For Ron

Published by

Dell Publishing Co., Inc.

1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza New York, New York 10017

Copyright © 1979 by Linda E. Bushyager

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc. ISBN: 0-440-15871-0

Printed in the United States of America First printing—July 1979

1

The man and the bird were one. Wings stretching, head lifting, the hawk arched upward into the warming dawn. The telepathically linked minds felt exhilarated as the crisp spring air rushed over the hawk's feathers.

The bird wheeled slowly northward above a green-gold meadow splotched with dandelion-yellow and daisy-white, passing quickly over the dark shape of the man who sat and watched his hawk. Through his human senses he studied the hawk gliding above, smelled the smoldering campfire, and heard the alarmed calls of birds catching sight of the hawk. As the bird he was aware of a patchwork of forest and meadow, pungent horse-sweat, acrid burning and cloying blossom odors, and shrill bird cries that slightly excited him, even though he had just eaten.

The bird flew higher, following the winding dirt trail of the overgrown Buchanan Road into the foothills of the Blue Mountains. It rode the strong northeasterly air currents to best advantage, gliding and ascending with the updraft, conserving its energy for the long trip.

Enjoying the sensations of flight, the man immersed himself further in the hawk's senses. He stretched his wings and soared toward the azure-domed heavens. He was in his element, free of the constraints of the earth, no longer isolated or lonely, but now a part of something greater than himself, a part of the sky, a part of the universe.

The wind shifted, and the bird dived toward the earth. The air became a deafening roar that blasted against the plunging hawk. The sensation was breathtaking.

Then as the vast green world seemed to rush up to meet it with almost irresistible finality, the bird opened its wings, pulled out of the dive, and zipped over the treetops. The man's exhilaration was close to ecstasy.

Then he spotted something moving along the road.

Abruptly the thrill of flight vanished as he remembered his mission. Circling for a closer look, he scrutinized the trail for activity.

A party of soldiers traveled down the road from the Blue Mountains toward the town of Threeforks in the southwest. The morning sun glared back at the sky, reflected from the silver buckles and braid and the scabbards of their swords. There appeared to be about two dozen men in the group, but the overgrown trail hid many of the details.

The hawk dropped lower and headed back toward Threeforks, seeking a better vantage point. It drifted over the pines and pin oaks edging the path and then dipped downward into the coolness of the forest.

The bird perched in the branches of an oak overlooking a wider bend in the road. As it pruned and preened its feathers with its curved black beak, the man enjoyed the tickling and scratching sensations as much as the bird.

Leaves rustled and twigs broke as frightened birds and animals bolted through the greenery along the trail. The forest was filled with a cacophony of sounds that frightened the hawk and alerted the man: hoofbeats, clanking, squeaking, voices, leather rubbing on leather—the rushing, grinding sounds of horsemen.

The silver trim on the soldiers' black uniforms glinted through the leaves and branches. Then the shadow-dappled shapes of horses and riders came into full view. The soldiers rode slowly and carefully, as though through unfamiliar and possibly hostile territory. Their horses glistened with sweat.

Leading the company, a tall, wiry man wearing the red cloak of a sorcerer signaled his troops to increase their pace. He wore the insignia of the Imperial Army of the Taral Empire.

While observing the soldiers through his hawk, the man in the meadow some twenty miles to the southwest took out his notebook and jotted down the details. His tanned hands and arms were scarred from years of handling hawks, falcons, and other birds of prey, the same birds that had given him his name.

For the man was called Hawk; but he did not know his birth name or even if he had ever had one.

Hawk had expected to see more soldiers, because a large portion of the Empire's army was almost in position to invade the Kingdom of York from the south. His mission was to locate the smaller contingent of troops massing in the north, estimate their number, and transmit the information to Castle York.

As the last of the soldiers passed the watching hawk, it rose slowly and resumed its flight into the mountains.

Dipping and soaring along the treetops, it searched for any signs of more men, but as the hours passed, the trail remained clear.

Meanwhile, Hawk sipped lukewarm water from his canteen and poured some into a pan for his horse. Then he stretched and bent, slowly working out the stiffness of his muscles. He felt strangely awkward and bulky after the lightness and grace of his hawk. He always felt awkward compared to the birds.

As his control of the bird's mind grew stronger, the sense of oneness returned. He soared through the azure sky, his powerful wings beating in a slow, steady rhythm. But the flight was no longer effortless or exhilarating, and the bird's fatigue and growing hunger became his own.

The hills had become long dark ridges broken to the north by the bright blue beads of a chain of lakes. The first real mountain lay to the south. On its summit stood the ruins of Castle Buchanan.

Although most of the rust-red stones and bricks lay in century-old abandonment, Hawk saw that part of the complex bustled with activity—a large company of Empire troops was using it as a staging area.

The hawk circled down over the crumbling keep and half-fallen watchtower that were the tallest structures remaining among the disintegrating walls and overgrown courtyards. New fortifications had been hastily erected around them, and the black and silver banners streaming from hollow windows indicated that they were now inhabited. Where the north wall of the Great Chamber had fallen away, the army had set up tents and some small wooden buildings. Pieces of wall with magnificent, empty arched windows and stone paneling now formed the target area for an archery range.

The hawk swooped lower, seeking a perch near the new fortifications. Suddenly it heard a low shriek from behind and felt the vibration of wings in the air. A large male falcon was overtaking it.

As the hawk turned swiftly and ascended, the falcon followed. It attacked the hawk with raking claws and jabbing beak.

Startled by the unnatural attack, Hawk telepathically probed the falcon to dissuade it. But instead of reaching a falcon's primitive thought pattern of hunger and flight, he felt the strong will of another telepath.

For a moment the two human minds touched through the falcon-link, then the enemy erected a shield that pushed Hawk from the falcon's mind.

Surprised and confused, Hawk tried to use his bird's advantages of height and greater maneuverability to escape the larger falcon. However, the falcon was fresh, so it quickly outdistanced the tired hawk.

Realizing that it could not get away, the hawk turned to fight before it lost the advantage. It dived in a rapid movement to gouge at the falcon with hooked beak and talons. The falcon pressed upward, using its larger body as a battering ram to slow the hawk.

As the hawk attacked with a series of downward thrusts that forced the falcon to dive and circle in a protective effort, a second, female, falcon soared into the sky.

The female reached the grappling birds and flew above them.

Seeing her, the hawk broke off its attack and attempted to outdistance the male falcon and reach the forest beyond the widespread ruins. But the female swooped down on it and clutched at its black head with ironlike claws. The broad wings of the hawk flared as it tried to descend, only to be met by the male falcon butting from beneath.

Hawk felt for the female's thoughts and discovered that it was also under human domination. As he withdrew his probe, the enemy telepath thrust deeply into the hawk's mind in an attempt to wrest control. Hawk fought back, but his foe seemed to possess greater telepathic powers than he.

Realizing that he could not save his bird and that as long as he remained in telepathic contact with the hawk the enemy could attack his mind through the bird-link, Hawk tried to break contact. But the enemy telepath assaulted his mind and held the link open, blocking his retreat.

Hawk lashed back, dodged behind mental barriers, and again tried to escape the hawk. However, his opponent followed, engulfing Hawk in waves of pain, destroying his shields, and disrupting his thought patterns.

Although Hawk tried to protect himself from the blows, the strain and the hours of long-distance telepathy had tired him. He no longer had the strength for an adequate defense. Further, he had not expected to meet another bird-telepath—they were so rare that he had never even met another one—so he had not been prepared for such an eventuality.

The enemy's assault became a razor-sharp sword that cut through Hawk's mind with a force that intensified with his opponent's growing elation at victory.

As his innermost shields began to crumble under the onslaught, Hawk used the last of his strength to break the bonds holding him to his bird's mind. Then as the enemy's presence flooded over him, overwhelming him in a haze of intolerable agony, the bonds snapped, and Hawk's mind hurtled back toward his human body and into a black void that swallowed him and left no trace upon its surface.

The three birds spun through the sky, fluttering and drifting for a moment like three autumn leaves in a whirlwind. They suddenly closed together in a mass of feathers and blood.

The female falcon's claws again raked at the hawk from above, and crimson fluid ran into the hawk's left eye and down its breast. The hawk jabbed at one bird with its beak and at the other with its talons, then quickly released and dove, striving to reach the haven of green beyond the stones. But the other birds worked as an unrelenting team, constantly ripping and clawing at the smaller bird blocking its attempts at escape.

Below, some of the soldiers had stopped their work to become spectators. They now cheered and some clapped as the birds disengaged and the smallest dark shape fluttered downward.

The falcons darted at it once more, and then the hawk's high-pitched screech echoed briefly among the ruins. When released, it fell through the sky like a small black rock.

2

Geoff S'Akron, Lord of the Kingdom of Akron, wielder of the Pendant of Thantos, and second in command of the Northern Imperial Army invading the Kingdom of York, belched twice, loudly, and poured himself another glass of cheap red wine. Lord S'Akron didn't mind the wine's imperfections; it was the first bottle of the day, and therefore the least important.

He was a short, balding lump of a man in his early forties who had recently inherited the title and lands of Akron when his uncle Gregory died without living progeny. This turn of events had annoyed the Council of Seven that ruled the Taral Empire, for Lord Geoff had few of the sorcery skills to which a S'Akron should have fallen heir.

As the Lord of Akron, he governed one of the largest provinces in the Taral Empire and commanded Akron's troops, which made up most of the Imperial force stationed in northern York. Further, Geoff S'Akron had inherited the Pendant of Thantos, a powerstone capable of amplifying the necromantic powers of its wearer. But in Lord Geoff's hands the potentially powerful spellstone could do little to help the Empire.

The sudden, sharp creak of the door opening caused Lord S'Akron to start forward and spill his drink slightly. As he rubbed the spot, S'Akron looked up with dismay to see his cousin Jaxton Sinclair stride into the room. He mistrusted his cousin, for only S'Akron and his son stood between Jaxton and succession to the throne of Akron. And Jaxton was as ambitious as he was clever.

The eye of the peregrine falcon clasp fastening Jaxton's brocade cape glowed scarlet in the candlelight.

"Where's Ramsey?" asked Jaxton brusquely, glancing quickly around the dim room of Castle Buchanan's keep. He stared distractedly at the graffiti on the fire-blackened walls of the common room, thinking of the important news that he had for Ramsey. He did not want to waste time discussing it with an incompetent.

"I wouldn't know . . . " S'Akron paused to sip his wine. "He's not in the habit of telling me things."

For a moment the two men watched each other grimly. Then each began a haughty, sardonic smile, cut off quickly at the sight of the other's smile.

"Is Lord Ramsey casting?" asked Jaxton.

"Casting spells? I hardly think we're ready to attack," scoffed Lord S'Akron, brushing at his wine-stained tunic absentmindedly.

"I thought he might be trying out a few things in preparation for the attack," answered Jaxton with the inflection he normally used when talking to small children.

"Are you implying that the great Ramsey needs to practice his witchcraft?"

Jaxton glared at S'Akron. "Perhaps we all need to practice if we're going to be strong enough to defeat York."

Lord S'Akron looked surprised and laughed derisively. "We're not going to have any trouble taking York . . ." He poured himself another glass of wine. "No trouble at all."

"You're wrong if you think York will fall as easily as the other Eastern Kingdoms . . . "

"We captured Cascar, Cumberland, and Westvirn in one day!" retorted Lord S'Akron.

"The element of surprise wears a little thin after twelve years," replied Jaxton. "Besides, that happened under special circumstances."

He knew that twelve years before, the newly formed Taral Empire had attacked the kingdoms without warning, destroying the Triad, three huge powerstones that had barricaded most of the Eastern Kingdoms against all magic for over a century. Without their own sorcerers, the three major kingdoms had fallen in a single night to the blitzkrieg.

"Since then, whenever we've taken a kingdom and consolidated our gains we've given the remaining kingdoms more time to prepare. The renegades, rebels, and resistance fighters have become increasingly dangerous. Each time it has been a longer, harder victory."

"But a victory!" said Lord S'Akron, pounding his glass on the rough wooden table so hard that the wine slopped over the edge and trickled onto the blackened floor. "And only a few of those in the Western League dare oppose us."

Jaxton looked exasperated. "That's just the point! Now some of them do oppose us and are supporting York. They are trying to maneuver the entire Western League of Kingdoms into attacking the Empire. If that should happen the Empire would be fighting on two fronts."

"Those cowards, they'll never attack us. They've been bickering among themselves for years, and after we've destroyed S'York and his friends, we'll turn west and gobble the League states one by one," Geoff S'Akron said with a satisfied smile.

"While the Western League may not be willing to attack the Empire to save the Eastern Kingdoms, once we attack them, the League and its ruling lords will unite quickly enough. However, I'm not worried about those in the League that won't help S'York, I'm worried about those that will—S'Mayler, S'Elgyn, and S'Decatur—they're the best magicians in the League. And Ramsey believes that the White Tower of N'Omb has sent some of its adepts . . . "

Jaxton paused and Lord S'Akron looked up as the two men sensed rather than heard the entrance of Lord Ramsey, the third ranking member of the Council of Seven and the commander of the Northern Army.

As he swept into the small room, Ramsey seemed even taller than his six feet. A jet-black spellstone hung from a thick gold chain around his neck, and a smaller powerstone of the same oval shape glowed like a ruby on the middle finger of his left hand.

"I was in the courtyard watching your birds, Sinclair," said Ramsey. "The men and I enjoyed the sport."

"I'd like to talk to you about that," replied Jaxton, emphasizing the word "you" in a manner that caused Lord Geoff S'Akron to scowl and rise.

"That's all right, gentlemen, I have important business elsewhere." He threw the now empty wine bottle to the rubble-strewn floor. Then not quite looking them in the eyes, he turned and swaggered out the archway from which Ramsey had entered.

"We're going to have to do something about that oaf," said Ramsey softly as his penetrating blue eyes lingered on Geoff S'Akron's retreating form and then focused on Jaxton's angular features.

Jaxton Sinclair tugged thoughtfully on the ends of his collar-length, dark blond hair. "We have more pressing worries at the moment, Lord Ramsey. I killed more than a hawk."

"Mind-controlled?" asked Ramsey.

"Yes. Our friends at York sent a bird-telepath to spy. I wasn't expecting that. Animal-paths are rare, and I was aware of only one other bird-path, my father. When I sent my falcons after the hawk, it was just for the sport—then I realized that it was mind-linked."

"What happened to the telepath?"

Jaxton smiled. "Unfortunately for the Yorkmen, he won't return. I imagine you'll find the man's body out in the woods beyond the ruins."

"Are you sure you killed him? I don't want his information getting back to York."

"He must be dead. As the birds fought I attacked the man's mind." Jaxton pulled one of the high-backed chairs away from the rough pine table that dominated the sparsely furnished room. He sat down. "He was not a very strong telepath. Before the hawk died, I overwhelmed the human mind and felt it disintegrate and disappear."

"I'll send out a search party for the body," Ramsey decided. "He may have carried papers and maps. Do you have any idea where it might be?"

"No, I didn't get any impression of his exact location, but it should be fairly easy to find."

Ramsey nodded, knowing full well that the maximum telepathic range was the same as that for sorcery —a few miles at most. The body could not be very far from the castle.

"Good," he replied. "But this is another indication that Brian S'York has gathered a wide spectrum of allies to his cause—first those damn League sorcerers, and now telepaths. And what if they should make an alliance with the Sylvan?"

