doing for Halice’s leg, it’s going to take a long time, at least into Aft-Autumn, that’s what they were saying, anyway.”

“I’d like that,” I said, carefully keeping my tone even.

“I mean, I’m not making any promises and I shan’t be growing my hair just yet,” Livak continued hurriedly, “but we could see how things went, though of course, you’re still a sworn man—”

“For the moment,” I said, surprised to hear the curt note in my own voice. “I’m thinking about that. It may be time to hand back my oath fee and take charge of my own life again.” Now I had actually said it, put into words the impulse that had been growing slowly and inexorably within me.

Livak gaped. “What will you do?”

“Come to see what Vanam’s like?” I’d never been to Livak’s home city.

“What will you do for coin?” Livak was frowning now. “Don’t say you’re thinking of going for a mercenary in Lescar?” It was a feeble jest and I could see real concern in her eyes.

“Coin won’t be a problem.” I grinned at her and went to recover my kit bag. As I spread Laio Shek’s largesse on the table-top, Livak’s eyes grew as round and as bright as the emeralds in the bracelet she first picked up.

“Just what sort of services were you rendering to earn this kind of pay-off?” she giggled.

I winked at her. “I’ll show you when we’re in bed.”

Livak laughed and ran a wondering hand over some of the more choice pieces. Her eyes were keen as she looked up at me. “With what you have here we could take ship tomorrow and disappear. I know people who’d give us a good rate to turn this into sound coin and I reckon we could take a chance on the mages not finding us. I have friends who’d hide us. You don’t need to do whatever it is that Planir’s asking; you could just walk away from it all.”

“I know, and I’ve thought about doing it,” I admitted. “But then it wouldn’t be finished, would it? There would always be questions—what if, if only. No, I want to be able to walk away on my own terms, leave no one with a claim on me.”

As I spoke, I realized this had to mean letting Planir and his scholars work their ritual over my dreams of Temar D’Alsennin. The thought of aetheric magic loose inside my head, breaking down all my defenses, was a chilling one but if it was the price for getting rid of these echoes from the past or whatever they were, I’d have to pay it. I looked at the wealth spread all over the table-top and shook my head at the irony of it all.

I looked up to see Livak regarding me intently. “Do you mind?” I asked her. “I need to finish this once and for all.”

She nodded. “I knew you would,” she said simply. “That’s the kind of man you are. I suppose if I were honest I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

I drew her to me in a close embrace. “Planir has some scheme for sending me into a half-sleep, a ritual to reach these cursed dreams directly.” I shivered involuntarily. “Once that’s done we should be able to leave.”

Livak’s arms tightened around my chest. “I’ll stay, I’ll be there with you if anyone wants to mess with your mind. Anyway,” her tone brightened, “there are good pickings to be had here in Hadrumal. There are wizards here who might be able to talk to each other a thousand leagues apart but haven’t the first idea of reading the run of the runes. Give me half a season and I’ll probably be able to match your little treasure trove.”

“Planir will definitely want to get rid of us then.”

Up river, south of the settlement, Kel Ar’Ayen, 12th of Aft-Spring, Year Three of the Colony

“So that’s it; we’ve no hope of a breakout that’s any better than suicide.” Den Fellaemion’s tone was as cold and passionless as a winter snow field. “Is every ship sunk?”

“They were cut to pieces, all of them.” Avila’s voice shook as she rubbed her temples with trembling hands, eyes tight shut as she recovered herself from the far-seeing. “The invaders have blocked the mouth of the river completely.”

Temar could stand it no longer, shoving his stool back as he began to pace across the narrow alcove in the damp rock of the cave wall. “Why are they waiting? Why don’t they just come and finish it? We’re caught like rabbits in a warren just waiting for the ferrets.” The walls of the cave seemed to press in on him and he clasped his hands together so hard they hurt. Misaen’s truth, he hated to be confined like this.

“Why should they hurry?” Messire Den Fellaemion scrubbed a bone-thin hand across his bloodless face. “They can take their time, rest and feed their men; we’re not going anywhere, are we?” The dry note in his commander’s voice was threatening to take on the hollow ring of defeat to Temar’s ears.

“Perhaps we might. I know it’s reaching for a single rune but we should explore the caves further,” he urged, stifling his own qualms at the prospect of going still deeper under the earth. “We should start at once, widen some of the fissures and see where they take us. We know that at least one river travels through plunge pools as it comes down the gorge. If water made these caves, it must have found its way in somehow, and in some force. There could be a way right through the high ground, out to the far side, out of sight of these bastards. Then we could strike out for the new port, where the stockmen have been building these last seasons. They’ve seen no sign of the invaders, have they, Avila? You said so yourself.” Temar bit his lip in frustration and sat down again, seeing that his words were going unheeded as Den Fellaemion turned his attention to Vahil’s approach, a sheaf of crumpled parchments clutched desperately in the younger man’s hand.

“Our supplies are very limited, Messire, no more than will give short rations for a scant handful of days. We have bread enough for several meals, cheeses and the like that people managed to grab as they fled, but many came empty-handed. We managed to salvage some sacks of meal from the ships and some small store of vegetables, but no meat or wine to speak of, and there’s precious little means of cooking anything. It is far too dangerous to send people out for fuel or foraging.” Vahil’s normally robust voice was as colorless as his face. “With the attack coming at dawn like that, few were in a position to take more than themselves and their families, if they were to escape at all. A good number are still in their night-gowns or simply their linen. We have some blankets, but nowhere near enough, especially for the wounded. There are still twelve children separated from their parents,” Vahil reported bleakly and now his voice was raw with grief. “I think we have to assume they are lost, the parents that is.”

Temar closed his eyes on his own anguished remembrance, the sight of Messire Den Rannion lying in a welter of blood, guts spilled across the muddy ground, sword still clutched in the hand that had been hacked clean from his wrist as he fought frantically to protect his people. The gems of his rings had shone in the dawn light, a detail of memory that confused Temar until he realized that the invaders were too set on bloodshed to bother with looting their victims. Worse yet was the other hand Temar had seen reaching blindly for the fallen Den Rannion, that of the Maitresse, her white hair trampled bloody into the black earth, that shrewd and kindly face destroyed utterly by the pitiless boss of a shield sweeping her aside with vicious disdain, boot prints plain on the fabric of her night-gown where she had been trampled heedlessly underfoot.

“Avila, why don’t you take Vahil and get him something warm to drink?”

Temar opened his eyes at Guinalle’s soft words, forcing away the horrid image.

“No, there are others in greater need than I—” Vahil began to object uncertainly, but he followed Avila meekly enough when she took his hand, forcing a smile on to her own worn and tear-stained features.

Den Fellaemion looked up at Guinalle from his seat on a low rock ledge. In the dim light filtering through the greenery fringing the cave’s mouth, he looked almost as gray as the rocks around him. “What have you to tell me, my dear?”

The blend of love and grief in Guinalle’s eyes as she gazed at her uncle tore at Temar’s heart when he could not have imagined anymore emotion could have been wrung from him.

“We have tended the wounded as best we can, with Artifice and with what medicaments we were able to salvage.” Guinalle unconsciously pushed a blood-stained sleeve back above one elbow. “Most are settled and, Ostrin be thanked, most of the injuries are relatively minor. Still, there are a number whom we simply dare not move, not for some days, if we are not to send them straight to Saedrin’s mercy.”

“Have you determined how many of your Adepts escaped?” Temar wondered at the urgency in Den Fellaemion’s question.

“Nearly all.” Guinalle’s answer was bitter with irony. “We were so much better able to defend ourselves when the invaders started using that Artifice of their own.”

Temar’s urge to demand aid from Guinalle and her students in surveying the caves died on his lips as he was suddenly overwhelmed by remembrance of the horror of the previous sunrise. Waking from a contented sleep to the sound of screaming, pure terror ripping through the air, horrid shrieks rising to be cut off by merciless blades as black-liveried invaders poured from ships driven high on to the mud flats to fall upon the undefended colonists. Temar’s hand groped for empty air at the memory of grabbing his sword, rushing from his bed in Den Rannion’s steading, only to see fires raging all around, women and children fleeing in desperation from the flames only to die on the greedy tongues of swords flashing bright as the building inferno struck a false dawn from the glowering clouds.

Temar’s heart began to race, anguish twisting within him as he tried to think what he could have done different, how else he might have succeeded in rallying the men who appeared, whatever weapons they might find in hand, desperate to gather in some concerted defense of the frail wooden gate. Cold fingers gripped Temar’s heart, cold sweat beading on the back of his neck as he heard again the echo of their screams, flinching from his own memories of the evil Artifice that had robbed so many of their wits and will, leaving them standing dumbly like beasts awaiting the poleaxe to die under the black metal weapons of the invaders. A tear trickled unheeded down one cheek and he looked down to see his knuckles shining white in a very death grip on his sword.

“You had to flee when you did, Temar,” Den Fellaemion laid his own desiccated hand over the younger man’s. “Saedrin be thanked that you had some little Artifice of your own to defend you, or we would have lost you as well.”

Temar could not trust himself to speak but neither could he resist a guilty glance at Guinalle. He saw only understanding and sympathy in her eyes, and for an instant that made everything even worse.

“Who are these cursed people?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why are they doing this?”

“Since any attempt at a parley has ended with our envoys meeting a hail of missiles, it’s a little hard to tell.” Messire Den Fellaemion’s mirthless smile would not have looked out of place on a deathmask. “I can’t see us resolving this by negotiation.”

“I have some idea of where they might be from,” began Guinalle hesitantly.

“What?” Temar and Den Fellaemion demanded in the same breath. “How?”

“When I was repelling their attacks, I made an unexpected contact with someone imperfectly practiced in their Artifice.” Guinalle looked uncharacteristically defensive. “Last night, when I was sure the youth was asleep, I used that touch to look into his memories.”

“The risks—” Temar drew breath to remonstrate with her but subsided at the Messire’s warning glance.

“What can you tell us, my dear?”

“They come from a place far to the north of here, small, barren islands locked together in the heart of the ocean,” Guinalle’s eyes grew distant as she looked again on the images she had stolen. “It’s a cold place, pitiless, few trees and bleak, gray rocks all around. They have very little, and what they have they steal from each other, counting blood well spent for a few measures of land. Lives are renewed in due season but land ends at the water’s edge.” Her voice deepened and took on a harsher inflection. “Artifice is used to keep the priests as rulers of the people. They can sniff out disloyalty in the sleeping mind and kill with a thought. Unity is everything when both nature and culture surrounds you with perils, foes always armed against you.”

She caught her breath on a sudden shiver and her expression and tone returned to normal. “They have discovered what they see as an endless land of unimaginable riches and will not share it with anyone, no matter what,” she concluded softly.

Before Temar could speak, Den Fellaemion rose and gathered Guinalle in a close embrace. “My dearest child, such insights may be valuable but you are more precious still.” A hint of rebuke stiffened his words. “Your skills are our only defense against the evil of their artifice and we cannot risk you in this way. You are not to attempt such a contact again.”

“He would only have thought he was dreaming of home,” protested Guinalle, but her expression was chastened nevertheless.

Temar interrupted as an urgent thought demanded immediate speech. “Have you managed to contact home—Zyoutessela, Toremal, anywhere that might be able to send us aid?”

Guinalle shook her head unhappily. “I have been trying, but something is preventing me, some kind of smothering that is limiting the range of my Artifice.”

“Have you tried working with some of the others?” Den Fellaemion looked up from studying the rocky floor of the cavern.

“I have and that was even worse; we found ourselves harried on all sides by hostile Artificers.” Guinalle shuddered at the memory. “We barely broke free of entanglement, Larasion blight their seed!”

“So we have only ourselves to rely on,” said the Messire softly, grimly.

“We’re well into the sailing season,” Temar protested halfheartedly. “There will be the new ships on the way who can break through the blockade, if we can only hold out for half a season, maybe less. How close would they have to be for you to contact them, Guinalle, without making yourself a target?” he added hastily.

Den Fellaemion sighed. “There will be no ships, Temar, in this season or any other.”

Temar could only stare, first at Den Fellaemion and then at Guinalle, who colored and hung her head. “What do you mean?”

“There will be no new colonists this year, Temar.” Den Fellaemion could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. “We had precious few last year, didn’t we? The last ships of the season brought me several letters, from my House and from others, all saying the same thing. Nemith is running the Empire into the sands on all fronts, hamstringing his troops with lack of resources at the same time as driving them on like a madman with a metal flailed whip. No one has men or coin to spare to venture overseas; all the provinces are going up in flames. We are on our own here.”

“You’ve known this all winter?” Temar stared at Den Fellaemion’s pallid face, the sunken eyes still steady and stern.

“What difference would it have made to spread such news?” demanded the older man. “What benefit would there have been to stir up despondency and doubts when we were doing so well, had gathered a bountiful harvest, Drianon be blessed? We were set fair to spend a busy winter making ready to spread our wings further in due season. From all I could see around me, we had no need of further men and women from Tormalin, if none should choose to come.”

Temar opened his mouth to protest but shut it again, feeling foolish as the force of Den Fellaemion’s words struck home. “And I was so sure we had driven off whatever sortie these invaders had sent against us,” he remembered bitterly. “That the loss of the Salmon was the end of it.”

“We all were,” Guinalle spoke up, her face somber. “It’s as much my failing as anyone’s, Temar.”

“We cannot simply sit here like rats in a trap, waiting for someone to put in our skulls with a club!” Temar sprang to his feet again and ripped a handful of ferns from the rocky wall, peering up hungrily at a distant patch of uncaring blue sky far above. A wisp of cloud was tinged with gold, mute evidence of the unseen sun sinking toward evening.

“There is an alternative, Temar,” Guinalle began hesitantly, her eyes sliding sideways to her uncle who gave her an encouraging nod. “There is a way we can use Artifice to hide us all in the caves until help can be summoned from Tormalin itself. We can be concealed from any search the invaders might attempt.”

Temar blinked, startled. “How? But even if you can conceal us, how will we survive? You heard what Vahil said about our lack of supplies. Curse it, Guinalle, there must be close to a thousand people here by now, and more will find their way in before nightfall, Talagrin willing, if they escape the invader’s hounds. I’m none too happy about the water supply and think how cold it was last night. To send a vessel to Toremal and wait for rescue, you’re looking at the best part of a full season, maybe more if things at home are as bad as Messire thinks!” He shook his head with fresh determination, ignoring the fear of confinement in the caves that was clamoring in the back of his mind. “No, whatever the risks, we must find a way out of here and try to make it overland to the new settlement. Use your Artifice to conceal us while we’re doing that, to stop these murdering bastards hunting us down and cutting us to pieces again.”

“Even if we could find a way out undetected, half these people would be dead before you’d crossed the first range of mountains, Temar.” Den Fellaemion looked down the rough-cut steps crudely hacked into the rock to give access to the main body of the cave. Temar followed his gaze, to the knots of families huddled together over a few meager possessions salvaged from the nightmare, at the individuals sitting isolated in the horror of their memories, at the still ranks of wounded, laid carefully on beds improvised from cloaks, blankets and in not a few cases leafy branches and sacking. The oppressive silence had a dull, defeated quality, broken only occasionally by a child’s whimper or a low sob of pain, mental or physical.

“We can’t just give up!” protested Temar, fighting to shore up his own determination.

“We can hide ourselves in a sleep woven of Artifice,” Guinalle said softly, boundless pity in her soft eyes as she looked down at the ragged remnant of the once optimistic colonists. “We can give these people respite, all life and thought suspended, Arimelin willing, until help can come to drive away these invaders.”

“How?” demanded Temar, incredulous.

“There is a way to separate mind and body,” Guinalle shook the loose hair back from her face and fumbled in a pocket for something to tie it back. “It is a rarely used technique…” her voice faltered for an instant, “only considered in times of grave illness, as a rule. The mind, the consciousness, the essence of the person, is bound into something they value, something they have an attachment to. With the mind removed and in stasis within the artifact, the body is held uncorrupted in an enchantment until the two are reunited.”

“And how would you propose to do that, even supposing you manage to do this with so many people?” Temar stared at her, absently handing her a scrap of leather thong pulled from the trim of his jerkin.

“This is where sending a small detachment overland to the new settlement becomes a valid plan. You’re right, Temar, there is a way through the caves; some of the miners found it a while back. It’s difficult and narrow, underwater in places but it’s passable with care and Misaen’s favor.” Animation brought a false hint of color to Den Fellaemion’s wasted cheeks. “We send a picked band, fighting men, good in the wilds, to get past the invaders undetected, with the aid of Artifice if we can spare someone. They can take these valuables, wherever the minds of these folk left behind reside.”

“To tell the stockmen to strike back, to mount a rescue?” Temar’s doubts warred with gathering hope in his voice.

“No.” Den Fellaemion shook his head decisively. “To tell them to take ship and flee, Dastennin guard them. Curse it, Temar, you’ve served your House in the Cohorts; how could farmers and stockmen hope to take on greater numbers of trained troops, secure in a defended position, even without the complications of Artifice? No, my orders will be absolutely clear; they must make all speed back to Zyoutessela while the weather is favorable. Then they must enlist the aid of every House that has blood or tenants here in gathering a fleet to come in force and drive these white-haired demons back to their barren islands.”

“You think the help will come in time?” asked Temar, struggling to absorb this astounding proposal. “Could force enough be rallied to cross the ocean before the autumn sets in?”

“Could the Sieur of any House deny his support, given tokens that contain the very life-essence of his people to hold in his hand? Could he face his brothers and sons knowing he was condemning those minds to forever remain frozen and insensible, far from their bodies sleeping in a distant cavern for all eternity?” Den Fellaemion’s voice was soft, but his eyes were as keen as steel.

“I see what you mean,” said Temar faintly. “How could they refuse?”

“So will you help us?” Guinalle asked, her eyes pleading with Temar. “We need to persuade our people here that this is their only hope. We have to call on all the ingrained loyalties to each Name that we bear, give them just enough information to convince them to do this. Without their belief in the plan, it cannot work.”

Temar nodded, his mind already searching the plan for any flaw or opportunity. “So who will you be sending overland?” he asked Den Fellaemion, “Those with families in the new settlement might be best—”

“They will be the first to submit to Guinalle’s ministrations,” Den Fellaemion said sternly. “Use your wits, Temar, these people have been through a waking nightmare and I am only going to put demands on them where I must.”

“I don’t understand,” frowned Temar.

“Think about it, lad,” the Messire rubbed a weary hand over his bloodless lips. “If we are sending people away from horror and death, toward safety and their loved ones, if danger threatens, who among them is going to struggle to protect a burden, however precious they have been told it might be? I don’t mean to condemn our people as cowards, but be realistic, Temar, we need to send men who will lose their lives before they lose these valuables. More than that, we need to give the settlers at the new port every incentive to get home, to rouse a riot if need be, to summon aid and bring help to restore their own loved ones to life again.”

Temar could see Guinalle was as shaken by this uncompromising argument as he was.