He stepped past the makeshift pine table and concentrated on the map tacked to the wall behind it. The richness of the gold-illuminated parchment contrasted sharply with the dingy wall blackened by countless wayfarers' campfires and marked by their graffiti.

Ramsey studied the oblong kingdom of Cascar lying on York's southern border and the smaller state of Wessex to the southwest. "We know that the rebels hiding out in the badlands west of York and in Wessex's mountains have been trying to form an alliance with the Sylvan for years. So far the Sylvan's distrust of humans has prevented any compact, but those savages must realize that the Empire cannot tolerate them forever. The existence of Sylvan forests scattered throughout the conquered kingdoms is a constant threat to us."

"The Sylvan will keep their neutrality," interjected Jaxton. "Nothing less than an outright attack against them would make the forest people take sides in a human war. They dislike humans as much as we dislike them. Besides, those tree-eaters don't leave their blasted forests anyway. And the Western League won't oppose us; they'll avoid a war at all costs. They still remember the devastation of the Great War against Lord S'Shegan a century ago. They may protest, but they won't take any action. They prefer to hope that the Empire will be satisfied with annexing the Eastern Kingdoms and will leave them alone. For that matter, the Sylvies remember what S'Shegan did to a couple of their forests."

Ramsey sighed. "Sometimes I wish we could avoid this war, but I know Taral, and he won't stop until he's conquered the Western League and the Sylvan, and maybe not then."

He turned from the map and sat in one of the chairs. Then he stared beyond Jaxton as though he saw the future etched among the wall's graffiti. "And he will do it. I've seen his plans for destroying the Sylvan after we've finished with York. When the League finally realizes that they're a target, they'll fight, and Taral will make the Great War look like a skirmish and S'Shegan look like an amateur."

"He did that when he destroyed the powerstones of the Triad," added Jaxton. "After the Eastern Kingdoms erected it as a barrier against S'Shegan's sorcery during the Great War, S'Shegan spent years trying to destroy it without success. In fact, if he hadn't wasted so much of his time and energy trying to neutralize the Triad, S'Shegan might have been strong enough to defeat the alliance that finally broke him."

"Fortunately, Taral has learned from S'Shegan's mistakes," replied Lord Ramsey. "That's why he's conquering one area at a time instead of trying to take on everyone at once, as S'Shegan attempted."

An urgent rapping on the outside door interrupted their discussion.

"Enter," called Ramsey.

A man wearing soiled riding clothes slammed open the door. "Important dispatches, Lord Ramsey."

Ramsey extended his dark hand to receive a bundle of papers in a leather pouch. "Thank you."

As the messenger left, Ramsey quickly reviewed the letters. Then he looked up and nodded at Jaxton.

"From Douglas S'Stratford. He's landed at Swego Bay with the major part of our troops. They are marching east and should meet us at the town of Threeforks in four days."

Jaxton excitedly slapped his palm against the tabletop. "Good. We've all become a bit impatient with this waiting."

"So has Lord Taral. He's sent a note reminding me that his army is just south of the Twin Lakes and will move toward Castle York as soon as we join forces with S'Stratford."

"Another note? As if we didn't know that—sitting here on our hands waiting for the storms over the Inland Sea to abate so that S'Stratford could reach York."

Ramsey picked up another letter and waved it toward the door. "Sinclair, please notify Sergeant Waltner that we will be moving out in the morning. Oh, you'd better tell S'Akron too, he hates being left out of things."

Jaxton stood. "Certainly, Lord Ramsey."

As Jaxton left, Ramsey continued studying the dispatches. Then he edged his chair around so that he could see the map.

The artist had painted the Empire a royal purple, the Western League dark green, and the Eastern Kingdoms red. To the left, the states outlined in green stretched out along the Sissi River like a fat finger pointing southward. The purple dominated the center of the map in a great U shape, with the top left prong poking into the Inland Sea, then arching down and to the east through the former Eastern Kingdoms of Carlton, Richmond, and Westvirn along the coast, and then northward through Cumberland, Wessex, and Cascar. Only York and the smaller kingdoms of Aderon and Douglas to the north remained red.

Ramsey's fingertip traced York's border. "It's isolated," he thought, "and our army is divided into two arms that will strangle York between them."

He studied the map, searching for some error, something he had overlooked, and found nothing. He knew they should win, that they must win. Then with a deep sigh he turned back to the letters, pushing the wisp of foreboding into the back of his mind.

3

Into the nothingness that was everything, the timelessness that was forever, came the sound. It pierced. The sound ebbed and flowed unceasingly and incessantly, giving the blackness substance as it grew in intensity.

The sound broke the darkness into a billion fragments of light and pain. The tones became color—gold and azure; the patterns of yellow and blue battled with the blackness like sun and sky tugging at the night. The azure shrilled and shrieked. The gold harmonized and quieted.

In agony, he recognized the sound. He reached for it, stretching through the emptiness, searching for it, straining for it through the black that became red with pain into the blue and gold, clutching it in the sky and sun.

Scores of birds lifted from the still form as they felt the disquiet of struggling man-thoughts.

Through the throbbing, lingering pain, Hawk returned to consciousness and recognized the sharp, penetrating sound of the birdsongs. Then he opened his eyes to find the birds, which had covered him like a blanket, rising in a blur of beating wings. As the pain surged again through his skull, he closed his eyes and pressed his back into the cradling warmth of the earth.

Through the pain, he gradually became aware of the comforting avian thoughts. The songs continued to wash over him in soothing waves until he merged with the birds' thought patterns completely. Then the birds returned and covered him with fluttering wings and soft bodies.

By the time the late afternoon sun had become a haze of red in the west, Hawk felt strong enough to force his thoughts back through the layers of pain to determine what had happened. He gently sat up and sent the birds toward their resting places in the forest. Then he sorted through his memories.

He remembered clinging to dissolving shreds of identity as the enemy telepath overwhelmed his mind. Then, in the split second of agony before he became unconscious, Hawk had felt his enemy's elation at victory followed by his disappearance as his mind-link to the hawk finally broke.

Suddenly Hawk realized that only his greater than normal telepathic range had saved him—the enemy bird-path had been unable to reach over thirty miles to finish him off. As a rule, most telepathy could send no farther than three to five miles.

But he had been unable to save his hawk, and that knowledge left him with a deep sense of loss. Although he had other trained birds, he felt empty, as though a part of himself had disappeared forever.

Then he heard the plaintive call of a whippoorwill above him. Linking minds with it, he felt somehow comforted. His hawk was gone, but he was not alone.

At least the hawk's death had accomplished something. He had not only gained information about the Imperial troops massed in northern York, but he'd also learned of the enemy bird-path's presence. It seemed ironic finally to meet another bird-telepath, only to find that the man was his enemy.

Now he had to relay that information to Castle York. First he broke his bond with the whippoorwill. Then he picked up his notebook, brushed it off, and flipped it open. Finally he linked with the bird that he'd left at Castle York, about thirty-five miles south.

Lord Brian S'York jumped slightly when the brightly plumed parrot entered the window of his study and landed lightly on the mahogany stand of the globe in front of his desk. But as the parrot spoke in a raspy imitation of Hawk's voice, he couldn't help laughing.

He addressed the parrot: "I'm never going to get used to these damn birds of yours, Hawk."

"And I'm never going to get used to your castle, Lord S'York," replied the bird. "I had to scare two kitchenmaids and peer into half a dozen windows to find you. The accommodations you've provided for my birds atop the east gate are too isolated; no one there knew anything about your daily routine."

"You'd probably prefer that I keep this damn parrot with me at all times in case you have something to report."

"As you wish, sir. Perhaps I'd better get on with my news, controlling this bird's speech is rather difficult."

While Hawk reported on the soldiers he'd seen, the fortifications at Buchanan, and his clash with the falcon-telepath, Lord S'York couldn't help but smile at the sight of a parrot expounding on enemy strategy. Although bizarre, Hawk's method was expedient.

Then he interrupted Hawk's narrative. "Did our substitute messenger arrive?"

"Not while I was there, Lord S'York."

"Although we can't be sure that he'll be accepted, we have to work on that assumption. You'd better ride on to Threeforks and tell Derek S'Mayler what's happened, or send one of your birds," decided S'York.

"I'm sorry, I can't send a bird. I only have one trained parrot to communicate through. Since that first company of soldiers I saw will probably be there in the morning, intending to capture the town, I'd better ride in tonight."

"Very good." Brian S'York smiled grimly. "I hope they like our reception."

For a moment both were silent, each thinking of York's scheme to outwit the Empire's more numerous forces.

Hawk knew that York's allies from the Western League states, Lady Suzanne S'Elgyn and Lord Patrick S'Decatur, were maintaining a sorcery-formed storm over the Inland Sea. They hoped to delay the landing of S'Stratford's troops and their takeover of the Swego port. Hawk didn't know their overall strategy, but he was glad that such powerful sorcerers were on their side.

Derek S'Mayler, another League sorcerer who'd become a personal friend of his, commanded the York forces at the village of Threeforks. A messenger from Taral had been intercepted and replaced by a York man carrying forged dispatches. With any luck Ramsey's troops would walk into an ambush at Threeforks.

Lord S'York broke the silence. "By the way, give my regards to Derek S'Mayler when you see him. Thank N'Omb he's helping us. He's a more powerful magician than I, and almost as good a strategist."

"I will tell him," replied Hawk. As he thought of Derek S'Mayler, he wondered how it was possible for him to be friends with such a man. In many ways they were exact opposites: Derek was noble, the Lord of the Kingdom of Mayler, while Hawk was a commoner, an orphan; Derek was as extroverted as Hawk was shy; and Derek was a leader of men, Hawk only a follower. Yet they had been drawn together from their first meeting and had discovered a wealth of common interests and a mutual respect for each other's abilities that had forged an immediate bond between them.

Suddenly Hawk felt his control of the parrot begin to slip. He had spent a tremendous amount of energy controlling the hawk and had not really recovered from that ordeal.

"I'm sorry, Lord S'York, I'd better go now."

"All right."

Then, without any outward change, it became apparent that Hawk no longer dominated the parrot. "Want a cracker, awwwkkk," it mimicked, and suddenly flew to Brian S'York's shoulder.

Laughing, he called out to the guard, who entered the room immediately. "Take this damn bird back to its cage before it has an accident."

Hawk concentrated on his galloping horse and the dim trail, which was highlighted more with the contrasting shadows than the fading sun. He tried to ignore the numbing migraine that plunged from his forehead to the base of his neck like a shard of ice-cold steel, but the strain of the telepathic duel, coupled with the effort of controlling the birds, had left him in a state of near exhaustion. He hunched forward and shivered as a northern breeze whipped through the canopy of leaves and slashed his dark wool cloak.

"Halt!" commanded a voice suddenly from the long gray shadows ahead.

His horse reared, almost trampling the men who had emerged from the twilight to block its path. For an instant Hawk clung to the saddle precariously, then he regained control and halted the animal.

"Rusty," called one of the men. "Nail," replied Hawk.

His shoulders sagged in relief as he realized that the men were York sentries guarding the road into Three-forks. The sentries waved him on and faded back into the trees.

Then he rode into the village. Lights blazed from the windows of the black-and-white-timbered Three Sisters Inn, which dominated the intersection of the Buchanan, Tompkins, and Yorkdale roads. A few stores and homes clustered about fifty yards farther along the Yorkdale Road.

When Hawk rode into the inn's courtyard, a dog barked sharply from behind the building. Its yapping drowned out the lilting music and laughter that drifted from the tavern, bounced against the cobblestones, and reverberated over the empty street.

He clutched the perch-shaped horn of his saddle tightly and eased himself down from his horse. Still grasping the horn, he shivered as the inn's door swung out and a tall man stepped from the bright rectangle of light.

"Derek," Hawk murmured, his voice hardly above a whisper. Then he felt Derek S'Mayler's strong arm around his shoulders. As Derek pulled him into the warmth and light, he realized that most of S'Mayler's forces had crowded into the inn for what might well be their last night of revelry before battle.

He tried not to stumble as Derek led him through the crush. Smiling faces turned toward him and grew calm with concern; the way cleared ahead of them; and then they reached the great stone fireplace at the far end of the room. Derek pushed him into a huge, overstuffed chair by the fire. A moment later the sorcerer pressed a cup of steaming liquid with a pungent, yet not unpleasant, odor into his hands.

Then Hawk tried to report. Derek silenced him, ordering him to drink first. The liquid must have been one of Derek's special potions, for almost immediately Hawk felt a surge of well-being. His headache faded into a prickling sensation that spread downward until his whole body tingled.

When Hawk seemed to have regained his strength, Derek pulled over a small table and signaled to Stephen, the innkeeper, who quickly thrust some biscuits and stew in front of Hawk.

The delicious aroma penetrated the fog enveloping him, and automatically Hawk's fingers fumbled and grasped for his fork. Disoriented, he almost dropped it, but managed to get some of the food into his mouth. A drop of the gravy dribbled from his lips onto his curly brown beard.

As he ate, he felt more strength return, and his fingers slowly lost their clumsiness. Although he had breakfasted well, he felt as though he hadn't eaten for about three days. The watery stew and biscuits seemed a banquet.

After a third serving Hawk began to notice his surroundings and, between forkfuls, studied the crowded room. Normally he would have felt ill at ease among so many people, but whether through the effect of his fatigue or of Derek's potion, he felt quite relaxed.

He noted that S'Mayler's forces were a rather motley-looking group of soldiers, farmers, hunters, and woodsmen. Since York's regular army guarded Castle York to the south, the defense of northern York fell to locals protecting their homeland, supported by refugees from the defeated kingdoms who sought to regain theirs.

Now many of these crammed the village, and most jammed into the inn, filling it with laughter, voices, and music. In one corner, several regular York soldiers dressed in green and gray uniforms drank beer in huge quantities to the unending choruses of a drinking song.

Near the center of the room, a group of men and a few women talked earnestly of the war and illustrated their strategies with plates and salt shakers. Hawk recognized Coleman S'Wessex, leader of the refugees, watching them with an amused smile. Some local farmers tossed dice against the far wall with boisterous good humor. In their denim overalls and dark shirts, they hardly looked like soldiers, but bright green armbands identified them as part of S'Mayler's troops.

A striking young woman caught Hawk's gaze and held it. She hummed soft golden notes to the accompaniment of her guitar as she perched on the registration desk next to the entryway. Although she was dressed in woodsman green like a hunter, her rough garb could not conceal her feminine form.

Her song floated above the inn's common room, mingled with the drinking song, and collided, with many voices, producing a mixture of happy noises.

At last Hawk waved his fork at Derek, who reclined nearby in an armchair. "Derek, I have to talk to you."

Although Derek S'Mayler seemed unperturbed by the note of urgency in the other's voice, he eased his chair closer to the table. As Derek leaned toward Hawk, his calm hazel eyes studied the bird-path's response until he was certain that Hawk hadn't suffered any permanent damage. He had seen both telepathy and sorcerers overextend themselves to the point of destroying their power and health. Since they needed enormous amounts of energy to utilize their powers, both groups could too easily burn themselves out.

"All right, but take it slowly," he replied.

Hawk decided to give Derek a brief rundown of what had happened and to wait until they were alone to present the details.

"A company of about two dozen of Ramsey's men is heading down the Buchanan Road and will probably be here by mid-morning. There's a sorcerer leading the group."

He speared another potato and held it suspended near his lips as he talked.