“It can only be a matter of time before these invaders follow the coast south and find the new settlement. There’s more to this than simply protecting our own lives, you know,” Den Fellaemion continued, his pale eyes distant. “I do not understand how these murdering bastards came to this land but I will not leave them our great ships to steal, to cross the ocean with and fall upon an unsuspecting Empire, especially if the chaos that we have heard of is worsening. I bless Dastennin that they were all sent south for refitting in those more sheltered waters. If we must die here, so be it, but I spend my life in defense of my honor to my House, even if my Emperor is a wastrel and a fool.”

Guinalle and Temar exchanged an uncertain look. He stifled the qualms gnawing at his empty belly and squared his shoulders.

“I won’t fail you, Messire,” said Temar formally, resolutely banishing his own terror at the prospect of a journey through cramped and dangerous caves. “You may lay this burden on me.”

“Guinalle, could you go and help Avila, make a start on getting a meal inside these people. Warm food, however little, will put some heart into them.”

Guinalle blinked, evidently surprised at this albeit gentle dismissal, but rose obediently from her damp seat and made her way carefully down the slick steps into the cave.

“You won’t be leading the expedition overland, Temar,” Den Fellaemion said crisply.

“You cannot be thinking of going yourself, Messire—” protested Temar hotly.

“No, I am not, I know I haven’t the strength left.” Den Fellaemion shook his head. “This throw of the runes falls to Vahil.”

“But surely—”

“Hear me out, Esquire.” Den Fellaemion folded his arms over his narrow chest and looked steadily at Temar. “Vahil has Elsire at the new settlement and, yes, I know what I said about choosing those who would go, but this is a special case. The thought of rescuing Elsire is just about all that is keeping Vahil on his feet at present, all that is stopping him succumbing to the shock of seeing his parents slaughtered before him. I’m not going to remove that prop and, more importantly, I need Vahil and especially Elsire to demand aid from the Empire. As nephew and niece to the Sieur of arguably the mightiest Name in the south, their demands will not go unmet, I’m sure of it. Their uncle will get things moving, he will have to or be forever dishonored.”

“And D’Alsennin is a fallen House with little or no influence, is that it?” Temar could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Hardly. Your grandfather will take Nemith himself by the ears to shake some sense into the sot, if need be.” Den Fellaemion smiled faintly. “No, it’s rather that I want you here, at Guinalle’s side, just in case of the unexpected.”

“How do you mean?” Temar looked up, a little heartened.

Den Fellaemion drew a sigh deep into his thin frame. “Guinalle is confident that this extraordinary idea will work and, more, that she will be able to conceal all traces of the cave where you are hidden. I have to confess I still have concerns. We do not know just what Artifice these invaders are capable of and I am worried lest they find you all and somehow revive you. Guinalle has had to admit that in theory the body might be used to summon the mind from afar and in any case, whatever she chooses to contain her mind will have to remain with her body, since she has to be the last awake to seal you all in.” He looked after Guinalle, small in the vastness of the cavern as she knelt beside a weeping child.

“Of course, she swears that were she to wake to find herself in the hands of the invaders, she would use the last of her skills to warn the Empire then to stop her own heart, but I am concerned that if these savages have the Artifice to wake her they might also have the skills to take her will from her and bend her to their purpose. Should that happen, Temar, I would want you here above anyone else, to defend Guinalle and to find a way to salvage something from the wreckage of our colony, even if it is only spending your life in killing whoever has the Artifice to defeat Guinalle’s enchantments. I know I can rely on you for that, D’Alsennin. I can think of no other I could call upon.”

Temar could not find any words in the confusion of emotions within him until one question above all others demanded an answer. “But you will be here, Messire, surely?”

“No, Temar, I shall not.” Den Fellaemion moved to the edge of the alcove and looked out at the dark-green secrets of the gorge below them, the shadows deepening. “Walk a little with me, Esquire. We can check on the look-outs.”

Temar drew a deep breath of the fragrant air as they made their careful way along the ledge at the front of the cavern, slippery with returning dew where the sunlight had never reached the stone. Coming out of the shadow, Temar turned his face to the meager warmth, the chill of the rocks seemingly sunk into his bones. Den Fellaemion rubbed his thin hands together, the hooked nails almost blue against the papery skin.

“I’m dying, Temar,” he said simply. “The whole reason Guinalle started to research this arcane ritual was in a desperate hope that I would agree to be sent back to Bremilayne in such a sleep, to the shrine of Ostrin where the Adepts might have the skill to destroy the canker that’s eating away at my vitals.” He smiled, this time with fondness. “The dear girl does so hate to be beaten. Anyway, that’s how all this started,” he continued briskly, “but by now there is no likelihood that I could be revived, even if the enchantment did not kill me outright. In any case, knowing that Saedrin waits just beyond the door for me, I cannot see the virtue in sleeping awhile, only to waken to die. I intend to spend my life to some purpose at the last; I am going to take a ship, the rails lined with the fallen, and attempt to run the blockade myself.”

“That’s suicide,” said Temar faintly.

“It’s a diversion,” Den Fellaemion contradicted him with a glint in his eye. “I will cast off the day after Vahil has set off through the caves. That should tie up these invaders just as he should be reaching the way out and it ought to keep them from getting curious about the far valley. I will greet Saedrin with a sword in my hand and an oath to Dastennin on my lips, Temar; I don’t think he will rebuke me for the waste of a life.”

“More likely Poldrion will give you passage to the Other-world for free.” Temar blinked away hot tears and scowled at an inoffensive bush.

As leaves behind them rustled, both turned to see Guinalle picking a cautious path through the undergrowth. “If we are to do this, we have to do it soon,” she said firmly as she approached. “At present, most of them are still so shocked by what has befallen, I don’t think they will argue, even with such a bizarre proposal.” She smiled with a brief flash of humor. “If we leave it much longer, people are going to become more aware of their situation. Either panic will set in or you’ll be dealing with a handful of separate schemes to break out of here. I’m also worried about some of the more frail and the wounded. They may not survive the trials of the night here.”

Den Fellaemion nodded. “There’s nothing to be gained by delay. We’ll feed them as best we can then I will speak. Temar, go and help Vahil. Guinalle, get your Artificers together and work out how best to combine your efforts in such a task. Oh, and do what you can to make sure no one is using Artifice to eavesdrop on us, if you would be so good. I don’t want to find myself telling these invaders where to find us all like fish stunned for the pot.”

A more immediate concern struck Temar. “How are we to be reawakened, when help comes?”

“The Adepts at the Shrine of Ostrin, where I studied, they will know what to do.” Guinalle stated confidently. “We will tell all those leaving to make sure the word gets through.”

“Has something like this ever been done before?” inquired Temar, curiosity getting a nose ahead of his instinctive dread.

Guinalle shrugged. “Not that I know of, but I don’t see why that should dissuade us from the attempt.”

“That’s the spirit that put the House of Priminale on the Imperial throne!” Den Fellaemion laughed and hugged Guinalle to him as they walked back into the cavern, though now Temar could see the support the older man was taking from Guinalle’s slender shoulders.

Temar left them talking to Avila and went to help Vahil, who was giving orders in a listless monotone to women and children whose movements were no less dull and unthinking. However, a hot meal, sparse though it was, did seem to put heart into the gathering. As the noise level rose through the cavern Temar saw the force of Guinalle’s argument that the enchantment had to be worked quickly as he began to hear questions and even disputes on all sides.

“My friends!” Den Fellaemion’s voice rang through the cavern, silencing the tumult of voices so that an expectant hush hung in the dim air. “You all know that our situation is grave and I have still more grievous news to give you. Those valiant enough to remain with the boats that brought us here attempted to strike down river this morning in the hopes of breaking through to the open sea and summoning help. I cannot lie to you, my friends, they have failed.” The Messire lifted his voice above sudden weeping and laments from distant corners of the great cave. “They spent their lives in our defense and Saedrin will speed them to the Otherworld with all due honor, do not doubt it. However, this means that for the present we are trapped with little food or fuel to sustain us, or so our enemies would have us believe and so despair.”

Temar looked around and saw faces raised, questioning this obscure pronouncement, wondering at the new ring of defiance in the Messire’s voice, searching for hope or reassurance.

“We have all seen the dark use these invaders have made of Artifice.” Contempt sounded harsh in Den Fellaemion’s words. “What they do not know is that we have Artifice of our own to defeat their foul purposes. We may be trapped for the moment, but we have the means to summon help and it will come, never fear. While we wait, I have decided that Artifice will protect us from all that we lack. Demoiselle Guinalle and her adepts are to give us an enchanted sleep, a respite by the grace of Arimelin, where our grief and wounds will be healed, keeping us safe from all detection until the full wrath of the Empire falls upon these savages and makes them rue the day they ever set foot on our new lands!”

A murmur of startled questions began to circulate around the gathering. Den Fellaemion let it grow for a moment until raising his hand once more for silence. “As we sleep, Esquire Den Rannion will lead a hand-picked team through the caves and out to the far valley, marching thence to the new settlement in the south. He will take your reassurances to your friends and family there, then use the ocean ships to take everyone far from any chance of harm and to summon the help that will drive these worthless midden-dogs from the lands we have worked so hard to tame.”

A ragged scatter of applause greeted this announcement. Temar saw a faint spark of life relit in his friend’s eyes, new determination forcing Vahil’s head up and his shoulders back.

“These carrion crows can scavenge on the hollow bones of their victory for the present, but I swear to you they will soon be put to flight. Enjoy your meal, my friends, my apologies that it is so humble, and then we will settle ourselves to wait out this siege in peace and contentment. When we wake, I promise you a better feast, something to look forward to before we start to rebuild our colony.” The total confidence that rang through Den Fellaemion’s words was having its effect on the shocked and demoralized people, Temar saw. He heard questions on all sides, over what such sleep might be like, what they might find when they woke, but no one was disputing the proposal itself.

“Will you be with Esquire Den Rannion?” A stout woman whom Temar vaguely recognized as a former tenant caught at his arm.

“No.” He shook his head, forcing confidence into his voice. “There’s no need. I shall wait here with you all, to make sure there’s someone ready to give a full account to our rescuers. If you’ve finished your food, I suggest you make ready. Wrap up warmly if you can.”

The woman nodded, familiar obedience to authority something to cling to in the midst of the catastrophe that had befallen them all, Temar realized. He pushed his way through the crowd, those adept in Artifice surrounded on all sides by questions and demands for more information, Guinalle in particular at the center of a vociferous knot of people.

“All you need concern yourself over is choosing something precious to you, to focus your mind on while I work the enchantment.” Guinalle was soothing a young mother perilously close to tears as she clutched her three children to her.

“If we all need something, I have so little, my husband—” the girl’s lip quivered and her eyes filled, her distress visibly infecting her children and many of those closest to her.

“We can manage easily enough.” Guinalle’s voice was warm with reassurance. “You keep that ring, and why don’t we give your necklace to your eldest daughter?”

The girl brought a trembling hand to her throat. “My mother gave me this on my wedding day. I always wear it. I was going to—”

“She can have the chain, and here, let’s put the pendant on this ribbon,” Guinalle broke in briskly. She suited her actions to her words, unfastening the necklace with gentle hands and unthreading a length of braided silk from the purse at her own waist. “The little one can have that. It’s a good choice, too. If the girls are used to seeing you wearing this, it will hold their attention so much better, excellent for the workings of the Artifice.”

She raised her voice a little to address those gathered closest. “This is the kind of thing you should be looking for, a small trinket that has particular meaning for you and yours.”

Guinalle’s confident tone wavered just a little as her gaze fell on the oldest child. She looked around and Temar saw a mute appeal in her eyes. He stepped forward to kneel beside the boy, a lithe lad with coppery blond hair and wide eyes, blue as a spring sky, with a sprinkling of freckles over his snub nose.

“Would you like this, so the lady can work her enchantment over you?” Temar unbelted his tunic and wrapped the leather strap twice around the skinny waist as the boy nodded silently, eyes huge in his pale face. “Now, you concentrate on this buckle,” he commanded. “This is an heirloom of the House D’Alsennin. If you can do this, take care of it for me, when you wake up I’ll make you my page and you can keep it. Do you agree?”

The lad nodded again, a faint smile on his lips, and Temar looked up at the mother. “You see, we can easily find something if we all help each other out. After all, it’s only something to center the Artifice upon.”

“The children are so tired, I think it would only be right to let them sleep as soon as possible,” Guinalle led the feebly protesting woman toward Avila. “Let the demoiselle help you settle them.”

Temar caught Guinalle’s hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze, which won a faint smile from her to warm his heart. “The trick to success here is going to be getting it done fast,” she said with determination.

“Then let’s get started,” replied Temar, setting his face to the daunting task.

He settled the boy between his two little sisters and wrapped all three children securely together in a warm woollen cloak. “Lie back now,” he instructed them softly, tucking a coarse blanket around them with gentle hands.

“All you have to do is close your eyes and think about your special thing.” Guinalle knelt beside the children with an encouraging smile. “Do you all have something to hold on to?”

The children nodded, wide eyed, and the smallest girl wriggled one hand free to solemnly proffer an enamelled silver flower on a silken cord.

“That’s very pretty.” Guinalle stroked closed the eyes of the little lass with one hand, doing the same for her sister with the other. At her nod, Temar tousled the lad’s hair before similarly shutting that beseeching gaze.

Guinalle softly chanted the complex words of the Artifice. Her low tones were echoed from points all around the vast cavern as Temar watched the Adepts begin the lengthy process of settling the colonists to this frozen rest. He looked back to the children, now motionless, not in the relaxation of sleep but stiff in the grip of the enchantment, no hint of breath to be seen, the color fled from their cheeks to leave them waxen-faced.

Temar trembled at a sudden memory of childhood horror. It had been the morning he had finally summoned up the courage to return to the playroom, in those dreadful days when he had wandered the house, confused and alone, unable to comprehend how his father, his brothers and sisters had all been taken from him. Opening the door, the blank, painted faces of his sisters’ dolls had confronted him, silent, still, never again to be brought to life by happy hands and bright imagination.

“I can’t—” Temar choked on his words, but as he raised his head he caught Avila’s piercing stare as she carefully laid down the children’s motionless mother. The warning and contempt mingled in her eyes cut him to the quick. Temar held out his hand to help Guinalle to her feet. “Who is to be next?”

In the event it went more quickly than he might have imagined. Temar stood looking across the great cavern as the last of the daylight hung around the alcove at the entrance. He could see rows of motionless bodies lost in the shadows, neatly laid out, hands clasped at their chests like—no, they were not bodies, not like corpses—they were sleeping, taking a respite from the horror that had befallen them, sojourning in the Otherworld by Arimelin’s grace, to recover and restore themselves.

“Will I dream?” Temar turned to Guinalle as she lifted her hands from Avila’s forehead, the older woman now frozen in the grip of Artifice, her hands clasped around a richly ornamented cloak pin. She was the last of the Adepts to lay herself down, all now exhausted by their efforts.

“What?” Guinalle looked at Temar with eyes barely focusing on him.

“Never mind.” Temar caught Guinalle to him, feeling her trembling uncontrollably with fatigue. “Are you sure you can do this? Do you want a rest before you go on?” Part of him desperately wanted to delay being locked into sleep only to be buried beneath the earth.

Guinalle was breathing with some difficulty, a pulse in her throat fluttering. “I think we had better go as fast as we can.” she stammered. “There’s something interfering with the Artifice, everything’s going awry. I don’t know how much longer I can hold the enchantment together before I have to submit myself to it, otherwise it will all unravel.”

“She knows what she’s doing, Temar. Come on, you’re the last to take your rest.”

Temar looked around to see Vahil standing behind them, his face grim and drawn, dressed in old leather for the grueling trip through the caves. The small band going with him were busy packing the miscellany of possessions, safeguarding the unknowing, unconscious minds of the colonists, into a series of leather packs.

“What will you focus on?” asked Guinalle, her voice stronger now.

Temar unbuckled his sword. “This.” He looked at the blade, at the engraving, rammed it home into the scabbard and gripped the hilt to quell the trembling in his hands.

“Lie down then.” Guinalle knelt beside the pile of cloaks prepared for him and Temar forced himself to comply, gritting his teeth but unable to prevent himself starting at the touch of Guinalle’s icy hands on his forehead.

“I’ll see you soon, Temar,” Vahil’s voice seemed to come from somewhere far distant as insidious tendrils of sleep began to coil themselves around Temar’s waking mind.

“Don’t fight it, my dearest,” he heard Guinalle murmur, her words distorted as all sensation of the rocks beneath him was lost in a giddying feeling of falling, spinning, his breath coming rapidly, panic burning in his throat, numbness seizing his legs, his chest, his arms, his head, choking him, stifling him.

The hidden island city of Hadrumal, 30th of For-Summer

I was dying. I was suffocating; pressure tight as an iron hand was crushing my chest. As I struggled in a futile effort to draw a last breath, eyes blind, my hearing somehow still clinging to life, I struggled to make sense of the words echoing over my head.

“Push some air into him, Otrick, curse you. ’Sar, warm his blood before we lose him completely.”

The constriction slackened a little and the spiraling dizziness abated somewhat, just enough for me to feel a damp, shaking hand on my forehead. I tried to toss it off, but found I could not move my head. Worse, I could not move my arms or legs; any effort dissolved in confusion. I tried to speak, to swear at these people, whoever they might be, but I could not even raise a groan. At least I could hear; that had to mean I wasn’t dead yet, didn’t it?

“Planir, I think we have it now, let me—”

A jumble of nonsense words in another voice that I vaguely registered as unfamiliar rang inside my head, scattering the unremembered nightmares that were trying to shred my sanity. Just as I realized this, I managed to move my hand, although with no more control than a day-old babe. Exhaustion overwhelmed me and I let myself drift into the welcoming embrace of helpless stupor.

“No! Don’t let him go, don’t let him go!”

Some bastard stuck something sharp into my hand and I managed a feeble moan of protest, only wanting all this confusion to go away, to sleep and to sleep again, more deeply.

“Breathe, curse you, Ryshad, breathe!” Now the swine was slapping my face, and I forced my eyes open to look up at a blurred face, all angles and confusing movement. It gradually coalesced into a man of middle years, close cropped brown hair surrounding a plump face with dark eyes too close set above a sharp nose. A gleam of silver on his hand caught my feeble curiosity for a moment, but identifying it was simply too much effort, so I just closed my eyes again.

“Ryshad!” That voice was familiar, that one I recognized and that notion distracted me from the seductive lure of slumber. Who was she, I wondered drowsily? She sounded upset. That roused me a little. Whoever she was, she was upset with me. What had I done wrong?

“Wake up, Ryshad, come back to us.” The first voice was getting distinctly annoyed, so I opened my eyes again and a face slowly swam into focus, hair the color of autumn, eyes of summer leaves. This was the face of the familiar voice, I decided somehow. I coughed and found my breathing easier, my wits slowly piecing themselves back together.