"When my bird reached the castle ruins, a pair of mind-controlled falcons attacked and destroyed it, and their master almost destroyed me."

Derek nodded. "I wondered what happened to you." He stared at his hands, which rested palms down on his lap, and then brought them upward, palm to palm with the middle fingers touching the tip of his nose and the thumbs resting against his chin in a gesture that Hawk had learned to interpret as a sign of worry. Derek's ruggedly handsome features remained as calm as usual.

"Fortunately, I had greater range than he did," Hawk continued, nibbling on the potato. "But the important thing is that without my hawk, I couldn't determine if our messenger arrived safely. When I reported to Lord S'York, he said that we should continue on the assumption that the messenger did arrive."

Derek tapped his fingertips together and pressed them against his face. "Modica's a good man, I'm sure he'll deceive them." He lowered his hands and gently rubbed his left thumb against the powerstones set into a massive ring on the fourth finger of his right hand. "So tomorrow we'll have to deal with their advance party. That should be easy enough. And in three or four days their main forces should arrive."

Hawk scraped the last of the stew from his dish. "I'll describe the fortifications I did see at Buchanan," he said, "but I think we should be somewhere more private."

"Tomorrow," answered Derek, rising. "You'd better get some sleep now; we'll go over the details later." He motioned the portly innkeeper over. "Stephen, can you find a room for Hawk tonight?"

"Certainly," the elderly man replied. "He can have my room."

"I don't want to put you out . . . "

"I don't mind," said Stephen, moving toward the stair. "I'll show you to your room."

Derek gently tugged Hawk's arm, pulling him erect before he could protest further. "You need plenty of sleep. You don't realize how dangerous exhaustion can be to a telepath. Stephen can find somewhere else to stay."

The innkeeper nodded his agreement. "Besides, these beds are too soft anyway."

"And they have too many bugs!" shouted one of the onlookers.

Hawk followed his benefactor through the laughter.

4

Leafy patterns of brightness awakened Hawk. For a moment he tried to recall half-remembered dreams of flight and danger, but then realized that it was well past dawn. He washed and dressed quickly, occasionally glancing through the window. Beams of sunlight slanted through towering beeches and pines whose trunks seemed too thin to support their height. The rays glinted off steel in the courtyard below. It had become a makeshift foundry. The rhythmic beat of hammer on anvil sounded like a drum urging him to hurry.

Buckling on his sword belt as he walked, Hawk hastened downstairs into a common room bustling with activity far different from that of the previous evening. Now men and women were using the dining tables for workbenches as they made and repaired weapons.

Hawk spotted Stephen talking to a young woman who was fastening feathers to arrow shafts. He hesitated and then approached them.

"Excuse me, do you know where Lord S'Mayler is?" Stephen smiled and clapped him on the back.

"There you are. Hope you slept well, Master Hawk. You certainly look better than when you dragged in here last night. All this banging and clanking didn't disturb you now, did it? No, of course not, that room is real quiet, why I . . . "

"I'm in kind of a hurry," Hawk interjected.

"No need, Master Hawk. Lord S'Mayler told me to look out for you. Said to tell you he'd talk to you later."

"Where . . . " began Hawk anxiously, with growing certainty that he'd missed the fight.

"He's out stopping that company of Taral's soldiers. Took a whole bunch of men up the road early this morning." Stephen patted his protruding stomach. "You missed a mighty good breakfast, but we'll find something for you." He called out to a young man putting china away in an old oak sideboard. "Hey, Jerry, can you get something for this young fellow to eat?" The boy nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

"Lord S'Mayler said to make sure you ate a lot. He's a mighty fine person; really cares about his men. You'd never know he was a sorcerer. Of course, the way some people talk about them you'd think magicians had three heads and as many fangs. But he seems just like one of us." Stephen grinned sheepishly. "Of course, you're a telepath, so I guess you're more like him."

"Where are my manners?" Stephen turned back to the woman seated at the table next to him. "Miss Roslyn do you know Hawk?"

As she turned Hawk recognized her as the guitarist from the night before. She still wore dark-green trousers and a walnut-brown leather jerkin trimmed with green osmur fur over a faded olive shirt, but now a leather strip tied back her waist-length golden hair.

"No, I don't," she said, appraising him with cool sea-green eyes. "But I've heard about him. I'm glad to meet you."

"Hello," Hawk replied, avoiding her glance and staring self-consciously at his mud-streaked boots. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't trimmed his beard in weeks and that he still wore the same travel-stained clothes.

"I see you're making arrows," he stated inanely, awkwardly trying to make conversation. "Ah, what type of wood is that?" He pointed at a pile of unfinished shafts.

"Orford cedar, that's the best you can find here. In Greton we used norgen pine for arrows though," she answered.

"You come from the Greton Islands?" Hawk looked at her in astonishment. Greton lay over two thousand miles across the Eastern Ocean.

Roslyn smiled in sympathy at his confusion. "I'm actually from the Eastern Kingdoms originally. After Taral's troops killed my family, I went to Greton to stay with my cousin. When I grew up," she paused, and a look of chilling intensity replaced her smile, turning her eyes from aquamarine into jade, "I returned to avenge their deaths." Catching herself, she lightened her deadly serious tone. "Well, to do what I could."

"I see," Hawk replied, not really knowing what to say. Although Roslyn looked about his age, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, suddenly he had the impression that she was older in maturity if not in years.

"Here's your breakfast," interrupted Stephen, waving his hand toward the next table. He chuckled. "Maybe we should call it lunch."

While Hawk ate and half-listened to Stephen chat about the war and food, he watched the slender woman. Her long, tapered fingers moved in a precise, efficient pattern as she deftly attached pre-shaped feathers from the notched end of the arrow's shaft to the crest, the portion composed of identifying colored bands. When she glanced at him, Hawk felt as if her compelling eyes could charm a child or command an army.

He had finished eating and was trying to think of how to resume his conversation with the woman when the door to the common room burst open.

Sweaty men poured in, causing instant commotion. Some brought in wounded comrades; others hastened toward the kitchen and asked for wine; a few shouted and loudly told their own versions of the battle with Taral's soldiers. Stephen raced off to find food and wine for all.

In the confusion Hawk found Roslyn standing beside him. "They've captured most of Ramsey's advance party and killed the rest," she said. "They're converting one of the stores into a jail to hold them."

Hawk glanced up at her; she was taller than he had realized, probably five feet nine or five feet ten, he estimated. At five feet five he felt like a midget.

"That's good news." He hesitated, strongly aware of her nearness, then added, "Roslyn."

"Please call me Ro. I'm more used to answering to my nickname."

"Ro." His tongue rolled around the odd name that didn't seem to fit her at all. It sounded too harsh for Roslyn.

"The rest of Ramsey's troops will be here soon," she observed. "Then we'll all fight. I'll wager S'Mayler will make good use of those captured uniforms."

"We'll need every edge in our ambush—Ramsey's men outnumber us," Hawk replied.

Roslyn surveyed the activity around them; she could sense the tension that built as the more seriously wounded and a few dead were carried in—the anxiety that muted the initial excitement of victory.

"Only a few dead." She searched the faces of her friends and comrades. "How many next time?" Then she pressed her lips together determinedly, and with a note of authority shading her voice she asked, "Can you help me take these arrows to the supply area?"

"Sure," Hawk replied, glad for the excuse to go outside. He wasn't used to being around so many people.

He helped her gather up the finished projectiles. Balancing their armloads carefully, they maneuvered through the crowded room to the porch and dumped the arrows into a half-filled barrel sitting among piled supplies.

Ro looked at Hawk intently and then said, "I understand you're a bird-telepath." Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight.

"Yes, I am."

"Can you contact other animals as well?"

Hawk's eyes shifted away from her face. There was something disconcerting about the way she insisted on looking directly into his eyes.

"No, just birds," he replied.

For a moment Ro's confident gaze faltered, and she looked shyly, almost guiltily away. Then she spoke softly. "I can sense animals."

Hawk tossed his head back and looked at her in surprise. "Really? Telepathy is very rare you know."

She glanced around the empty courtyard as though worried that someone might overhear. "My range is very limited, just a few hundred yards . . . " Her voice trailed off, and then she added, "Almost any kind of animal . . . and I can control them . . . but I can't mind read humans."

"That's typical," said Hawk. He smiled, thinking he'd uncovered what bothered her. She must be an untrained telepath, he thought; maybe she had never even talked to another 'path before. Since the common people viewed psychic abilities with suspicion and superstition, anyone just discovering his or her powers would probably be frightened and hesitant to reveal them. Perhaps this was the case with Ro.

"Telepathy generally are good at linking to only one species," he explained, "whether it be birds, humans, or something else." He glanced at her face and then looked away. He wasn't used to talking to a woman, and he found her presence disturbing. Trying to ignore her nearness, he nervously plunged into a lecture on thought transference.

"Thus, a telepath who can contact humans won't be able to control animals, and a dog-telepath, for example, won't be able to read humans or other animals. Of course, two humans linking with the same animal can contact each other through their animal bond until one or both of them break it."

"I've heard that," said Ro, as she brushed back a long strand of blond hair. "But why is it that telepathy can link to only one kind of animal?"

"Nobody knows for sure, though some think it has something to do with imprinting—like a duckling who thinks the first thing it sees is its mother. Well, maybe the first thing I linked with was a bird, and I've been doing it ever since. On the other hand, they know that psychic powers can be inherited."

"What about me?" she asked.

"I don't understand telepathy," Hawk answered, "I just use it. I've heard of people who can contact both animals and men, but I've never met anyone before who could read all kinds of animals. Of course, I haven't known that many other 'paths."

Roslyn smiled at some inner joke. "I've got the most mixed-up bag of unique . . . " Her voice broke off, and Hawk had the strong impression that she felt she'd said too much.

"What else can you do?" he asked.

"Nothing much," answered Ro with deliberate vagueness. Her face showed no change, but as she continued Hawk felt she did so because she realized that not answering would raise more questions. "I sometimes get hunches about people, a sudden awareness of danger before it happens, a thought that comes true. It happens randomly . . . I can't control it . . . but it doesn't happen very often, really."

She stared at him so sincerely that Hawk almost believed that her powers were trivial. Then she looked beyond him, and her warm eyes became as hard as emeralds.

"There's Derek S'Mayler," she said. Hawk turned to see his friend ride into the courtyard. "You wanted to talk to him." Ro seemed glad to end the conversation, if not to see Lord S'Mayler.

Hawk stepped off the white-timbered porch and waved at Derek. Handing the reins of his roan to a stable boy, Derek headed toward Hawk. When Hawk turned back toward Roslyn, she had disappeared. He stared at the doorway through which she had gone until Derek touched his shoulder.

"Anything wrong?" Derek asked. He rubbed his perspiring hands against his trousers and tried to brush some of the dust from his deerskin jacket. Normally a fastidious dresser, he'd had one thought on his mind while riding back to Threeforks and during the confinement of his prisoners—taking a bath. However, when he saw Hawk's worried expression, he paused in his pursuit of that objective and wondered if Hawk had any aftereffects from the previous day. He would need Hawk's abilities as a telepathic scout in the days to come.

"No, not really." Then Hawk noticed the bloodstains on Derek's clothes and a cut covered with congealed blood just above his left eye. "Hey, what about you? Are you hurt?"

Derek touched his forehead gently, pushing back the raven-black hair that half-concealed his wound. "It's just a scratch." He followed Hawk's gaze and noticed the dark red blotches on his trousers. Then he laughed dryly. "That's not my blood, so don't worry."

Derek studied Hawk. "Something does seem to be disturbing you though. Do you have any unusual symptoms this morning? Dizziness? Headache?" The smaller man shook his head. "Anything wrong with your telepathic ability?"

"No, it's not that. I feel fine; no headache this morning, no problems." Abruptly Hawk realized that he hadn't even tried to contact any birds. So he opened his mind to the sky and instantly sensed the abundant I life surrounding them. His awareness stretched toward his home, a tree house several miles northeast of Threeforks. There he sensed the minds of his trained birds. It was good to feel their presence. Relieved, he said, "I'm fine, I can still contact birds."

"Then what's bothering you?" Derek looked at his friend with warm concern.

"Oh, it's just that woman."

"Woman?"

"The one I was talking to as you rode in; her name is Rosyln. I can't figure her out." Hawk kicked absentmindedly at the dirty cobblestones with the heel of his boot. Each kick produced a small cloud of dust.

Derek's look became glacial. "Her." He pressed his large hands together and stared at the peeling white paint on the porch wall. "She's a strange one. She's been fighting with the resistance in Cascar and Wessex—she's a friend of Coleman S'Wessex."

Surprised at the bitterness in Derek's voice, Hawk asked jokingly, "What's the matter, wouldn't she go to bed with you?"

Derek did more than chase women, he caught them. In fact, many eagerly sought out the handsome, dashing sorcerer. He was eligible, powerful, and reputedly an excellent lover. Hawk envied his friend's power over women and wished he had one-tenth of his assurance with them. However, he didn't envy the reason for Derek's drive to conquer women or his eagerness to dismiss them once they had been won. Hawk knew that in his youth Derek had been deeply hurt by at least two of them, and he sensed that his friend now engaged in a game of revenge by dominating and using women.

Derek's reply slashed through Hawk's thoughts. "No, she wouldn't," he said with resentment rather than disappointment. "And she won't go to bed with you either."

The remark stung Hawk, but he shrugged it off as an unintentional slight, attributing it to the fact that S'Mayler had just been in combat and was tired and irritated.

"And I'll tell you why," Derek continued. He hesitated and then spit out the words. "She likes women."

Hawk stepped back as though struck by a blow. He had not sensed anything at all like that about Roslyn.

"Why do you say that?"

"She's one of these women swordsmen—maybe she doesn't look quite as obvious as some of them, but I can tell." Derek's normally calm features contorted as he tried to control his anger.

Hawk attempted to insert some rationality into Derek's reaction. "A few of those women are man-haters, but you know better than I do that most are more than willing to lie with a man. In these times almost all girls are given several years of training with bow and knife. It's natural that some will become soldiers and fight for their land. Women soldiers are few in number, but they're no novelty. Come on, Derek, you must have slept with half the women in camp."

Derek cracked a slight smile. "More than half. But Roslyn is different." Then he paused, as if searching for something else to support his argument.

Hawk forced a laugh. "Come on, just because a woman rejects you, it doesn't mean she's . . . , " his face reddened, "a . . . ah . . . lesbian."

"At first I thought she was S'Wessex's mistress . . . " Derek looked triumphantly at Hawk, "but when I asked him about her he seemed shocked at the thought." Suddenly he turned away. "That's enough about her, you understand?"

Hawk nodded. He had wanted to talk to Derek about Roslyn's actions and possible telepathic powers; however, he had never seen Derek react to anyone like this before.

While one part of his mind wondered if Derek could be right, another suspected that perhaps Derek's irrational response had been triggered because he'd found himself strongly attracted to Roslyn. If she wouldn't play his game, perhaps Derek would try to remove her from the game entirely.

"I'm going up to bathe now," Derek said. "Afterward we'll discuss the fortifications at Buchanan."

"Fine," Hawk replied, following him. "This afternoon I'd better ride over to my place and get some replacement birds; tomorrow I can scout up the trail for Ramsey's main party."

"What about the enemy bird-telepath?"

"I've been thinking about that," Hawk replied. "I wasn't expecting to run into another telepath. Nothing we'd seen or heard indicated his presence, so I wasn't shielding my mind as I scouted. If I'm careful, I think I can scout without being detected."

"I hope so," said Derek, pressing his fingertips together. "Well, get your birds. We'll need to know if Ramsey will arrive on schedule. Then you'd better get back by eight o'clock tonight, when we'll be meeting to finalize plans for the ambush."

"Don't worry, I'll be there."

The two men stood together silently for a moment, each thoughtful. They were complementary figures, like sides of the same coin: different in stature and appearance, yet of the same mettle; alike in many ways, and yet not alike; thinking about the same subject, but differently, and that subject was the woman not the ambush.

Together they entered the inn.

5

Later in the afternoon, as Hawk saddled his horse, he heard soft footsteps behind him. It was Roslyn. She walked down the stable's shadowed aisle into a nearby stall.

He hesitated, self-consciously rubbing his hand over his unkempt beard, and then he called out "Hello."

"Hello," she replied as she turned to saddle her chestnut gelding.

Hawk had not had much contact with women in the small farming community where he'd grown up. He' always been the "strange" one, different because o his telepathic abilities. As a result he had become loner, preferring the company of his birds to people. Now, as he looked at Roslyn, he wished he knew how to communicate with her as well as he could with birds.

He tried to think of a way to restart the conversation, but he felt foolishly tongue-tied.

Then Ro smiled at him. "We've been cooped up here for days, so I thought I'd better give my horse some exercise. Where are you off to?"

Hawk wet his lips and abruptly found the words tumbling out. "I'm going over to my place to get a couple of my trained birds. It's easier to use them rather than wild ones for scouting, and it's simpler to pick up several than to try to telepathically control a group of them to fly here. Besides, I want to get some fresh clothes and check my home."

"Your tree house," Ro said, gently rubbing her horse's forehead while the animal nuzzled contentedly against her arm. "I've heard something about it. It really sounds interesting. I'd love to see it sometime."

Hawk stared at the dark brown eyes of his bay. Then without thinking he heard himself say, "Would you like to ride out with me?"

He instantly regretted his impulsive words, but when she did not reply immediately, he felt a wave of conflicting emotions: He feared she would agree, yet was afraid she would not. For a moment Hawk was acutely aware of the creaking of the old boards in the walls, the sighing and breathing of the horses, and the stench of horse sweat and dung that saturated the air.

Then he heard her clear voice reply: "Fine."

So they rode together through the cool spring afternoon—the short, wiry man on his bay and the tall, beautiful girl on her chestnut.

They traveled about a quarter of a mile north on the Buchanan Road and then turned eastward along a narrow path that wound through a thick forest of oaks, beeches, and pines. Soon small skytrees began to appear.

The path ran downhill and reached an old riverbed. The once wide stream was now a fast-flowing brook that carved its way down the middle of the dried bed. At the bottom of the hill, the ruins of an ancient bridge spanned the breadth of the old stream.

"This way," said Hawk, waving downstream as he rode toward the riverbed.

Ro followed and looked back at the crumbling bridge. She was surprised to see a dark gargoyle head jutting out from its center. The long-necked sculpture craned out over the water, its huge eyes staring at the river. The face was vaguely simian, but with a protruding jaw, two tusks, and a large mouth filled with sharklike teeth.

She recognized the face as a caricature of an osmur and shivered. She had helped kill an osmur once, long ago, and fervently hoped they weren't heading into osmur territory. Osmurs were one of the few animals she could not mind-control. However, as they rode alongside the creek, the skytrees became taller and more dominant, until Ro grew certain they were entering a skytree forest. A tingling sensation of danger began to force its way into her consciousness. Osmurs and the Sylvan lived in the gigantic skytrees.

Although there was no obvious landmark, Hawk abruptly crossed the stream and headed into the forest of skytrees. As she followed him, Ro felt her precognitive warning ebb.

The enormous branches and leaves from the skytrees cut off almost all sunlight, causing the afternoon to darken into twilight. Hawk led the horses on a winding path around the house-wide trunks that seemed like massive pillars holding up a thick green.

There were no bushes or smaller trees growing beneath the impenetrable canopy, just a deep layer of fallen leaves and branches, and moss. They rode as through a vast, darkened hall.

Gradually the trees thinned and grew smaller, until they reached the top of a hill at the edge of the immense forest. A tree house lay half-concealed among the branches of a skytree dominating its summit. Rising one hundred and fifty feet, the tree had a trunk about fourteen feet in diameter. Trees in the center of the skytree forest could be more than three times as large.

"It's an old Sylvan watchtower," said Hawk. "I added on to it—everything outside there. The watchtower itself just had one room and an observation tower. Come, I'll show you."

Ro looked over the seemingly normal trunk for the entrance. She vividly remembered her one visit to a skytree forest and the Sylvan village perched near the top of its tremendous branches. She had been a child then, accompanying her father on a diplomatic mission. Then she pushed the memories away—the past was too dangerous. Instead she concentrated on the tree.

Hawk had dropped his reins and walked to the trunk. Running his fingers over the rough bark, he pressed and twisted a knotty hump. Suddenly a door swung out.

"This watchtower is abandoned?" asked Roslyn. She had dismounted and now peered over his shoulder into the hollow trunk.

"Yes. A fire destroyed the Sylvan village in these woods a long time ago. In the center of the forest there's a clearing where the great trees once stood. The remaining stumps are blackened and gutted by whatever fire destroyed the trees."

Ro felt a tense knot in the pit of her stomach. She could imagine the enormous trees aflame, the airy bridges and houses crumpling, falling slowly to the earth like charred leaves spit out by a campfire.

She forced herself to straighten her clenched hands and said slowly and with a trace of bitterness, "Only a sorcerer's fire could have destroyed the Sylvan."

Hawk noticed Ro's pale, taut face. "What's the matter?"

"It's just that when I think of fires, I remember . . .” Ro paused and rubbed her palms against her trousers. "I remember a fire I was in. I almost didn't get out. I've been terrified of fire ever since then." She laughed nervously. "I have to force myself to sit by a fire or even to light a match."

"That could make things difficult at times." Hawk pointed to the interior of the tree. "You go first. There's a ladder to the left. Just keep climbing until you reach the landing, then step off."

Roslyn entered the tree. The hollow area was big enough for a rather large person. As in all Sylvan trees the interior walls were covered with a dark brown moss that produced phosphorescent light. The soft white glow provided minimal but sufficient lighting to see the narrow ladder carved directly in the living wood. Permeating the air was the faint, pleasant smell of the skytree, somewhat like ground walnuts mixed with hot oil.

When she had climbed about twenty-five feet, she reached the entrance to a small room, although the ladder continued to rise. Roslyn stepped off, and a moment later Hawk joined her.

The walls of the oval room curved upward, giving it the appearance of a giant knothole, which, in effect, it was. The Sylvan, using their paranormal powers over plants, shaped the skytrees to their use.

Roslyn touched the strange dark walls, almost smooth, but with a slight texture caused by the grain. A rough bookshelf, table, and chair of pine seemed incongruous furnishings against the room's natural shape.

Then she followed Hawk through a round doorway leading outside to the tree house. It had been built onto two huge branches angling out from the trunk like normal trees from a hillside. Constructed of fitted oak logs, the house consisted of two rooms sharing a common wall and two-sided fireplace.

Hawk stalked the rooms and opened so many shuttered, glassless windows that when he finished the skeleton structure looked more like a roofed platform than a house. Numerous large bird cages hung from the beams and sat abandoned in the corners of the large living room. Most were empty, but a few contained small, injured birds.

"Who took care of these while you were gone?" asked Ro, peering at a sparrow with a splint on its leg.

"A friend of mine who lives on a farm about a mile from here. He comes and feeds them every few days if I'm away." Hawk went over to the ceramic sink and began pumping water; then he filled a pitcher and replenished the birds' dishes. "I'm sorry about the mess in here. I'm not used to visitors; in fact, I guess not more than four other people have ever been here."

"Thank you for inviting me. It's really lovely here. But it's so isolated—don't you get lonely?"

Suddenly all too aware of her presence and their seclusion, Hawk avoided her gaze. "I have my birds."

Roslyn finished surveying the living room and then glanced into the bedroom. "Do you have a bathroom here too?"

"I fixed up one in the bedroom, complete with a crude shower."

"You've really got a nice place," said Roslyn as she turned and sat on the faded brown sofa in the middle of the room. Its thick wool cover showed the marks of talons and beaks. "But where do you keep the rest of your birds?"

"They are free—outside there." Hawk pointed into the masses of dark green leaves that blocked the sky and ground in an impenetrable curtain seemingly too thick for any birds to pass through. "I plant the suggestion in their minds that they stay near here, and they do. Then when I need one of them I can contact it readily. I'll show you."

Hawk concentrated, and suddenly a number of birds dived and hopped through the open windows, surrounding him in a frenzy of beating wings. Some settled on his outstretched arms, clinging to the dark leather sleeves of his jacket and to the thick gloves he'd put on; others circled in a bright chaos and then landed on various perches around the room.

Ro laughed in surprised delight as a sparrow settled on the arm of the sofa about a half an inch away from her hand. Hawk's deep laugh joined hers, and their shared laughter dissolved the tension between two strangers. In that moment, their relationship shifted without either being aware of it, and they became friends.

Finally Hawk mentally scooted most of the birds out the windows, keeping only those he wanted for scouting, two mueagles and two bluejays.

At Hawk's mental command the male eagle landed on his glove and gazed at him with amber eyes. Far larger than the normal golden eagle, it stood over two feet high with an enlarged head the size of a grapefruit.

As Hawk stroked its tawny feathers, he sensed the bird's thoughts. Unlike other birds, the mueagles were intelligent, sentient creatures, so that Hawk's telepathic linkage was more a simple conversation than the total submersion of a primitive mind.

The bird demanded some food for itself and its mate, the equally large female who perched on a nearby stand. While Hawk filled the feeding stand with meat he'd brought for the eagles, the male mueagle reported recent movement in the forest—sightings of osmur, deer, elk, and men.

When he finished with the bird, Hawk turned to Roslyn. "I call the male Stormrider and the female Windrifter. They are mueagles—see the enlarged craniums? They're more intelligent than other animals I know, about on the level of a five-year-old child, I guess. I found them out in the badlands southwest of York."

Then he pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his belt. "I wish I'd had them with me a few days ago when I scouted Ramsey's troops."

Ro nodded sympathetically. "I heard about that. They had a bird-telepath who killed your hawk." "His falcons will be no match for these eagles, if they should meet—but I'm hoping to avoid any confrontation this time. If that telepath should realize I'm still around, he might wonder why, and I don't want to take any chance that he might learn of our ambush. Besides, I'd prefer not to kill any birds unless I have to, not even his."

Noticing Hawk's worried expression, Ro changed the subject. "May I see the rest of the tree? I'd like to get a good look at the forest, but from here all I can see are leaves and more leaves."

"It's a long climb up that ladder . . . "

"I don't mind heights."

So Hawk followed her up the steps, past several small storage rooms and a few man-sized knotholes leading onto branches, until they reached a limb about one hundred and thirty feet from the ground. Several of the branches formed a natural crow's nest, reinforced with oak planks. Only a few sparse branches jutted above them into the sunlight.

The skytree had been chosen with care, for its site on the hilltop gave an unsurpassed view of the Sylvan forest curving eastward through the valley. Part of the dark brown ribbon streaked with the silver of the bordering riverbed could be seen, as well as the farms and normal forest to the west and the dark band of the Buchanan Road encircling the hillside almost directly below.

"Why didn't we just ride up the hill from the road?" asked Ro, surprised to see that they were so close to it.

"A direct path from the road to this tree would be convenient, but I prefer to use the same trail the Sylvan did to enter the forest—it's less obvious and inviting."

Ro sighed as she studied the lovely panorama.

"Imagine having the power the Sylvan possess over plants to shape these giant skytrees as they wish. If only they would form an alliance with York—Coleman S'Wessex has been trying to arrange one for years. The Sylvan forests within the kingdoms the Empire has conquered would be perfect places for us to launch a counteroffensive. But the Sylvan are too mistrustful of humans to help us."

"I suppose so." Hawk noticed the elongated shadows of the trees like fingers pointing out the end of day. Reluctantly he turned away from the view. "I'd better change my clothes and get the things I need."

"Go ahead, I'll be down in a few minutes," Ro replied.

When he had gone, she leaned back against the trunk and stretched her arms over her head toward the darkening blue above, letting the backs of her fingertips brush the rough bark. There was power there. She could sense the living, growing tree, and when she closed her eyes she extended her awareness to the birds and small animals that lived in its branches.

She turned, placed her hands against the bark, and pressed her forehead to the trunk, wishing suddenly that she could draw from the tree the same strength and security that the Sylvan did. However, her psychic powers were different from those the tree people possessed. She could not shape the skytree, nurture it with her power, or draw energy from it.

She had only her own strength to depend on.

Although she'd spent months with Coleman S'Wessex and his men and had made some friends, she still felt isolated from them.

She missed Greton, but it was not the center of her loneliness. Rather it was Garth, who lay dead and buried two thousand miles across the ocean. Garth, who had been her friend and companion while they grew from teenagers into adults; Garth, who had become her lover and her husband; Garth.

She wondered for the thousandth time if she would ever be able to think of him without an awful emptiness and sadness welling up inside to gnaw at her; and worse than the sadness was the bitterness, anger, and hatred.

She wondered again if she'd done the right thing in leaving Greton. It had seemed simple then to get away; to return to the Eastern Kingdoms; to turn her bitterness and anger at Garth's loss toward something she could do something about, toward those that had destroyed her family and her kingdom; to settle the wrongs of the past in order to forget the pain of the present.

But death and destruction were a poor substitute for what she had lost. Although her decision to fight for the freedom of the Eastern Kingdoms was irrevocable, her reasons for doing so had gradually altered. She no longer sought vengeance for herself; now it was for her people. She fought for the victory that would restore all that had been lost, including the most precious thing—peace. And in doing so she hoped she would find some measure of peace for herself.

Her thoughts suddenly shifted away from Garth and the past as Derek S'Mayler's handsome face came unbidden into her mind. Why does he hate me so? she wondered. No. I can't let myself think about him. Determinedly she pushed the memory away.

Then she hugged the trunk, although it was too large to embrace fully. She pressed herself against its comforting bulk. After a time her thoughts returned to the calm and resolute state she tried to maintain. She looked over the beautiful view once more and descended into the tree.

Hawk had changed his dirty clothes, taken a quick shower, and trimmed his beard. He hoped that it now looked reasonably neat. When he finally returned to the living room, he found Roslyn quietly stroking Windrifter's head.

"Hey, that can be dangerous!"

"You're forgetting that I can control birds too," Ro replied, continuing to stroke the brown feathers.

"That's right. I'd like to see what sort of contact you do have with that bird. Do the best you can, and I'll mind-link with you and Windrifter."

"All right."

Hawk meshed easily with the bird's mind. He expected to sense a strong link from Ro but was surprised to feel her presence as a tenuous touch, totally different from his normal telepathic contact. He felt her command the bird to lift its wings, and the eagle did —its large, beautiful wings arching and then settling in a wave of motion that always seemed quite majestic to Hawk. He sent a thought at the girl: "Are you really concentrating?" But it was like sending an arrow through smoke, so he spoke aloud. "Did you get my message?"