“Livak?” That was her name, I remembered now; I tried to speak but my mind seemed somehow disconnected from my voice. Trying again, I managed a faint croak but was rewarded by a squeeze to my numb hand, a welcome sensation even if it felt as if I were wearing three thicknesses of winter gloves.

“Ryshad, are you with us?” That was the first voice and, after a little effort, I placed it. Planir; it was that bastard Archmage, the one who had landed me in this in the first place. The surge of hot anger that followed on the heels of that thought must have set my wits alight and, in an instant, I knew who and where I was.

I coughed again and smelled the distinctive reek of thassin. “I said no narcotics, mage.” I rolled my head to glare at him accusingly, still unable to lift it to my intense frustration.

“We found we needed them.” Planir was unapologetic, which came as no real surprise. “Tonin found your defenses against his ritual were simply too strong to break down without it.”

“I’m sorry, I know what I said, but you have to remember this is all untested ground.” This voice did sound genuinely contrite and, with its Soluran lilt, I remembered hearing it moments before. Tonin, that was his name, the scholar and mentor from the University of Vanam who was in Hadrumal, along with his students, to study the few enchantments of aetheric magic so far discovered.

“Did you get what you needed, mage?” I demanded hoarsely, not daring to try to remember for myself in case I fell into that smothering turmoil of sorcery again.

“Oh yes, Ryshad, most certainly.” My wits were still woolly, I realized; the exultation in the Archmage’s voice didn’t fill me with nearly the dread that my reason told me it should.

“Thank you, thank you very much indeed,” continued the wizard, pulling a plain black robe over his shirt sleeves as he spoke. “You have been more help than you can possibly imagine. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a great deal to do and you will need time to recover. Otrick, Usara—with me, if you please.”

The three mages swept out of the room without further courtesy and I found myself alone with Tonin and Livak. I managed to get myself onto my side, propped on one elbow, trembling with an exhaustion that for the life of me I couldn’t understand. Livak was sitting on a stool by the bed where I lay, rubbing her hands, which I could see had been crushed white and numb in a fierce grip. An angry red line betrayed the bite of a broad ring band into her finger.

“Did I do that?” I asked, aghast.

“You or that D’Alsennin, I’m not sure,” she replied, a faint smile doing nothing to lighten the shock in her eyes, green as deep water and about as revealing.

“Was it very bad?” I managed to keep my voice level, which was some achievement, given the circumstances.

Livak shuddered involuntarily. “It was so strange,” she said slowly after a long moment’s silence. “It simply wasn’t you. There was nothing of you, of Ryshad, in what you said, how you acted, how you moved even. It was all that lad, the D’Alsennin boy, wearing your skin and looking out of your eyes.” She clasped her hands to her face in remembered shock. “Your eyes, Rysh, they went completely blue, pale as ice and less alive. Arimelin save me, but it was foul!”

I reached for her hand and after a hesitation, a breath only but unmistakably reluctant, she gave it to me. I clung to her like a drowning man as we shared a look and remembered Aiten’s death together.

“I’m so very sorry we had to put you through that,” Tonin began hesitantly, plucking absently at the slashed sleeves of his purple jerkin, the latest Ensaimin style from the north, which he wore with none of the required bravado. “I’ll admit I was hoping for a rather more revealing contact than we have had with other subjects, given the extraordinary sympathy you’ve established with the D’Alsennin sword, but that turned out to be dramatic beyond anything I expected. I certainly had no idea it would be quite so dangerous. I cannot explain it, though I’ll address myself to the question at once, obviously.”

The shock in his voice made me realize I had been through something even more traumatic than I had realized, still dazed as I was. I looked at Livak again. “At least it’s all over now. No more dreams, no more voices in my head.”

She looked over at Tonin and I followed her gaze to see him looking first startled then guilty. “It is over, isn’t it?” she demanded in a dangerous tone.

“Well…” Tonin clasped his notes nervously to his barrel of a chest and I remembered thinking before that he was somewhat overtimid, both for a man of his size and of such standing in his learned community. His hands were soft too, never toughened by anything more demanding than paper or pen.

“Has Planir lied to me?” I managed to sit up and looked around instinctively for my sword. Still reasoning too slowly, I was thinking I might be using it on the Archmage, before remembering the cursed blade was what had run me into his snares in the first place.

“No one has told you untruths, not deliberately anyway.” Tonin moved closer, his voice more confident. “It’s just that we didn’t realize what we were dealing with. We have all been misled by only having such partial information. We all thought these dreams were echoes of the past, carried by the artifacts. Now we know better, it’s clear the actual consciousness of the original owner is held in the item and communicating with the unconscious mind of whoever possesses it in the present. That can never have been foreseen, or intended, for that matter.”

“Temar’s been doing a cursed sight more than communicate with my unconscious mind,” I just managed not to snarl. “Are you telling me I still have him lurking in the back of my head?”

“For the moment, I’m afraid so,” sighed Tonin with unfeigned regret. “I’ll set to work at once, go through all the references and that Arimelin archive, see what I can do for you.”

I was tempted to let my mounting fury find its target in him for an instant, but simple justice held me back. It wasn’t Tonin’s fault and, if he could be believed, it wasn’t even Planir’s, not really. Besides, I was starting to think that the uncharacteristic rages I had been feeling were not my own, but Temar’s. A wave of black depression swept over me as I managed to swing my feet to the floor, my legs feeling as weak as if I’d been lying abed with a four-day fever. “So I risked my life and my sanity for no purpose?”

“Not at all!” Tonin looked most concerned. “Now we know what happened to the colonists in Kel Ar’Ayen—”

As he spoke the image of the great cavern full of silent figures came sweeping over me. I gasped and clutched at the bed, hearing the linen rip beneath my fingers as my heart raced, blood pulsing in my head until I managed to slam a door shut on the vision.

“Ryshad?” I hated to hear the uncertainty in Livak’s tone.

“Yes.” I managed to open my eyes and squint at her, attempting a reassuring smile and evidently failing miserably.

“Saedrin save us, I hate this!” she burst out, the fury in her voice a dim echo on my own wrath. I clung to that bright anger in a vain attempt to ward off the dark surges of despair that threatened me on all sides.

The door opened. “Is he all right?”

“Come in, Shiv,” I said wearily. “I’m upright and conscious, which is about as good as it’s going to get for the moment.”

Whatever Shiv saw in my face evidently shook him, which perversely cheered me up a little. He looked guiltily at Livak, who glared at him, expression fierce.

“I came to see if you wanted to come home with me, if you feel ready,” Shiv glanced at Tonin, “but if you need to stay here—”

“I’ll come.” I got unsteadily to my feet and Livak tucked herself under my arm to give me what support she could.

“It might be better if you waited a while…” protested Tonin weakly as we made our way toward the door.

“No, thank you.” I drew a deep breath and gripped the door handle as much for support as to open it. “Just find a way to throw Temar D’Alsennin out of my head once and for all.”

Outside I was startled to realize the noonday sun was riding high in the cloud-strewn sky. Hadn’t we started this nonsense just after breakfast? I’d sent Shiv with a message, telling Planir to be ready at the second chime of the day and duly I arrived to sit and concentrate obediently on Tonin’s incomprehensible, archaic chants. I had certainly been expecting an unpleasant experience, but never to lose myself so completely as I evidently had. If young D’Alsennin had had the run of my head for that amount of time, no wonder I was feeling so peculiar.

“Come on.” Shiv took my other arm. Leaning heavily on the pair of them, I stumbled along toward the dubious sanctuary of Shiv’s little house. Given the dramatic events still echoing around in my memory, it was rather incongruous to see women with their market baskets, men delivering faggots of firewood, children skipping through a rope tied to a horse-rail, normal life going on all around me. We certainly attracted some curious glances; people must have thought I was a drunk making an early start, but that was the least of my concerns as I struggled with Temar’s increasingly intrusive recollections. I kept seeing Avila trying to hold up Guinalle when she fainted on the boat, Den Fellaemion leaning on Guinalle at a meeting in the settlement, Vahil supporting a wounded man in the frantic flight from the Elietimm invasion. The summer sun was warm on my back but the chill of that distant and long forgotten cavern seemed to have bitten deep into my bones, gnawing at me despite the heat of Hadrumal. By the time Pered opened the door to us, I was shaking again, and not just from fatigue.

Pered took one look at me and shot an accusing glance at Shiv. “I hope Planir’s good and satisfied now,” he said curtly. “Bring him into the kitchen.”

Half lying, half sitting on a settle padded with blankets, I began to feel a little better, a process speedily aided by a large measure of white brandy. As the warmth of the liquor spread through me I wondered for a moment whether this was entirely wise, but I honestly couldn’t see how it could make anything worse by this stage. Forcing myself to take slow, deep breaths, I reminded myself how tedious convalescence from any fever or wound can be. It was all a matter of finding the right attitude, wasn’t it? This was simply a different kind of injury, and I would deal with it. Losing my temper was pointless when there was no gain to be had from it; hadn’t I learned that long ago? Enough; I had sworn to myself that I would be taking the tiller to control the direction of my life from now on, and this was as good a place to start as any. Brave words, as long as there was only me to hear them. I shut my eyes and set my jaw against any hint of memory.

Shiv vanished upstairs for a while, reappearing in a formal robe of green broadcloth over close-tailored breeches and clean linen. Pered straightened the collar for him with brisk hands, but his eyes were still unforgiving, even as they shared a brief embrace.

“So what happens now, Shiv?” demanded Livak, her eyes like a stormy sea.

“Planir is calling a full session of the Council for this afternoon,” replied Shiv, which effectively silenced us all. “He wants you there, Ryshad.”

“He’s in no condition to speak,” Pered objected heatedly.