"No, nothing. I sensed that something was different about the eagle, that there was a stronger mind there, but that is about all."

"I asked you if you were really concentrating. I could hardly sense your presence, and I couldn't seem to penetrate through to your mind."

"That's the strongest link I have with animals."

Hawk concentrated on the bird again, but he couldn't bring his thoughts into any closer contact with Ro.

"You seem to have only a weak telepathic bond or a very strong shield. I gather you've never had any training, but even without training you should do better than that. I'm surprised you were able to control the bird at all."

Ro patted the bird's head once more. "You are right about the training—I never had any. Also, I spent the first thirteen years of my life under the Triad, and that may have affected my paranormal Towers."

Hawk nodded. "That's possible."

The Triad powerstones had not only protected most of the Eastern Kingdoms from sorcery attacks, but had also prevented the use of sorcery within their sphere of influence. After Taral destroyed the Triad, some of those inside the area developed their psychic talents, but probably not to the extent that they would have if they'd been born outside its influence.

"Fortunately I grew up on a farm near Threeforks, outside the Triad," he continued. "The stones cast a field along the seacoast northward from Richmond; through Westvirn, Cumberland, and Cascar, each of which contained one of the boulder-sized spellstones; up to about the bottom third of York."

Ro nodded, remembering lessons drilled into her long ago about the Triad—the positions of the stones, the strength and extent of the field, the supposedly impenetrable defense. She said nothing, afraid to reveal her knowledge of the subject. She wished that just once she could be herself, but for the moment it seemed best to follow Coleman S'Wessex's advice and conceal her true identity, even from her friends.

"Of course, I might have been born under the Triad, I don't know," Hawk continued. He turned and stared out into the forest.

"I'm an orphan—some York farmers found me when I was just an infant. One of them adopted me. He told me that I was the only survivor of a party of N'Omb pilgrims who evidently had been attacked by highwaymen on the road to the Shrine of the Three Miracles in Kellerton."

He gazed at the wall of green outside, tracing the patterns of leaves, while his mind pictured the delicate jade leaf pin that had been his mother's. He touched his shirt to confirm that the pin lay beneath it, still chained around his neck. It was the sole clue to his origin, for only she had broken the pilgrim's vow of anonymity to carry a personal possession, the pin, on that journey to death.

He wished that he could remember his mother, but he'd been only a baby when the farmers had found him. Still, sometimes he could almost imagine her.

She bent over to kiss him goodnight, and the jade leaf pin glittered at her throat. She was warm and beautiful, but he could not really remember her features.

The image of the pin spun through his thoughts—a wheel of seven leaves, tips outward--rolling on a road that led nowhere.

"You don't know who your real parents were?" asked Roslyn.

"No. My foster parents were never able to track down their identities. So they could have come from the Triad area." Hawk smiled. "I can remember how my foster mother always wanted us to move south when I was a child—into the area protected by the Triad. Like many of the folk around here, she distrusted sorcerers and their magic. She didn't like living under their rule. My father felt pretty much the same, only he wasn't willing to give up his land, not even if it meant living in an area free from sorcery. Of course, when the Empire destroyed the Triad stones they were certainly glad they had never moved, and they were suddenly grateful that York had its own sorcerers who could protect the land against invasion. I sometimes wonder if it's wise for anyone to control such awesome power; although they have great potential for good, the stones have generally brought more war than peace."

Roslyn nodded. "I know what you mean. And sometimes even my own abilities frighten me—like the hunches I get. They happen so randomly, I can't control them, and I don't know how or why they happen." "It's no wonder the common people are suspicious A magic," said Hawk, "when not even sorcerers know how their spellstones work, and the rest of us with paranormal powers, such as telepathy or precognition, don't have the vaguest idea how we do what we do."

"What happened when your foster parents learned you were a telepath?" asked Ro.

"It took them a while to guess the truth—I suppose they didn't want to believe I was a telepath. When I was only two or three I tamed a wild hawk and kept it for a pet. That's how I got my name—it started as a nickname, but it stuck so firmly that I don't even remember being called anything else. At first my parents thought my hawk was someone's trained hunting falcon; when I started to attract other birds they thought it was a cute trick. By the time they realized that I was a bird-path, they'd come to love and accept me as much as their own natural son. So it didn't matter too much to them. Of course I was an oddity to the rest of the people in the area. I guess that's why I kept pretty much to myself as a child. I suppose I'm still a loner."

"But you're not lonely—you have your birds." There was a trace of envy in Ro's voice.

Her insight disturbed Hawk, and he suddenly felt embarrassed. He didn't know why he had opened up to her. She was surprisingly easy to talk to. Perhaps there was something special about Roslyn. Or perhaps he had changed without even realizing it. His responsibilities as a scout for York, his friendship with Derek S'Mayler, and his contacts with so many new people, including Lord S'York, had subtly altered his awareness of the world and of himself. He sensed that he was maturing, becoming more confident in himself, and that realization was both pleasing and disconcerting.

Feeling self-conscious and ill at ease, he said, "I guess it's time we were getting back."

"I suppose so," replied Ro.

Hawk turned to his birds, placed the two bluejays into a cage of woven willow osiers, and sent the eagles aloft.

"The mueagles will meet us by the bridge, since the skytrees are too thick for them to fly through easily, he explained.

Then Ro helped him close and shutter the windows, double check the injured birds, and prepare to leave. When they reached their horses, Hawk tied the cage and a small bag of clothes to his saddle. Then they rode back through the shadowed forest.

In the late afternoon quiet the huge trunks of the vaulting trees seemed to form walls that pressed in on them. The dark green foliage became black in the gloom, and the woods became a darkened cathedral. A prickling foreboding of danger, like a muted kettledrum, suddenly thudded almost imperceptibly in Roslyn's mind. Even as she called a warning to Hawk, the premonition shifted into the tones of a strident, insistent snare drum.

Hawk halted his horse and instinctively contacted the eagles soaring above the skytrees. They reported nothing unusual.

"What is it?" he asked Ro.

"I told you I had hunches, a foreknowledge of danger. Well, I've got one of those hunches now."

"Where? What?"

"I don't know—I'm not sure. But it's ahead . . . She paused and then said with a sudden air of command, "We go left."

Hawk couldn't pinpoint the change in her, but it surprised and startled him—perhaps it was the shift in her posture, the shading of her voice—she was suddenly a woman of authority, no longer a hesitant girl.

Before he had time to analyze the change, Roslyn's horse galloped forward, heading into the thick woods to the left of the path. Hawk followed automatically.

He studied the forest intently, seeking the source of the danger Ro sensed. The forest seemed peaceful; only the softened thud of hooves on the velvet carpet of fallen leaves and moss broke the silence. The air trapped beneath the thick canopy was still, almost oppressive, and smelled of decay.

Then he heard the crash of branches somewhere behind them. Instantly he contacted Stormrider. As the eagle dived toward the source of the sound, Hawk spotted a flash of green fur moving across the trail they had just left. Before Hawk could be sure of what he'd seen, the animal vanished into the woods, but it left behind a strong, sour scent that was unmistakable.

It was an osmur.

Hawk steered Stormrider in the direction the osmur had gone and at the same time linked with Windrifter. A cold fear gripped him as he spotted several more osmurs beneath the female eagle. Although the gigantic, apelike beasts normally traveled alone, they had somehow stumbled across a whole pack of them.

Suddenly Ro called out, "This way," veering back toward the right. She relied entirely on the clear certainty of her instinct—there was no picture of what would come, just knowledge of what to do—a certainty of the best course of action without any basis in fact or reason.

"Not that way," shouted Hawk as he galloped after her. Stormrider had spotted an osmur there. But even as he spoke, the eagle warned him that their previous direction would have led toward several more of the beasts.

Then Hawk's stomach tightened into a knot as the foul stench of the nearby osmur enveloped them.

Almost in unison Hawk and Ro pulled up their bows and nocked arrows.

As they rounded an immense tree trunk, Ro stopped abruptly. Her horse reared in fear, so she telepathically calmed it and Hawk's mount.

Ahead stood the osmur.

Although the beast was seven feet tall and three hundred pounds of teeth, claws, and muscles, Ro's sixth sense had not failed her. It was a baby and far less formidable than its parents.

Ro released her arrow. As it arched across the glade, the osmur turned toward her. Her shaft fell too far to the left, penetrating just below its shoulder.

Hawk reached Roslyn, sent his own arrow into the osmur's torso, and pressed his terrified horse forward, grabbing up his short javelin. He was thankful that his mount did not balk or waver.

The osmur came toward him with terrifying speed; its sharp teeth bared, revealing two ivory tusks; its long hairy arms reaching out to slash at his horse. As it tossed its head back to sound a challenge that was part roar, part scream, Hawk caught a whiff of a breath so foul that it made its sour body odor seem mild by comparison.

Fighting back a wave of nausea and almost paralyzing fear, Hawk dug his heels into his horse so that it galloped forward and slightly to the left. Roslyn, seeing his move, pulled her sword from the scabbard tied to her saddle and rode to the right.

Hawk tightened his grip on the javelin and plunged ahead, forcing his gaze away from the beast's huge mouth. He aimed for the osmur's wide, golden eyes that shone like a cat's in the half-light. However, the carnivore's massive arm deflected his blow. The weapon only grazed its throat and chest before the osmur seized the javelin and tossed it to the ground.

Roslyn had circled behind it, and as the osmur reached for Hawk with its claws extended like small curved knives, she pressed her knees against her gelding and urged it ahead. At the same time she gripped the hilt of her sword with both hands and, with all her might, swung it at the beast, slicing through the thick muscles of its neck in a single stroke, decapitating it.

As the osmur's head fell, its fingers raked across Hawk's face and arm. Then the huge body staggered and toppled forward. Blood poured from the wound, staining shiny green fur.

Behind them, Hawk and Roslyn heard the roar of several other osmurs and the rustling and breaking of branches. They did not turn to look but urged their horses onward, twisting through the forest around the giant trunks, until at last they reached the riverbed and felt the warmth of the setting sun upon their faces.

As they galloped toward the bridge, Ro noticed the blood on Hawk's face and shoulder. "Are you badly hurt?"

"No, these are just flesh wounds," he replied. "We'd better not stop here, though the osmur pack will probably halt to eat the one we killed. We're not very far from Threeforks."

Roslyn wanted to protest, but she recognized the wisdom of Hawk's words. The osmurs might want more of a meal and keep following them along the river, but they wouldn't go much farther away from the skytree forest.

She slowed as they crossed the stream and leaned down to rinse the blood off the sword she still held. Born of melting mountain snow, the water numbed her fingers as the red fluid vanished in the crystal stream.

She hastily sheathed her sword and rubbed h hand against her leg. Then she shivered. Clearly they'd narrowly missed a confrontation with a pack of full-grown osmurs.

An ominous emptiness replaced the throbbing sense of foreboding that had warned her of the creatures. I was as though the osmurs had only been a prelude some greater danger.

Roslyn glanced up at Hawk, who waited for her on the other side of the stream. She sensed that whatever she faced would involve him as well.

Despite the pain of his wounds, he still sat erect with as proud a bearing as ever. He was a puzzle to her. She'd heard that he was one of York's best scouts, she knew that he was a powerful bird-path, and the fight with the osmur had revealed his bravery; yet at times he seemed unsure of himself and unaware of his own capabilities. Although she hardly knew him, she already liked him, and perhaps his unpretentiousness was part of the reason.

Spurring her horse forward, she wondered what part Hawk would play in the coming ambush and if the trap at Threeforks would succeed. But as she searched for some foreknowledge of the future, as usual her precognitive ability remained outside her conscious control. She felt only the apprehension brought about by the knowledge that they were outnumbered rather than by any prescience.

Following Hawk as he galloped ahead, she shiver: again and pressed her hand harder against her leg. The chill remained.

6

Although the icy water stung Jaxton Sinclair's face and hands, he knelt forward and lowered his face into the stream, rubbing his eyes and neck in a vain attempt to wash off the accumulated grime of his four-day ride.

He smiled as some of the infantrymen doffed their boots and ran barefoot into the snow-fed water, only to yell and run out again at the shock of the near-freezing liquid.

He moistened his face once more and tossed his head back into the sun. The bright blueness was marred by only a few wispy clouds blowing in from the west. The attraction of the sky was inexorable, so he contacted his birds.

For a few blissful moments he soared with his falcons down the Tompkins Road toward Swego, searching casually for signs of S'Stratford's troops. The birds circled over the straight, wide road almost at the limit of his range. However, their sharp eyes detected none of the expected troops.

Then the quiet apprehension that had dogged Jaxton ever since they'd left Buchanan suddenly overwhelmed the exhilaration of flight. He turned the birds and urged them back towards Threeforks, determined to examine the quiet town once more before Ramsey's men reached it.

As he filled his canteen, he tried to analyze his growing sense of unease. Although S'Stratford's men should have traveled the relatively straight road from Swego on the inland seacoast to Threeforks more quickly than Ramsey's forces traveled the winding Buchanan Road down from the mountains, many things could have hindered their progress. S'Stratford's company would have been slowed by the weight of their equipment and by the logistics of moving a larger group of men. Perhaps the messenger had been sent before Douglas S'Stratford completely finished capturing Swego. Or perhaps they had met some resistance along the road, although, since most of York's troops fought Taral's main army in the south, they didn't expect any real opposition until they reached Castle York itself.

Still, Jaxton found S'Stratford's absence disturbing, almost as disturbing as the body of the bird-telepath that Ramsey's men had been unable to find.

Then a horn blared and broke Jaxton's train of thought. The anticipation of shelter and a square meal in Threeforks, only a few miles down the road, had evidently shortened the rest period.

As Jaxton mounted his horse, the bay shifted and shied, unhappy at the interruption of its meal. Taking advantage of the general confusion as the troops reformed their line, it managed a few more mouthfuls. Then Jaxton kicked the recalcitrant animal sharply, and the bay trotted quickly into position next to Ramsey's black.

Seeking to impress the townspeople of Threeforks as well as Douglas S'Stratford, a rival in the shifting power struggle within the Council of Seven, Lord Ramsey had dressed for effect. He wore a long osmur cloak instead of a sorcerer's traditional crimson cape over an all-silver uniform. The contrast of his blue eyes to his dark brown skin and thick black beard and hair heightened the impression of towering authority.

"We should be at Threeforks in less than an hour," Jaxton informed his superior.

"Good, I'll be as glad as the men are to get some rest and a decent meal." Ramsey paused as he surveyed the moving column and took his place about midway in the line. "Any sign of S'Stratford?" he said, glancing over his shoulder at Jaxton.

"Not yet, sir. I just checked the road to Swego again. I'm heading my falcons back to the town now. I don't know, Lord Ramsey, something just doesn't feel right about this."

"Don't worry about Douglas S'Stratford. If I know him, he probably stopped to loot Swego thoroughly before meeting us. He may keep us waiting in Three-forks for a couple of days before he condescends to arrive."

When the pace of the line began to pick up as wagons, horsemen, and foot soldiers fell into position, Jaxton slapped the reins against his horse's neck and moved into place alongside Ramsey.

At the head of the line rode Geoff S'Akron, proudly strutting his horse as he led the men, even though the only reason Ramsey had yielded the position was that S'Stratford had not arrived in the town.

Lord Geoff adjusted his scarlet cape and then pulled the Pendant of Thantos from beneath his shirt. He placed it carefully against the center of his chest so that the amber spellstone with its border of seven leaves would show prominently. Then his lips curled into a broad, self-satisfied smile. They all envy me, even my damn cousin, he thought, certain that his appearance was as impressive as his lead position in the line.

The sun rose until it hung almost directly overhead, casting golden spears through the forest. Many of the shafts fell on the men as they marched, and soon their skin glistened.

Ramsey tossed his green cloak back over his shoulders, unconsciously fingering the highly prized fur with respect, as though he had caught it himself. Then he eased his horse toward the edge of the road, where scarce shadows wavered with the breeze.

The men marched silently, putting all their effort into forward progress, pushing themselves beyond their weariness in anticipation of the town ahead.

Jaxton again focused his thoughts on his falcons, which flew slowly and rhythmically over the Tompkins Road. They crisscrossed each other near the road's center, then soared upward and outward over the woods. Jaxton had to exert increasing mental pressure to combat their fatigue. The birds wheeled simultaneously and flew along the road's edges for a few hundred feet before dipping down over the road to crisscross again and repeat their pattern. Passing over farmlands, they circled close to bright white farmhouses stark and trim against the green.

Every few minutes Jaxton sent his thoughts probing outward, searching the minds of nearby birds for anything abnormal.

A flock of crows in a cornfield reared into the sky as the falcons passed overhead. A bluejay among them skimmed the tops of the stalks and disappeared into the trees edging the road.

Suddenly Jaxton touched something—the same flickering awareness he'd felt two days before but been unable to pinpoint. He probed sharply at the unknown bird-mind, and amidst its simple emotions of hunger and fear, he felt the barrier of a shielded telepath. His mind lashed at the shield, but the other telepath was prepared and disappeared almost before Jaxton was certain of his existence.

He explored in a wide field, barely maintaining control over his falcons, but could not resume contact with the enemy mind.

It seemed that another bird-path spied on them or, no matter how unlikely, that the hawk-telepath still lived. The intruder lurked just on the edge of Jaxton's telepathic range, so he could not be detected easily.

The falcons flew onward, automatically weaving their pattern over the road, held by a thin thread of contact to Jaxton as he continued to scan for the telepath.

Then they reached the town. As the birds passed slowly over the buildings, Jaxton concentrated more fully on their perceptions. Threeforks was as peaceful as it had been earlier in the day. The black and silver uniforms of the Empire were clearly visible on the men patrolling the street, and townspeople crowded near market stalls.

Jaxton spotted Gerard Farber, the sorcerer who'd led the advance party, by his red cloak, but as the female falcon dived closer, the man stepped into a store.

Some wagons drawn up near the far end of the town sported gaudy signs inviting all to a traveling show. The birds wheeled downward over the brightly dressed women near the wagons. Then they rose, flying behind and above the buildings, passing the tavern, heading toward Ramsey's troops.

Thick clouds had begun to move in, turning the sky an ominous gray.

Jaxton rode closer to Lord Ramsey and reported what he'd seen. When his words began to circulate among the troops, the quiet men became boisterous.

"I thought these York men would welcome us rather than risk the devastation that Cascar and Westvirn received," said Ramsey.

"We've almost reached Threeforks," Jaxton noted as his falcons circled back to the column.

Lord Ramsey nodded. "You'd better go up front. Tell that idiot S'Akron to keep the men in order when they reach the town. We'll make the inn our headquarters."

"Yes, sir," Jaxton replied. He galloped ahead and relayed the message to Geoff.

"I'm in charge here." Geoff S'Akron glared at his cousin. "Today I'll give the commands, just remember that. I can keep the men in order without any help from you." As he spoke they reached the Three Sisters Inn.

A bell inside the black wooden cupola atop the inn began to peal, and the wagons of the traveling show pulled forward, blocking the street ahead. They showed their "Vicky's All Girl Revue" signs to best advantage.

The troops yelled as they saw the women, who in turn waved and called out to them.

"There are certain advantages in conquering a town," said Geoff S'Akron, eyeing a dark-haired girl in a low-cut dress. He grinned. "And I don't intend to miss any of them."

Gripping the tip of his scarlet cape he raised his arm in a dramatic gesture and, with a wave of the material, signaled the column forward.

Jaxton galloped after him, yelling, "Hold on there, Lord Ramsey wants us at the inn!" As he rode, the feeling of wrongness became stronger until his stomach knotted with tension.

"Go to the inn if you want to," Geoff S'Akron called, "but we're going to parade through this town first." He proudly nodded and waved at the cheering townspeople as he galloped ahead. The horsemen and infantry followed, unfurling black and silver banners as they marched.

Jaxton wheeled back toward Ramsey. The tall sorcerer shouted at his men and signaled them to keep ranks and enter the tavern's courtyard. However, most of the column followed Geoff S'Akron down the street, preferring to brave Lord Ramsey's anger than to miss greeting the pretty young women ahead.

While the townspeople shouted encouragement, the soldiers moved forward until the head of the column almost reached the wagons.

Then it seemed to Jaxton with his human and falcon vantage points that everything happened at once.

Some women jumped onto the wagons and pulled down the canvas covers, revealing armed men. Others drew out concealed weapons and began to attack.

Townspeople dashed behind the cover of market stalls. Archers appeared in store windows and doors. Arrows hailed onto the startled troops, someone screamed, and another voice suddenly shouted over and over with mounting hysteria:

"Ambush! Ambush!"

Jaxton brought his shield up to ward off the falling shafts. Reining back so savagely that the bit drew blood, he stopped his horse's headlong gallop. He pitched forward; an arrow whistled past his face.

Jaxton glanced back at the head of the line. The wagons completely blocked the road, boxing in the soldiers. He saw Geoff S'Akron wheel his horse around, force his way past a fallen animal, and start back through the panicked troops.

But a silver shaft shimmered through the sky and pierced the fleeing man.

The Pendant of Thantos spun outward at the impact and then fell back against his chest. It blazed like a miniature sun. Geoff had finally found the wit to use its power to shield himself. For a moment a golden haze enveloped man and horse. Arrows clattered against it and slid off as though they'd struck metal. Then the flame wavered and died.

Geoff slumped forward.

"N'Omb's damnation!" Jaxton exclaimed. He realized that his cousin had been mortally wounded. He could not let the Pendant of Thantos fall into York hands, but more than that, he had to save it for himself.

He prodded his horse ahead recklessly, pushing between two horsemen who headed back up the street. One of the terrified men slammed his sword at Jaxton, but it thudded against his shield. Then the man recognized his superior and pulled his horse away.

Jaxton spurred his bay, and the animal rammed into a foot soldier and plunged beyond him, sending the man reeling backward into the path of another horse. Then Jaxton reached Geoff S'Akron and grabbed the wounded man's collar.

S'Akron coughed and jerked up. "Help me," he whispered, staring at his cousin. But Jaxton only pulled the Pendant upward.

"No!" shrieked Geoff, suddenly realizing the other's intention. He tried to use the Pendant's power but was too weak and agitated to control it.

For an instant the men struggled, heedless of and unheeded by the battle around them. Then Jaxton grabbed the arrow with one hand and drove it downward.

Geoff's body arched back, and blood spurted from his wound. Jaxton tightened the chain around Geoff's neck, stifling his cry and choking him. He yanked the Pendant of Thantos off and slipped its chain over his own head. As Jaxton released his hold, Geoff S'Akron toppled from his horse.

Automatically, as if he'd always worn it, Jaxton directed the powerstone to produce a protective shield around him. Then he wheeled his bay around and, skirting fallen bodies, headed up the street.

After the initial volley of arrows, the Empire soldiers had managed to overcome their surprise and now fought back, hand to hand. At the end of the street, a knot of horsemen fought to push their way by an overturned wagon to the safety of the woods beyond the town. Painted women in bright, tattered clothes tried to stop them.

Jaxton drew his sword and swung it downward, slicing repeatedly at the swordsmen who had emerged from the buildings. Ahead loomed Gerard Farber—no, not Farber, Jaxton now realized, but another man, similar in build and coloring, who'd taken the sorcerer's place, and who, with the rest of the uniformed impostors, had fooled Jaxton into believing that the advance party had taken the town.

However, this man wore no stone and sent forth no spell, so his sword could not penetrate Jaxton's golden field. Jaxton raised his blade and cut Farber's impersonator down like a weed.

As he hacked his way up the street of death, Jaxton hardly cared whom he hit if that man blocked his way out of the trap.

While he fought, his mind meshed more tightly with the Pendant's power, and the glowing stone within the bordering circle of seven leaves became a blinding star upon his chest. Instinctively murmured words taught in childhood and pointed at the buildings. Wherever he pointed the wooden structures burst into flame. Soon screaming archers fled their cover. Some seemed more terrified of the sorcery than the fire.

Bodies of men and animals clogged the street. Riderless horses, panicked soldiers, charging York swordsmen, and a few knots of Empire troops with sense enough to form back-to-back defensive groupings mingled together and became an almost indistinguishable, inseparable mass as red covered the Empire's black and silver and York's blue and gray. Now those around him realized that Jaxton was a sorcerer. Fearing his power, both friend and foe pulled back. His horse pushed ahead and suddenly was clear. He had reached the gap between the buildings and the inn.

Then the bay reared and spun crazily. It seemed as if the world dropped out from under them. The protective haze around them became an orange mist through which fingers of gray smoke passed, bringing pain without focus or measure to the horse and its rider.

Realizing it was an enemy sorcerer's attack, Jaxton used the Pendant of Thantos. As he recited counter-spells, his shield solidified into a golden-orange corona that blocked the pain- Because of his inexperience, at first he could only hold the barrier without being able to return fire. He held his horse motionless, concentrating on defense.

The battle swept around him as running men and galloping horses tried to break the trap at its weakest point.

Above, two eagles swooped down and set upon the smaller falcons that Jaxton no longer had the strength to control. Without his aid, the falcons were swiftly destroyed.

Gradually Jaxton grew more accustomed to the power of the Thantos spellstone and managed to maintain the shield while his horse trotted toward the woods. He saw Lord Ramsey and a few horsemen break through the York lines near the inn's entrance. They headed into the forest.

Then the enemy sorcerer attacked them. The earth opened in front of the fleeing men, and from the crevice surged a beast of earth and magic towering over the party—a dragon of mud and malice, pouring forth rocks instead of flame. Terrified of the sorcery, most of the soldiers scattered, but Lord Ramsey stood his ground. He twisted in his saddle to face the beast's master.

Jaxton followed Ramsey's gaze back toward the inn.

Focusing on the Pendant, he sensed Ramsey's opponent. He had some difficulty adjusting to his newfound abilities, but suddenly he could mentally picture the man. He recognized the enemy sorcerer immediately, although he knew him only by reputation—it was Derek S'Mayler. S'Mayler stood atop the inn's courtyard wall, pointing his right hand toward Ramsey. Faintly visible violet beams poured from his ring of multicolored spellstones.

Lord Ramsey retaliated, sending red and black spears of energy against his foe. Occasionally the bolts reached the wall, tearing out small chunks of stone; but most burst against a shimmering force field that protected the building, and exploded in harmless streamers of light.

A short, brown-haired man stood next to S'Mayler. Without knowing how, Jaxton sensed that this was the hawk-telepath he'd fought. Looking at the man gave Jaxton an unsettled feeling. His skin crawled, as though he'd stepped through a spider's web. He shrugged off the feeling. It was just, he thought absently, that his enemy was a bird-path like himself.

Having perceived enough, he released the image and looked around. The great earth-beast menacing Ramsey's group had dissolved into a dusty cloud that spread and darkened, obscuring the men. Jaxton spurred his horse and rode after them.

Then one side of the inn rippled as though the stone and timber were liquid- It began to crumble. The earth shook and fissured in reply.

Jaxton's horse stumbled and fell, tossing him to the ground. When the land quieted, he ran toward the black cloud. A horse hurtled through it, heading toward him, so he concentrated on the Pendant of

Thantos and spoke. The terrified animal slowed and came to him, dazed and made docile by the spell.

Grabbing the reins, Jaxton turned back to the tavern and pointed, murmuring the fire spell again. The flames touched the stable and the cupola on the top of the main building, but before they could reach the inn proper, S'Mayler countered his incantation, turning back the flames so that they engulfed Jaxton, causing him to draw all of the Thantos's power to block the fire and protect his horse.

Finally he managed to mount and ride into the black dust, which had thickened into a fog. Dark trunks loomed out of the mist as he entered the woods behind the inn. Iridescent lights flickered in the darkness ahead, indicating the continuing battle between Ramsey and S'Mayler.

As Jaxton headed in that direction, a freezing wet wind suddenly blew through the trees, coating them with ice. The cold filtered through his shield with numbing intensity. Dust and sleet like leather whips scourged his hands and face.

Abruptly the ice storm ended and the dust cloud evaporated. The sunlight revealed a spring-green forest entombed in bright white sheaths. Icicles hung from every bough and twig.

Ahead stood two ice sculptures that nature could never have carved. Two of Ramsey's men and their horses, frozen solid in their tracks, sparkled and began to melt.

Jaxton looked away and prodded his horse around them. When he reached the Tompkins Road, he saw the remnants of Ramsey's party just ahead. They were still in the center of a whirlwind of sorcery.

Crevices formed and trees fell to block their way, while insubstantial shadow-soldiers made of spells and mist attacked from the trees with spears of flame. Ramsey rode forward, seemingly oblivious to the destruction around him. His frightened men cowered on their mounts and tried to stay close enough to him to be protected by his sorcery. Although they feared magic, they knew their only chance for escape lay with Ramsey.

As Jaxton joined the group, the ground ahead surged up like a fountain, and rocks and debris pummeled them. Ramsey's powers seemed to be weakening, and beads of sweat glistened on his dark forehead. Jaxton gripped the Thantos spellstone in his left hand and used it to spin a web of force that protected them from the hail of stones.

A few of the soldiers looked at him with terrified awe as they realized that he now controlled the Pendant of Thantos. Others were too numb even to notice.

The shadow-soldiers became wisps of vapor and disappeared, the hail of dirt and rocks lessened, and the earth ahead of them rippled and quieted. Then the attack stopped altogether—they had traveled beyond S'Mayler's effective range of a few miles.

While the men had fought, the clouds from the west had become dark thunderheads. Now they broke, and the rain pelted down on the battle-weary soldiers- Threeforks and the road to Swego were covered by a sea of rain that would last for hours.

Jaxton could barely make out his companions through the sheets of water. The men were still stunned and frightened, not yet realizing that the sorcery had ended.

Ahead a man slumped forward. He crumpled from his horse to lie unmoving in the mud.

Recognizing the osmur cloak half-covering Lord Ramsey's still form, Jaxton galloped forward.

7

While massing clouds above Threeforks transformed bright azure into dull gray, the dark town had become a study in crimson. Scarlet flames leaped from building to building along a narrow street that had turned blood red.

From his vantage point atop the wall-walk surrounding the inn's courtyard, Hawk felt as though the battle below had lasted forever.

He had spent the first part of the interminable day as he had the past several—contacting hundreds of birds to trace Ramsey's progress without attracting the attention of the falcon-telepath. Even though he had fleetingly contacted the man several times during the reconnaissance, his shield evidently had been strong enough to hide his presence, for the telepath hadn't been able to attack him and had not suspected their trap.

Then he had rechecked the layout of the town with his eagles, making sure that no one from a bird's view could detect the fortifications and the hiding men, or determine that the soldiers masquerading in black and silver were not the men who had originally worn those uniforms.