“Not to speak, just to listen, to comment if he wants to,” said Shiv placatingly. “To learn what Planir intends. It’s just that you’re so deeply involved in all of this, Rysh, that Planir feels it’s only right you should have the chance to participate in any decision-making.”

“What do you think?” I looked at Livak.

“I hate it,” she said simply. “I don’t trust wizards, I’m sorry, Shiv, but I never have.”

“I have to see this through,” I reminded her, “if I’m to be able to hand back my oath with any measure of honor left to me.”

Livak gritted her teeth audibly. “I know, but it still makes my skin crawl.”

“Believe me, I understand.” I closed my eyes wearily.

“Does anyone want something to eat?” asked Pered, more for something to say than anything else.

We ate a desultory meal, largely in silence, Shiv awkward in his finery. I picked at some bread, but found I was still somewhat nauseous, shoving it away with relief when a great bell tolled out over the city and Shiv jumped to his feet.

“That’s the Council summons,” he said tensely. “Come on.”

Livak and I exchanged a glance and followed Shiv to the door.

“I’ll see you soon.” Pered waved after us, his expression one of concern warring with irritation as he looked after his partner, already a way down the street ahead of us.

I was immeasurably relieved to find the strength returning to my legs; I wasn’t about to appear before this Council leaning on Livak, however badly Planir might want me there. We walked slowly down to the hall, finding Shiv hovering anxiously in the archway.

“It’s this way,” he said unnecessarily, leading the way to a forbidding door banded with enough iron to stop a fully manned battering ram. This gave on to a short flight of stairs, topped by another grim portal, deep sigils carved into the wood, iron bolts tying in the metal reinforcements. I did not allow myself to be too overawed; I’ve stood before the Emperor’s throne in the Imperial audience chamber of Toremal more than once. My step faltered at that notion as I remembered the destruction I had seen the Elietimm visit upon the place, if only in augury.

The Council chamber itself was impressive, that I have to admit. It took me a moment to realize there were no windows, the illumination inside was so intense. It was not sunlight, but came from a ball of pure radiance hanging in the center of the vaulted ceiling, a visible display of the magic that had its focus here. The room was circular, dark oaken chairs of varying ages and styles arranged all around the walls, each with a niche molded into the soft yellow stonework. In the middle an empty circular dais was positioned directly under the ball of light and I wondered who would be standing there, every eye on him. Not me, that was for certain.

Mages of every age and appearance were filing into the great chamber: aged, youthful, ragged, prosperous, placid, alert, some moving swiftly, faces preoccupied, others more slowly, a couple looking frankly vague—and they were two of the younger ones. Some were dressed in finery fit for the Emperor’s court, some looked as they had just stepped out of a tisane house, with every style of dress between to be seen around the room. Not everyone took a seat at first; here and there knots of men and women stood in close conversation, heads close together, glances darting to either side as they exchanged opinions.

“Here.” Shiv led us to three plain seats to the immediate side of the great door. I leaned back in my chair, observing the scene, looking for any clues to which way the tides would be running. All conversation halted for a moment as Planir swept in, Otrick and Usara in his train, all dressed in formal robes of shining silk. I remembered the old wizard, Otrick, from our voyage back from the Ice Islands when he had looked no better than a pirate, braiding the winds in his hands to destroy the Elietimm ships pursuing us. Now he looked every measure the mage as he strode briskly across the yellow flagstones, an azure gown resplendent with embroidery, the sinuous shape of a dragon just apparent amid the design of clouds, if you knew to look it out.

Usara was wearing an amber robe rather than the undistinguished brown I had always seen him in previously. Silver thread was worked down the front to frame gemstones highlighting a complex pattern of angled lines. For a man who usually seemed so diffident there was no trace of hesitation in his step; he carried his head high, a fine rod of white gold in one hand. Planir reached his seat and turned in his heel to survey the waiting wizards, drawing all eyes irresistibly to him. He was all in black, the cut of his robe impeccable, discreet ebony embroidery on the darkness, a touch of sable at the collar for a hint of luxury, hair close-cropped and face clean-shaven, eyes bright and dangerous. He put me in mind of a raven, watching and waiting, ready to fly through a rainbow carrying tidings to the Eldritch Kin, their concerns beyond mortal ken. As their Archmage stood there, silent, expectant, the various mages rapidly found their places, the last to seat himself in a highly polished and canopied chair, a fat man in an overelaborate mantle of red velvet flames.

Planir raised a hand and I expected him to speak, but instead a metallic whisper at my side made me turn my head to the door. As I watched, the great straps of iron that bound the wood spread themselves, shimmering and running into each other and over the door jambs to seal the entrance with a solid sheet of metal. Livak and I exchanged a dubious glance.

“So, you have all had a report of what Mentor Tonin’s rites have discovered for us, through the D’Alsennin sword and the courage of Ryshad Tathel.” I kept my face impassive as Planir nodded a brief acknowledgment in my direction before continuing briskly. “I do not propose to reiterate this information; time is pressing, so I will open the floor to debate.”

Wizards on all sides looked at each other; this was clearly some departure from established practice. I was not surprised to see the fat man in red was the first on his feet, his expression eager.

“I think, Archmage, that these researches are now quite clearly complete. You have been telling us for several seasons now that your aim is to establish the fate of this colony, and now you have your answer. While it is always interesting to be able to put such a firm conclusion to a question of historical record and, I will allow, it is a rare achievement, there is now nothing more to be said on the subject. The colony failed, these people are lost and now we must turn our minds to more pressing matters.”

The wizard adopted a lordly pose, one plump and lavishly beringed hand resting on his chest. “It is time wizardry began to play an active role in the affairs of the mainland and I can see no more opportune time when we have clear evidence of such a threat causing such concern to the Princes of Tormalin. We have been keeping our peace at your insistence while Mentor Tonin and his scholars attempted to complete their researches, but now we must act. I know your modesty will not permit you to take all the credit, Planir, but this Council should know that you, in your office as Archmage, have taken considerable pains to locate and trace the movements of the envoys from these Ice Islands who are even now attempting to undermine the security of Tormalin and the ocean coast. The business of this Council must be to decide how we are to rid the mainland of these insidious vermin. In doing so, not only will we put paid to their schemes in short order but we will also demonstrate our undoubted right to participate in the decisions of the ruling classes, wherever they may be.”

“You are very confident of your ability to drive out these Elietimm, Kalion.” A sturdy woman in crimson with a no-nonsense expression spoke, rising from a chair on the far side of the sealed door from me. “May I ask how you propose to combat a magic we patently still fail to understand?”

“I remain to be convinced that this aetheric artifice is such a threat as has been suggested.” Kalion’s reply was patronizing enough to set my teeth on edge; he had barely sat long enough for his broad arse to dent his cushion before getting to his feet again. “The scholars who have been researching it for many seasons now have little more to show for their pains than festival tricks and curiosities.”

Livak stirred beside me and I knew she was remembering the savage sorcery that the Elietimm had wielded to such dire effect on our trip to their cursed islands. I blinked on a sudden memory that had to be Temar’s; of the ship, the Eagle, her rails lined with the mindless bodies of her crew, and I struggled to conceal a shiver of apprehension.

“I rather think you’re missing the point, Kalion.” The woman was unbothered by the big man’s superior attitude. “The question is not what we can achieve with this enchantment, it is rather what these Elietimm can do.”

“Surely the Archmage’s information makes such questions irrelevant?” Kalion flicked his hand in a throwaway gesture. “The basis for this magic was destroyed along with the Empire, if his conjectures are correct, as I am sure they are.”

“What about all this nonsense in the Archipelago, this cult of the Dark Queen or whatever it was?” objected a mage with a Lescari accent, looking up from a handful of notes. “Isn’t that a clear attempt by the Elietimm to create a focus of belief so as to provide themselves with a source of power?”

“You know, I’ve been wondering about that,” his neighbor said eagerly. “Do you think this means there is a limit on the distance over which they can draw on this aetheric potential? Are they in any sense cut off from the power vested in their home islands when they are on the mainland?”

I kept my face expressionless as several others joined the discussion and Kalion seated himself reluctantly, still leaning forward, ready to be first to his feet again. If the Convocation ran their debates in Toremal like this, the great Houses would never have risen anew above the Chaos. Shouldn’t one of the Archmage’s roles be to conduct this Council? I looked at Planir as I was thinking this but, seeing the keenness in his eyes, concluded things were indeed taking just the course he wanted.

“I have a more pertinent question regarding the collapse of this aetheric magic.” A short but sturdy man in blue rose to his feet on the far side of the chamber. “This new tale takes us up to the loss of the colony but I still do not see how the Artifice, aetheric magic, call it what you will, was in fact destroyed. I thought the whole purpose of these highly risky proceedings was to discover this very thing? What progress has been made on this issue?”

“We have been giving the matter our closest attention, Rafrid,” Usara spoke up and walked swiftly to the center of the room, rod in hand. “We contend that it is all a matter of balance. I would remind you all that such concepts of harmony and symmetry were central to Ancient Tormalin religious practice, albeit those ideas have been largely obscured in later liturgy.” As he spoke, he lifted the rod to a level with his eyes and then removed his hand, leaving the gleaming metal bar hanging in the empty air. “The scholar Geris Armiger established, I think beyond argument, that this aetheric magic draws its power from the unconscious potential of the mind, a capacity greatly enhanced when those minds are focused on a common loyalty or belief. Forgive me, I know you will all have read the relevant dissertation.”

A glance around the room soon told me who had and who either had not or was a wizard to avoid meeting over a game of runes or Raven. I saw a faint smile in Usara’s eyes as he looked around the room, halting briefly at Planir, bowing slightly before continuing.