The jaws of their trap had closed even more cleanly than they'd hoped- Hawk had never expected the troops to take the bait so enthusiastically, but they had—and he could see that the far end of town had become a charnel house for most of the soldiers. Some of the troops at the tail of the column had managed to escape back up the Buchanan Road, but most had been trapped along the street or in the courtyard.

Hawk leaned forward, aiming an arrow through the slitted parapet of the wall-walk. A black-uniformed soldier was trying to batter his way through a shuttered window into the tavern- Hawk released the arrow. The soldier crumpled when the shaft entered his back.

Before Hawk could fire another arrow, men in the courtyard below began to surrender- Imperial soldiers threw down their swords- Those who were not wounded raised their arms above their heads in submission. The inn's door opened and some Yorkmen took them prisoner.

Turning to the other side of the walkway, Hawk saw Derek S'Mayler lean against the wall and look toward the burning town. Multicolored lights burst around him in a deadly pyrotechnic display. S'Mayler swayed slightly, as though his large frame were buffeted by a windstorm, yet Hawk felt nothing other than slight vibrations as one of the lightning-like flashes of red and black occasionally penetrated S'Mayler's defense and hit the tavern wall.

The wind shifted direction, covering Hawk with an acrid smoke that stank of burning wood and flesh. It clung to his face and clothing and stung his eyes; when he wet his lips, the taste of ashes and death made him gag.

Then a sound like the screech of a bluejay made him look up, and he saw the cupola at the top of the inn burst into flames. He ran past Derek S'Mayler to the end of the wall and scrambled up the tiled roof toward the top. Several other men followed him. Reaching the structure, he took off his jacket and used it to beat at the flames.

"I'll get some water," shouted one of the men as he ran down the gentle slope behind the tower toward a window.

"Just get a couple of blankets," said another, following.

In a moment they returned to subdue the fire. Fortunately the blaze appeared to have started in only one area, and they quickly smothered it. Hawk leaned back against the half-charred timber with a sigh of relief.

Then one of the men yelled, "The stable is on fire!"

Hawk blinked and rubbed his stinging eyes. Through the rising smoke he could see the building. The roof was ablaze, and he knew that the wood and hay would go up like tinder.

While he followed the other men to the nearest window and down through the inn, he thought of Roslyn. He knew she'd been stationed near the stables because of her ability to control animals. With growing alarm he remembered that she'd said she was terrified of fires.

They sprinted through the back of the tavern into the searing smoke outside. Horses screamed, men fought, and York soldiers struggled to form a bucket brigade. The smoke erased the sky and obscured the buildings.

Hawk moved blindly toward the stable, cognizant of the direction only because of the shrieking of panicked animals ahead.

Suddenly two horses appeared through the billowing smoke. Although their skin dripped with sweat, they moved with surprising calm until they were well away from the burning stable. Then their nostrils flared, terror replaced the vacant glaze of their eyes, and their careful trot became a wild gallop. They veered back in Hawk's direction.

Jumping to avoid a collision, Hawk stumbled into one of the fire fighters. He recognized the white hair and soft blue eyes, if not Coleman S'Wessex's soot-streaked face.

"Where's Roslyn?" Hawk asked. He was certain that the horses' strange behavior was caused by her telepathic control.

The older man shook his head. "I don't know—she went inside the stable to get the horses out."

"She's still inside?" Hawk shouted over the din.

"She must have gotten out the back way with the rest of the men," S'Wessex replied. As they moved closer to the barnlike structure, the whole building seemed to glow as the flames spread.

Coleman S'Wessex seized one of his men by the sleeve. "Siclari—did Ro get out with you?"

The man shook his head and tossed a bucket of water ineffectively against the wall. Then an Empire soldier appeared in the red-tinged haze, and the Yorkman instinctively swung his pail, knocking the other down.

Coleman caught the next bucket of water from the line as several more horses burst through the flaming doorway. It didn't seem possible that the terrified animals could have escaped without Roslyn's control.

"I've got to get her out of there," Hawk yelled.

Before Coleman could move, Hawk twisted the bucket from his hands. Then the telepath plunged his scorched jacket into the cold liquid, poured the rest of the water over his head, and ran through the blazing doorway into the stable.

Sheets of flame moved down the walls like living things. Sparking and crawling from one piece of straw to the next, the fire moved quickly down the empty stalls.

A few beams fell in the back of the barn, and the roof shuddered.

Staring into the shadows and smoke, Hawk felt the intense heat blast against his skin. He coughed, choked, and pulled the jacket over his head. Breathing through the coolness of the water, he stepped forward.

A figure moved haltingly among the flames, running and stopping in a dance of delirium to the music of past terror.

"No . . . no . . . Matthew, it's me," whispered the figure. Hawk recognized Ro's voice and moved toward her.

"Father? Father?" the girl's voice shrieked- Then smoke flowed around her again, concealing her form.

"What's happened to you? Don't you recognize me?" cried the girl.

Hawk stumbled as another beam fell, nearly hitting him.

Reality suddenly caught up with him, and he realized his own danger. A wave of fear and panic smashed against him, but he stood his ground.

Then he saw Ro. She sat on the floor now, her eyes closed, her hair spread around her streaked face in a fan of singed gold. When he touched her, her eyes snapped open, revealing emeralds that flashed flames of reflected light.

Her face contorted into a wild mask. She shouted hysterically at him. Hawk pulled her to her feet and tried to lead her back toward the doorway. But her fists pounded against his chest. She struggled to pull away as her mind relived the past.

"Put down your sword Matt . . . " she cried. "Matthew, it's me. It's Ro, Ro S'Cascar. . . . " The words tumbled from her lips in confusion.

"Let me go. . . . " Her fingers dug into his arm like talons as she twisted and squirmed, almost breaking his hold. "Matthew . . . " She shrieked the name in terror. Her head arched back and her arms shoved against his chest as she frantically tried to get away. "Don't make me hurt you. . . . "

Abruptly her mood quieted, and she went limp in his arms.

"Father?" This time her voice was almost a sob.

Hawk pulled her under the protecting fold of his tattered jacket, and holding her tightly against him, headed toward the doorway.

"Father? Father?" her voice whispered hoarsely. "No, no . . . everyone's gone crazy . . . killing each other . . . fire . . . everything's burning, everyone's gone crazy . . . I've got to get out . . . ," she mumbled incoherently. "Matthew, what's happening? . . . Matthew.. . . " She screamed the last syllable of the name, and the sound echoed through the thunder of falling ceiling.

Then they were outside. Hands reached for Hawk, someone beat at the flames that had begun to crawl up his sleeve, and Coleman S'Wessex pulled the half-conscious girl from his arms and carried her toward the inn.

Hawk began to cough uncontrollably, so S'Wessex's aide, Hank Siclari, let him drink from a bucket. His hands shook as he gulped the liquid. His whole body trembled from the sudden release of tension.

Still half-blinded and half-suffocated by the smoke, he was hardly aware of what was happening as the thin, white-haired Siclari led him back into the tavern- Following Coleman S'Wessex, they passed through the common room, which had been arranged for the wounded, up the stairs, and into S'Wessex's room.

While Coleman S'Wessex lowered Roslyn to the bed, his aide showed Hawk to an overstuffed armchair. Then Coleman took one of a number of small identical brown bottles from the top of his dresser and made Ro drink the liquid. When he finished he handed one to Hawk.

"Drink this, it's tomaad."

Hawk gratefully accepted the stimulant, wondering how S'Wessex had obtained the Sylvan tonic- It was a sticky, saplike substance with a pleasant nut flavor- It immediately soothed his burning throat and lungs and eased his labored breathing.

Siclari began to treat Hawk's burns, while Coleman S'Wessex tended Roslyn. With almost parental concern, S'Wessex bathed Ro's face as she continued to murmur in delirium.

"The tapestries are burning . . . I've got to get out." She coughed and then rasped, "Matthew, don't you recognize me? . . . I'm Ro, Roger . . . Roger S'Cascar. . . . " She screamed incoherent words and then whispered, "They're crazy . . . crazy. . . . "

"What does she mean?" asked Hawk. S'Cascar would be the name of the ruling family of the Kingdom of Cascar.

Coleman S'Wessex didn't answer.

The woman's face grew quieter. "Don't come any closer," she whispered. "I'm Roger. . . " Then she lapsed into silence, slowly moving her lips in fevered sleep.

"What is she saying?" Hawk repeated, trying to understand the crazy sense of the words- "Her name is Roslyn, yet she's saying Roger S'Cascar. Aren't all the S'Cascars dead?" His voice drifted off as he remembered the stories he'd heard about the holocaust that had turned Castle Cascar into a pile of rubble.

Almost twelve years before, Lord Taral had attacked the kingdoms of Cascar, Cumberland, and Westvirn in a single night of terror. He'd destroyed the three protecting Triad spellstones and then sent devastating spells at the undefended castles- First had come madness, causing the people inside the castles to fight one another. Friend killed friend, brother fought against brother. Then in rapid succession Taral sent fires and earthquakes to totally obliterate the Triad and the families who had erected it. It was said that the only ones to escape had been a few lucky guards who'd fought each other so enthusiastically that their battle carried them outside the castle gates, where the spells were too weak to hold them.

"Siclari, you'd better get back outside and see if we are still needed," Coleman S'Wessex said to his aide.

As Hank Siclari closed the door, S'Wessex studied Hawk's face intently, as though measuring his trustworthiness. Then he said, "No, they're not all dead. Ro escaped. She's the daughter of Lord William S'Cascar and is the last of her family."

Coleman sank down upon the edge of the bed and stared at Ro. Suddenly he felt much older than sixty. His son had been killed last year, and when Ro returned from Greton she'd quickly become like a daughter to him. She was probably one of his closest relatives now—so many had died. The ruling families of neighboring Wessex and Cascar had often intermarried, so they were cousins many times over. His father's sister was her grandmother; his grandfather, her great-grandfather- Coleman's thoughts drifted and mused on the genealogy; it had been one of his hobbies in the days before the war.

Hawk interrupted his thoughts. "But Roger is a man's name."

"When Lord William learned that his wife was pregnant, he took her to the N'Omb Shrine at Elmera to have the N'Omb priests bless the unborn child, as in the old custom. It used to be the common practice, but the Church isn't as influential as it once was. For a long time after N'Omb's destruction the Church was all powerful, controlling everyone's life and destiny."

Coleman sighed. "But I guess it has been thousands of years since N'Omb's punishment, and the people have forgotten. Some no longer even believe in N'Omb. But William S'Cascar was a devout man. So he had his unborn child blessed, and he also asked the oracle at Elmera for a prophecy. The N'Omb oracle predicted that the child would become a great warrior and kill an enemy threatening Cascar. William assumed that the baby would be a boy. So he and his wife decided to name their child Roger. They had the N'Omb priest baptize the unborn child then and there for luck—another old custom. When the child turned out to be a girl, they were stuck with the name. Of course, everyone soon called her Rog or Ro."

"I still don't understand. How did she escape the destruction of the Triad and Cascar? I thought all the S'Cascars were killed. She must have been just a child then."

Coleman rubbed his chin thoughtfully, thinking about what Ro had told him about Hawk and adding his impressions of the man to hers. He decided to tell him the whole story.

"I believe you know that Ro has some telepathic abilities?"

Hawk nodded.

"She's got other abilities as well. Her mother was Genevieve Rowen, Lord William S'Cascar's second wife; she was one of the last direct descendants of that once-great family, most of whom were killed during the Great War with S'Shegan a century ago. The Rowens were known as great sorcerers, but actually they had very little ability to control magic. Their main power lay in their immunity to the magic of others. Roger inherited that immunity."

"Then she wouldn't have been affected by Taral's spells the night he broke the Triad?" Hawk asked.

"That's right. She must have awakened just as Taral destroyed the Triad spellstones. According to the story she told me, she ran out of her room, and her bodyguard, probably that Matthew she keeps mumbling about, attacked her under the force of the spell. She was only thirteen then, but she had been trained like her half-brothers, and she was forced to defend herself." Coleman watched as Ro tossed in a troubled sleep, still reliving the nightmare.

"She ran through the castle while her friends and family fought each other, through the flaming hallways to the outside, protected from the spells and led to safety by the strange instinctive ability she possesses. It must have been the most terrifying experience of her life. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but she got a horse from somewhere, and, riding bareback, headed to Wessex. Of course, we hadn't been attacked yet.

"She was icy calm when she reached me a few days later, in deep shock I suppose, and managed to tell a fairly coherent account of the attack. I knew that Wessex would certainly be Taral's next target, so while I made preparations for defense, I sent the child to a distant cousin in Greton, where I knew she would be safe."

He pounded his fist into his hand. "Of course, I thought then that it would be for only a year or so."

Hawk struggled to understand. "But now that she's back, why is she using the name Roslyn? If people knew that a S'Cascar were alive it would be good for their morale, especially in Cascar itself."

"You must have heard of the purges in the conquered kingdoms. Everyone of royal blood was killed. Certainly if Taral realized that a S'Cascar were still alive he'd want her killed, for the very reasons you mentioned. My own son was killed by an assassin's knife, and there have been several attempts on my life. That's why it's important that you don't tell anyone of Ro's true identity."

Hawk nodded. "Of course not, sir."

Then Hank Siclari returned.

"The fight's over," he said. "Everything but the mopping up. Almost all of Ramsey's men were killed; a few were captured, a few escaped—including Ramsey, I heard."

"Since Ramsey wasn't at the head of the column as we expected, he wasn't surprised by the initial attack. Without catching him off guard, we didn't have too much chance to kill him—he's too powerful a sorcerer," Hawk noted.

"Lord S'Mayler has called a meeting in his rooms for all his captains," continued Siclari. He touched Coleman's shoulder gently. "I'll take care of her, Lord S'Wessex; you'd better go."

"I should come too," Hawk said reluctantly. "Derek will probably want me to send my eagles out tracking Ramsey's men. I hope their telepath was killed during the fighting. . . . "

Coleman S'Wessex leaned forward to brush a lock of ash-stained hair from Ro's troubled face- Then he stood. "If she wakes, give her some more of the tomaad."

"I know what to do," Siclari replied.

"Come on, sir," said Hawk.

The exiled lord of Wessex moved slowly, feeling the full weight of age and battle fatigue. They stopped at the bathroom down the hall to wash the worst of the soot and blood from their faces and hands. Then they went to Derek's suite.

The room was empty except for Stephen. The portly innkeeper's head was bandaged with blood-soaked linen, but he seemed to have lost none of his cheerfulness.

"Come on in, gentlemen, I'm just setting out a few bottles of wine and whiskey for you. Everything's still so confused around here, but I thought you could all use a drink. I had one or two myself . . . it sure helped this bump on my head. Yes it did! I don't feel the pain much now."

Hawk smiled. He and Coleman sat down at the large oval table in the center of the room- One by one the leaders of the different groups making up Derek S'Mayler's forces drifted in and took their places at the table.

Randy, a redheaded bear of a man who led a contingent of renegades from Cumberland and the other conquered kingdoms south of Cascar, had lost an arm. He lumbered in, fortified by one of Chen Chu's pain-killing potions. Chu followed him impatiently. As an observer for the enchanters of the White Tower of N'Omb, he felt he should attend Derek S'Mayler's strategy session. But he was eager to return to his patients downstairs.