“Mentor Tonin’s researches suggest that this potential is a collective phenomenon, a reservoir of power without defined boundaries. I am sure he will be only too happy to go through the evidence if any of you wish to consult him later. For the moment, it is sufficient to say that two groups wielding aetheric magic may oppose each other absolutely, be convinced of radically different philosophies or ambitions, yet remain linked by the underlying principle.”

With a wave of his hand, Usara’s bar became the beam of a balance, a pan on either end heaped high, one with black crystals, one with white.

“The Lady Guinalle was certainly learned in the practical applications of her Artifice but I get no sense that she, or indeed any of her teachers, fully understood the fundamentals of the power they were using. Her youth alone suggests no lengthy period of study. Our contention is this: in removing such a large number of people from the equation, including a disproportionate element trained in focusing the aether or as they called it Artifice, Guinalle inadvertently unbalanced the entire supporting structure of that power.”

Usara snapped his fingers. The white crystals cascaded toward the floor to be followed by the black as the balance swung wildly up and down. He bowed at the faint ripple of applause and amusement running around the room and picked the rod out of the air, crystals and scale pans disappearing with a flash.

“That is all very interesting but we should address ourselves to the Tormalin—” The wizard Kalion was up in the next instant, struggling to hide a scowl as Usara’s theatrics diverted the attention of the gathering from his intended purpose for the debate.

“Kindly allow the rest of us to participate in this discussion, Hearth-Master.” A tiny, wrinkled woman in a crumpled leaf-green robe stood with some effort, leaning heavily on a carved, crooked stick. Nevertheless her voice cut through the room like a hot blade through wax. She fixed Usara with a glittering eye, keen as a dagger. “Young man, I find it very hard to believe that these people, with all the tradition of scholarship of which we have been told, had so little understanding of the fundamentals of their art that such a mistake could be made. No mage here would make such an error; few apprentices beyond their first season’s training could!”

One of the younger wizards in gray with a discreet scarlet trim to his tunic stood, his expression thoughtful and his manner assured despite his lack of years in such a company. “I think, Shannet, that it would be more accurate to say that no apprentice would have the opportunity to make such an error these days. Here in Hadrumal, we have twenty generations of research and scholarship to support us, a thorough understanding of the laws of magic as they pertain to the elements. Yet we have all read the diaries of those who first came to this island with the founding Archmage Trydek, have we not? Those early wizards were working with purely empirical knowledge, mere fragments of the understanding we now have. What little learning those mages came with was garnered from widely differing traditions, acquired in an entirely haphazard manner. The early history of Hadrumal is one of experimentation, trial and error, is it not? Magic was used extensively for many generations with a very imperfect understanding of its nature. I see no reason why these Ancients should not have been using their Artifice with as little basis on true wisdom.”

“Given they believed their power was god-given, why would they have felt the need to explain its origins anyway?” a wizard similar enough in age and appearance to the first to be his brother chipped in, not bothering to stand.

“Who’s to say it was an error, anyway?” A tall, spare man in ocher robes got briefly to his feet. “This girl may have known exactly what she was doing, killing two birds with the one stone as it were; saving her folk and striking at the enemy in the one enchantment.”

The immediate doubt in my mind at this proposal was unmistakably tinged with Temar’s reactions.

“But what of the effect on the Empire in Tormalin?” protested a motherly-looking woman. “Granted Nemith the Last’s misrule had seriously undermined Tormalin power by that point, but it was the collapse of the magic that precipitated the final downfall!”

“I think you will find all the writings on harmony and balance date from the generations immediately after the Chaos,” a nervous-looking young man near Usara bobbed up to speak. He looked as if he had more to say, but he lost his nerve and sat again.

I gritted my teeth and ignored the stray thoughts trying to hook my attention, concentrating hard on the increasingly wide-ranging debate as further wizards discussed the nature of the scholarship of magic. Most of it went completely over my head, so I watched Planir and Kalion instead, the former silent and poised like a waiting hawk, the latter visibly irritated at his inability to steer the meeting in his chosen direction. I can’t be sure but I think I saw a brief glance exchanged by Planir and the mage Rafrid before the latter rose to speak again.

“I think we can agree to accept Usara’s contention as a working hypothesis until more compelling evidence emerges to refute it, can’t we?” said Rafrid mildly. “Interesting though this debate has become, I would like to know what those scholars working with Mentor Tonin feel their next step should be?”

All eyes turned to Tonin, who got slowly to his feet, a sheaf of parchments in one hand betraying him with a faint fluttering. “Now that we have the Arimelin archive from Claithe to complement the records of the Dimaerion traditions in eastern Solura, I am hopeful that we could attempt to reunite the minds and persons of these ancient Tormalins, were we able to bring the artifacts and bodies together. We have increased our understanding of the lesser uses of the aetheric principles in recent seasons and I am hopeful that we have identified rites that would reunite that which Artifice presently keeps separate.”

My own surge of hope at Tonin’s quiet words was echoed by an answering desire ringing through the back of my mind. I was suddenly convinced Temar was as eager to be free of me as I was to be rid of him.

Rafrid stood patiently as a surge of speculation ran around the room, eventually subsiding as the assembled mages looked at each other and finally back at him. He looked around the room. “Should we consider doing this?”

“Of course,” said the woman who had first answered Kalion. “Think of the information they could give us, about this aetheric magic, about all the mysteries of the Ancients that were lost in the Chaos.” She shot a hard glance at the fat wizard. “Then we will know exactly what we are facing in these Elietimm and their peculiar magic.”

“These people have been lost for, what, twenty-five generations or more?” scoffed a balding man in brown, “and you are proposing to restore them to life again? Their families are long gone, any land or possessions scattered to the four winds, in every sense that matters, these people are as good as dead. I appreciate there are many scholars curious about the fall of the Tormalin Empire, but I hardly think it reasonable to thrust these unfortunates into our world, when so many changes have happened, when so little from their own age has survived, just to satisfy an intellectual curiosity. What’s done is done. These people should remain at rest. Nothing will be gained by such an attempt at rescue so long after the event.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” one of the younger mages spoke up, again without standing. “Read the primary sources, Galen. Look at the language and ideas. Consider the vast amount of knowledge lost in the Chaos. I’d say we of this generation have more in common with the people of the last days of the Empire than with almost any generation in between.”

“I don’t necessarily agree with that, Reis, but am I right in thinking the dreams that these artifacts have been provoking indicate these people are far from at rest.” A severe-looking man in his middle years looked at Tonin. “Is that not so?”

“I would certainly argue that the intensity and detail of the dreams reflects the desires of the subject to be free of the enchantment,” nodded Tonin, his voice confident. I could definitely confirm that, I thought grimly.

“Surely, now that we have this knowledge, we have a duty to rescue these individuals from this undeath?” a plain young woman in a modest rose dress spoke up suddenly, blushing at her own daring. “We cannot condemn them to an eternity in the shades, neither in this world or the other, at the mercy of Poldrion’s demons. Such a fate should only befall the worst of people, not innocents such as these.”

From the expressions around the room, I gathered traditional religious beliefs were not common among the wizardry. The girl sat down again, ducking her head and clutching a shawl to her. I realized I remembered her from a brief meeting the previous year—Allin, I recalled her name was.

“You say this restoration is something you could attempt?” A petite woman in an expensively cut turquoise gown stood, fine-boned hands clasped together, head tilted, birdlike as she looked at Tonin. “You are not certain of your rites, as I understand it; rather you have been piecing them together from various traditions and sources of lore?”

“I am confident that we have sufficient reason to make the attempt,” replied Tonin carefully. “I would argue that our priority should be the woman Guinalle. Her skills would then supplement our own knowledge and aid us in reviving the remaining colonists.”

“But what if there is some flaw in your ritual, some vital piece of information missing?” persisted the elegant mage. “What will happen then? Does failure risk the irretrievable loss of this suspended mind? Are you prepared for such consequences?”

“Ely has a point. Have all the potential sources of information been exhausted?” inquired a nearby wizard thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should wait a season or so, make sure all the knowledge available has been gathered?”

“We have already sent word to Bremilayne,” the scholar interjected hastily, “to see what can be learned from the Shrine of Ostrin, since D’Alsennin’s tale makes such significant mention of it.”

“What about that girl whom you still can’t revive, Mentor Tonin? What of her fate?” demanded a voice from somewhere. I saw Tonin flush miserably.

“May I make a point?” A mage in a workaday jerkin of no significant color and buff breeches raised a hand. “If this rite requires both the body and the artifact, any discussion of whether we should do this remains entirely academic until we have located the cave in question. This discussion is irrelevant until we have some idea of where to look. Are you proposing that we cross the ocean in search of this unknown land, Archmage?”

Planir remained seated as he looked at the wizard posing the question. “Clearly that would be essential, Herion, should the Council decide to pursue this. However, that is not such a startling proposal as it might seem. With the assistance of the House of D’Olbriot, we have found copies of the original charts made by Den Fellaemion’s early expeditions. Given we sailed deep into the ocean last year to rescue Messire D’Olbriot’s man over there from the Ice Islands, Cloud-Master Otrick is now well acquainted with the currents and wind systems prevailing in the eastern waters. Moreover, now that the tale of this colony has been uncovered, albeit in part, both Messire D’Olbriot and the Emperor Tadriol himself have expressed an interest in finding the lands in question and offered all aid at their disposal.”

I saw the fat wizard Kalion’s eyes grow shrewd as he worked that fact into his calculations.

A burly man of middle height stood, waving one hand in an urgent demand for attention. “In which case, we should wait until these Tormalins have made the attempt and see what they discover. What is to be gained by running such risks ourselves when for all we know these bodies may have rotted away entirely, been crushed in a rock fall, been eaten by wild beasts?”

“Mentor Tonin tells us that the ability of the artifact to promote dreams is linked to the continued existence of the body itself!” An untidily dressed female of uncertain age sprang to her feet, her tone scornful. “As you would know had you read his submission properly, Edlow.”

This exchange sparked a more heated debate on a wider front. The noise grew as several separate arguments raged, the flames fanned by discourtesy on all sides, from those supporting the rescue of the colonists as well as from those dismissing the whole idea.

“What happens now?” I asked Shiv, leaning close to make myself heard over the hubbub.

“Watch Planir,” he advised, a smile in his eyes, if not on his carefully neutral face.

As I looked, the Archmage exchanged a few words with both Otrick and Usara and then walked swiftly to the dais in the center of the room. Silence fell and Planir swept a low bow to the assembled wizards, his back to me.

“The wizard Viltred Sern wishes to speak. I would ask that you give his words serious consideration.” Unmistakable authority rang through the Archmage’s voice as Viltred, whom I had not even noticed sitting quietly on the far side of the room, made his way to the central dais. The old wizard was leaning on a slim cane but his color was better than I remembered it, his clothes no longer threadbare but newly made of stout gentian broadcloth. When he spoke, his voice was calm and assured, the old man seeming to gain in stature as he surveyed the gathering.

“You are debating whether you should or should not attempt to raise the lost settlers of Kel Ar’Ayen to life again as if it were some scholarly exercise, as if you had all the time in the world to come to a decision or to do yet more research in a bid to guarantee success.”

His faded gaze swept around the seated wizards and his voice grew more cutting.

“Drag your heads out of your close-written scrolls and sheltered researches for a moment. Consider what is happening in the real world, even as we speak. The Archmage has told you what his agents have been reporting to him, has he not? These Men of the Ice, these Elietimm, have been appearing among the Aldabreshi since the turn of the year before last, and now we know why. They are spreading this cult, this worship of the Queen of the Dark Moon. What is their purpose? Now we know; these Elietimm are creating a reserve of aetheric power to fuel their sorcery, which grows stronger with each convert to this new cult. Do not imagine that conversions will cease; the worship of a powerful female deity will find many takers among the Aldabreshi Warlords’ women folk, whatever their other philosophies.”

Viltred paused for a moment and shook his head. “Set aside the questions of magic for a moment; what else are these so-called priests doing? The experiences of D’Olbriot’s sworn man make it clear that these Elietimm are actively working to spread their influence in the Archipelago and shrink from little in their determination to do so; imagine the man assaulting a Warlord’s wife with complete disregard for the consequences, no less! Am I the only one concerned at the prospect of a hostile race gaining a hold over those who contribute so much to the decisions the Warlords make? Look to the future; what if holding a cult in common has the effect of unifying the domains? Where will Aldabreshin eyes turn then, if they no longer watch each other so closely?” Viltred walked around the edge of the circular dais as he spoke, his words lashing the assembled wizards.

“Another question: what power did this priest have that gave him the confidence to ignore the might of an Aldabreshi Warlord in his very encampment? Evidently he had sufficient capabilities to remove himself bodily from peril when his sorcery failed to overcome Ryshad’s will. Let us think about that for a moment; we can all translocate ourselves if need be, but what of this dominance over the mind? This aetheric magic has facets we cannot match, however strong our own enchantments in other spheres. We know these Elietimm retain their knowledge of the old sorcery, despite having lost their original source of power. Consider the implications of what you are being told! The Elietimm have crossed the ocean again, a feat that we know requires magical aid from whatever discipline, aetheric or elemental. Quite clearly they have somehow restored themselves; they are now able to apply that knowledge and take to the open seas for the first time in twenty or more generations! They are working from a position of strength, do not doubt it.”

The mage took a pace backward, to the center of the dais where the magelight overhead grew faintly tinted with blue under the force of his passion.

“We are not here to debate the rights and wrongs of an erudite moral dilemma! We are facing very real dangers. These men who are even now spreading their lies among the Aldabreshi are of the same race as those who attacked and defeated the Kel Ar’Ayen settlements with savagery, madness and death by sorcery. Read the tale that D’Olbriot’s man has brought you, of the last days of D’Alsennin and his attempts to defend those beleaguered colonists. Ask yourselves how you would counter the magics that were used if you should find them raised against Hadrumal? Remember—no matter how much we may learn about this magic of the mind and matter, we cannot use it. Not one of the weakest mage-born has been able to master the simplest cantrips of an illiterate Lescari hermit. Our magic is powerful, but I prefer to fight fire with my own fire. The finest sword in the world is little use if your enemy is using a pike or a crossbow!”

Viltred turned and spread his hands in a dismissive gesture. “Not that these Elietimm will be interested in Hadrumal of course, not when far richer and more helpless game grazes all unsuspecting for their arrows. If these Elietimm wage war against Tormalin now, what is there to resist them? With all due respect to Mentor Tonin and his scholars, aetheric magic these days is reduced to little more than a meaningless jumble of superstition and half-remembered incantations. Our practitioners of aetheric enchantments certainly cannot meet the Elietimm on anything approaching level ground. Can we mages defeat them with our own magics? Perhaps, but I do not share Hearth-Master Kalion’s certainty. More to the point, would we be allowed to? Can anyone here seriously imagine the Emperor allowing the wizards of Hadrumal free rein with fire, flood and storm, even if it is to defend his lands? I do not see that happening before the situation is utterly desperate. How long do you think it would take these sorcerers to gain a hold on the mainland if they really want to?”

Viltred gripped his cane in one thin hand and shook his fist at the assembled mages. “Whatever the risks, whatever the dangers of drowning ourselves in the far ocean or condemning these unfortunates trapped in enchanted sleep to madness or darkness, I tell you that we should not be debating whether we can afford to try to revive these people! Rather the question is can we afford not to, can we afford to face the threat of this Elietimm sorcery without some true knowledge of aetheric magic, without at least one person who knows these people and what they are capable of? Make no mistake, this threat is real and it is not going to go away. We know they are already covertly attacking our ability to resist them; you have all been told of their attacks on Tormalin shrines over the winter seasons. Why else would they do this, if not to destroy the last vestiges of aetheric lore remaining to us? I am here myself, forced into flight to escape torture and death at Elietimm hands, leaving them free to steal some few things from the lost colony that I recovered on my voyage with Azazir.”

Viltred paused for a moment, struggling with an understandable desire to remind the Council of the derision that had always greeted the tales of that journey. To his credit, the old wizard rose above the urge, continuing his challenge in a harsh voice.

“There’s another question! Ryshad’s testimony shows the extent of Elietimm interest in these artifacts from Kel Ar’Ayen, even more than my own experiences. Possessing the D’Alsennin sword was so important to this so-called priest that he was prepared to risk not only doing murder but working his enchantments in the very heart of the Archipelago, with all the dangers that entailed. How important would a quest have to be before any of you would risk the torments the Warlords reserve for the crime of magic? Ask yourselves— why do these Elietimm want these artifacts for themselves? I don’t know, but I’ll wager a pennyweight to a pack-load that it bodes ill for the colonists if we do not rescue them! In all conscience and logic, how can we do anything else?”

The room erupted into chaos as the mages all tried to speak at once, shouting each other down with scant regard for the formalities of debate, leaping to their feet on all sides. Viltred returned to his seat and sat down, arms folded tight, breathing hard, passion burning in his fierce eyes. Planir sat on his plainly carved chair, face calm but a spark of cunning deep in his eyes. There was an alertness to his relaxed posture that reminded me of a hunting heron, ready to strike when the moment was right.

I couldn’t see what signalled that moment but Planir suddenly sprang to his feet, a carved ebony staff appearing in his hand from the empty air. The foot of the stave came down on the flagstones with a ringing strike that silenced the chamber. As the mages stood motionless, cut off in mid-pronouncement, Planir strode to the dais.

“Be seated. This debate has lasted long enough. We have a clear choice before us. Do we act or not? Do we take what knowledge we have and try to rescue the settlers of Kel Ar’Ayen, or do we do nothing, simply continuing our researches despite the Elietimm threat?” He struck the dais with the staff, the hollow boom echoing around the great chamber as the wizards hurried to their seats. “Those for action?”

Mages all around the room raised their hands, some with papers clutched in them, some with staff or rods. Beams of radiance streamed from them and gathered in the center of the room, coalescing in a brilliant pattern of coruscating light, cyan, saffron and rose flickering on the very edge of sight.

“Those against?” Planir demanded.

The remaining wizards summoned their powers and sent tendrils of shadow into the shifting luminescence, strands of darkness weaving into the light and dimming it, softening the luster with shades of jade, vermilion and indigo. The pattern hung in the air, the colors twisting around each other in a dizzying confusion. I blinked and leaned toward Shiv, careful not to risk touching the stream of emerald light rising from his outspread hands.

“What’s the purpose of this?”

Shiv’s eyes did not leave the twisting and tangled rainbow above our heads. “The Council does not make its judgments on mere numbers but on the strength of will shown by those called to give judgment,” he said softly. “Watch.”

I watched as the colors writhed and fought, casting strange reflections on the upturned faces all around the room. The shadows grew, thickened and dimmed the radiance but could not put it out, suddenly fading as color as intense as sunlight striking off gemstones burned through the darkness.

“Enough.” Planir banged his staff a third time and the colors vanished, leaving blinding white radiance that scoured the eyes. “The decision of the Council is for action. So be it!”