Then John S'Aderon limped into the room. A spear had grazed his leg. He represented his brother Kevin, lord of the Kingdom of Aderon, which bordered York to the north. Although Aderon would be greatly affected by the outcome of York's battle, Kevin had sent only a handful of men to the fight. It was suspected that he'd already signed a pact with Taral but was hedging his bet in case York got lucky.

Finally, a somber Derek S'Mayler entered with Vadim Strelkov. Dressed in the simple green-and-gray uniform of the regular York army, Strelkov was one of Brian S'York's lieutenants. He commanded the few troops left in northern York, as well as the area's farmers and townspeople.

While Strelkov settled into a chair, Derek S'Mayler walked over to the window and stared out into the downpour that now covered the ruins of the town in a haze of gray. The rain pounded the ground and put out the last of the fires.

"Well, things have gone very well, haven't they?" said John S'Aderon. "We sure beat them."

Derek's eyes focused on the drops splashing against the windowpane. "Have we?" he said softly. Then he turned and unexpectedly slammed his fist against the oak tabletop.

S'Aderon's self-satisfied smile jerked into a grimace. The other men jumped at the sound, except for Randy, who was so drugged that he only leaned back in his chair and looked wide-eyed at S'Mayler.

"It's raining," Derek continued. "Don't you realize what that means?

"Douglas S'Stratford and the sorcerers with him must have broken S'Elgyn's and S'Decatur's control of the hurricane they used to block S'Stratford's ships. The storm must have drifted eastward- That means that S'Stratford's ships can get through; in fact, they've probably already landed at Swego."

As the men began to realize the implications of the rain, Coleman S'Wessex spoke. His deep, commanding voice was strained by the despair of too many defeats. "We knew that would happen sooner or later—it just happened to be sooner."

Derek pressed his fingers together tensely and then smiled confidently. He knew he must not let his own uncertainty disturb his men. As he spoke they began to relax, reassured by his words and tone. He told the truth, but not all of it.

"That's right. So it just means that we'll have to step up our plans. We did win a victory today, as John pointed out. A far better one than we'd even hoped for, thanks to the fool who led those troops all the way into our trap. We've killed most of their men without losing very many of our own. Furthermore, I've just received word from York that while we delayed the Imperial troops in the north, our forces have been able to stop Taral's main army at Twin Lakes. If we can continue to prevent the two armies from joining in an attack on Castle York, we've got a good chance of winning."

Strelkov smiled, buoyed by the effect of Derek's charismatic personality. "My men are ready for the next phase of your plan."

"Good," Derek replied. "Everyone is to get plenty of rest tonight and tomorrow. Then you will all move out along the Tompkins Road and head south to the Kellerton area as we discussed. Chu, you'll transport the wounded to York as soon as possible. I'll be setting up a few interesting spells here when I leave—booby traps, you might call them—for any unwary Empire soldiers who might travel through here."

Derek S'Mayler's plan was simple. He knew he didn't have enough men to beat S'Stratford in an all-out battle, so he would use guerrilla warfare and send small groups of men against the Empire soldiers to delay and harass them, giving the regular York army a chance to beat back the invading troops in the south. He hoped Suzanne S'Elgyn and Patrick S'Decatur had been able to sink at least a few of S'Stratford's ships. However, he feared that his two friends had died in the attempt, since several members of the Council Of Seven were aboard the ships.

As the men began to review their plans for the coming days, Stephen reappeared with some bread and cold chicken. Derek felt too tired to eat, but he forced himself to take a piece, and later when he looked down at the pile of cleaned bones, he found that he had devoured at least two birds.

Hawk also had to force himself to eat, but not because of any lack of hunger. Naturally, he had an aversion to eating fowl. However, the expenditure of so much energy in telepathy had left him as famished as the sorcerer, so he ate a little of the chicken.

When he finished, he turned to Coleman. "It looks like this has become a general bull session. I think I'll go back downstairs and see how Ro is doing."

"I'll come with you, I'm very worried about her."

Derek S'Mayler overheard them. "Was Roslyn hurt?" Although Derek's voice was cold and his face expressionless, Hawk noticed that he pressed his palms tightly together in a worried gesture as he spoke.

Coleman answered, "She was caught in the stable while trying to get the horses out during the fire. Thanks to the bravery of your friend Hawk here," he clapped the bird-path on the shoulder, "she suffered only a few minor burns, but she did inhale a lot of smoke."

"She will be all right?" Derek asked, his casual tone concealing the concern he did not want to feel.

"I think so."

"Did Chu cast a healing spell?"

"No, that doesn't seem necessary." Coleman knew that no sorcery could help Ro.

"Good." Derek looked at the floor.

Then Coleman and Hawk left, and the meeting soon ended.

Finally Derek was alone.

He walked over to the window and stared into the rain. The thunder had subsided, but he could see flashes of lightning still crowning the clouds. Below, the ruins of the town and stable still smoldered. Men worked in the downpour, piling bodies into wagons for burial in some soon-to-be-forgotten mass grave.

The gusting wind swirled rain, ashes, and leaves into a twirling pattern that became an unbidden and unwanted memory of spinning taffeta gowns and revolving dancers. Derek closed his eyes tightly against the maelstrom of memories and emotions.

But it was like trying to forget an insistent melody —the harder he tried to suppress the thoughts, the more they persisted.

He had noticed Roslyn immediately. She was like a piece of polished gold among flashing jewels—her simple blue silk gown contrasting with the ruffles and lace, the stiff hooped skirts, the furs and velvet; her streaming ash-blond hair so different from the coiffures of curls piled high and adorned with feathers, pearls, and gems.

It had been several months ago, at a ball at Castle Elgyn held in conjunction with a meeting of the lords of the Western League states. Coleman S'Wessex had come to try to convince the League to join with York against the Taral Empire. He'd brought Ro along as an aide.

Derek pressed his hands against the window frame; he tried to concentrate on the strategy he would have to use to defeat S'Stratford, and to forget about Roslyn.

His mind whispered: I don't care if she is hurt. She's nothing to me—nothing.

However, underlying the denial was the reality of his memories.

He remembered when he'd asked her to dance—as their fingertips touched he'd felt a psychic shock, an electrifying clairvoyance that made him know that their destinies were linked—their lives somehow intertwined in an unbreakable pattern that would lead through dark and costly conflict to an ultimate victory—and that this unknown girl would be crucial for that victory and important to him.

Moreover, he'd felt unmistakably that the precognition had been hers, not his, and that he'd sensed only a small part of it. Then later, as he'd grown attracted to her in a way that made him think he could forget the pain of the past, he'd almost begun to wish that the clairvoyance were real.

No. I just imagined it. Or perhaps it was a trick.

He wondered why he'd lied to Hawk about her. He knew she was no man-hater. She'd even told him that she'd been married once. Perhaps he'd said it to protect his friend. Yes, that was it. Hawk shouldn't get involved with her. She was no better than any other woman. She was just like them. Women were not important.

I won't let one hurt me again.

Then he thought of the girl who'd been his wife. They had called it the perfect marriage, a great alliance between the neighboring kingdoms of Mayler and Roehm.

He'd only been seventeen, and Joyce S'Roehm even younger.

He remembered her sweet face, a mask of childlike innocence hiding a whore. She'd run off with another man only a few months after their wedding.

He'd been glad when he'd heard she'd died—until he'd learned that she had carried his stillborn child with her to the grave.

May N'Omb damn her! But in his mind's eye he saw Ro's face, not Joyce's. I don't care if she is hurt. . . .

Then he heard a sound behind him. Stephen had returned to clean up the dishes.

"Excuse me, Lord S'Mayler. I hope I'm not disturbing you . . . if I am I can . . . "

"No, I was just watching the storm," Derek replied. "I'm really quite tired now. I'll be in my room. Please inform me if anything important comes up." He knew he had to get a few hours of rest to renew the energy he had expended in the sorcery battle with Ramsey.

As he entered the bedroom, a corner of his mind murmured: Perhaps it would be better if Ro does die . . . while another part could not bear that thought.

8

Hawk awoke completely from a night of fitful half-sleep and stared upward at the predawn sky. With the town in ruins and the inn reserved for the wounded, most of the men had slept outside. The stars had faded, but he could still see the waning crescent moon and its starlike companion. He wondered if the old legends about the companion could be true; if in some ancient time, before N'Omb ruled the world, a sorcerer had made the companion of metal and sent it to the moon. However, he doubted it, for not even the greatest necromancer now known could cast a spell from the Eastern Kingdoms to the Western League, let alone to the moon.

He couldn't even telepath as far as Swego, even though he had far greater range than most telepathy. In fact, after the storm had subsided, he'd had to send the eagles toward the port city to act as intermediaries. When they traveled the sixty or so miles to the city, they would reconnoiter and then fly about twenty miles back toward Threeforks on their own to reenter Hawk's telepathic range.

Rolling quietly out of his sleeping bag, he tried not to disturb the men around him, but many had already begun to stir. Although they had not rested well, they were almost grateful to rise from blankets and bedrolls partly submerged in the sodden ground. The rain had stopped just after dark; then the chill wind had blown drops from rain-drenched trees onto the men.

While the sky lightened and became edged with pink, the troops washed, built up the campfires, and ate cold eggs and bread. Breaking camp, they reformed into companies and began to move out, until only the resistance fighters from Wessex and the handful of men under Derek S'Mayler's direct command were left. They were organized into small hunting parties, groups to round up stray horses, and groups to patch damaged wagons to carry the wounded.

Hawk sought out Derek S'Mayler. He found the sorcerer on the porch of the inn. It had become a makeshift hospital, but there were too many wounded to fit within its walls.

Derek was bent over a soldier, using his sorcery to heal a nasty sword cut. He'd been helping the wounded for most of the night and seemed exhausted. When he finished, he glanced up, saw Hawk, and smiled.

"Shouldn't you get some rest?" asked Hawk with concern.

"I'm fine." Derek replied. "I had a couple of hours of sleep after the battle. How are you feeling?"

"Good."

"And how . . . " Derek hesitated and then seemed to change what he was going to say " . . . are your birds doing?"

"They're fine." Sensing Derek's unasked question, Hawk answered it, "And the last I've heard is that Ro is all right too."

Derek nodded brusquely, but his eyes betrayed his relief.

"I've sent my eagles up the Tompkins Road toward Swego. I was just about to check on them."

"Let me know what you find out."

"Certainly."

Seeking a quiet place from which to contact his birds, Hawk headed toward the charred remains of the stable. He walked slowly among the blackened beams and twisted debris, stopping to kick at shriveled leather traces that had once been reins. He ran his fingers over an untouched stall wall standing in the midst of the desolation.

Suddenly he felt a surge of anger and frustration at all that had happened—the horses, his hawk, Roslyn —the dead and the wounded. He smashed his fists against the scorched stall door.

Then he grabbed the wood and squeezed his eyes shut—reaching with his mind for the eagles. He needed to submerge himself in the serenity of their flight. But he found Stormrider and Windrifter perched on newly killed rabbits, thinking of hunger, blood, and the excitement of swooping down to break their preys' necks.

Hawk almost pulled his mind away, but beneath the blood lust he caught Stormrider's unhurried message—the birds had passed several men wandering without goal other than survival and, more importantly, a group of fleeing horsemen that Hawk thought might include Ramsey.

Slipping from the eagles' minds, Hawk skillfully began to probe random birds along the Tompkins Road. He moved methodically, touching each animal lightly to determine if it had been disturbed or alarmed by the movement of horsemen. When he found one who had, he skipped ahead until he reached the center of the agitation.

Although he did not expect to be attacked by the enemy telepath, he cautiously kept his mind tightly shielded. He thought that the man had died during the previous day's ambush, because the falcons had been uncontrolled when he'd sent his eagles against them to prevent the relaying of battle information to Ramsey. He hadn't liked killing them, but he'd felt that it was a necessary precaution. After the loss of his hawk when he'd scouted the ruins of Castle Buchanan, he had learned to take no chances.

A frightened sparrow flew raggedly above the forest, seeking refuge from large moving animals. Hawk caught the mind and melded into it. He kept the bird's surface thoughts filled with chaotic impressions of fear and flight; but behind the façade lay Hawk's shielded thoughts. Then the sparrow turned and darted over the heads of the weary horsemen.

Most of the survivors of the ambush had been wounded, one seriously enough to lie on a litter. Hawk recognized Ramsey's unconscious form—the man's dark hair and skin and the osmur cloak covering him were unmistakable.

A powerstone glittered on a medium-sized man riding beside the litter. Hawk directed the sparrow back over him until he could distinguish the shape of a large pendant. There was something curious about the pattern of gold around the amber spellstone, but before he had a chance to think about it, Hawk realized that this was the falcon-telepath.

The man looked up, saw the sparrow, and sensed Hawk's presence. As Jaxton Sinclair touched Hawk's mind-shield, Hawk cut off all contact, as he had during previous encounters with the telepath, leaving Jaxton with only the tantalizing certainty that Hawk had been there.

Hawk opened his eyes and focused on the ruins of the stable. The abrupt transition from sky to ground left him somewhat disoriented, but relieved. He'd avoided confrontation with the enemy bird-path again; so far, he'd been lucky. Yet he felt certain that the luck could not last forever, that eventually he would meet the man at close range and be unable to escape. If his first clash with Sinclair had been any indication, he wouldn't be able to survive a close engagement.

It seemed strange finally to run across another bird-path, only to find that the man was an enemy, using his talents for evil. And Hawk had no doubts that the Taral Empire was evil. He'd spoken with refugees from the conquered kingdoms, he'd heard about the invader's brutality, he'd seen the marks of torture on more than one child.

He felt as though the falcon-telepath were his personal nemesis. Although they had similar talents, they were of different spirits. It was as though he fought his own shadow, for if he had been born in the Empire he might have been that man.

"I've been looking for you. . . . "

Hawk glanced up in surprise at the sudden intrusion into his thoughts.

"Lord S'Wessex . . . " He was suddenly tense as he watched the man's unshaven, haggard face. He wondered if Coleman had bad news about Roslyn—no, he mentally corrected himself. She's Roger S'Cascar, he thought. He struggled to adjust. Although she would continue to play the role of Roslyn, he would never be able to forget that she was a S'Cascar. "I'm sorry to bother you, but . . . " Coleman S'Wessex paused and then smiled. "Roger . . . Roslyn, well, she is much better this morning. I thought you would want to know."

Hawk felt as though someone had just stepped off his stomach.

"She seems to be herself, without any aftereffects except a sore throat and a few minor burns," Coleman continued. "She hardly remembers the fire, except as a nightmare. She said she'd like to talk to you—to thank you for saving her life."

"I'll try to see her after I talk to Derek. But she doesn't have to thank me, I was just returning the favor."

"How's that?" Coleman inquired.

"Didn't Ro tell you about the osmurs?"

"Osmurs? Oh, the other day. Yes, she said you'd had a close brush with them . . . "

Hawk gestured to the half-healed wounds that spotted his arms and neck. "These scars will tell you just how close it was. Ro sliced the head right off that monster."

Coleman nodded, not surprised to find Ro's true role in the encounter far less modest than she'd claimed. "Well, you swallowed a lot of smoke yesterday. How are you feeling today?"

"Fine. A bit hoarse maybe, and I've got a few burns, too, but that tomaad really lived up to its reputation as a cure-all. How did you get it from the Sylvan, anyway? I've heard that they guard it more jealously than the N'Omb priests guard their relics."

"It's a long story, but I have some friends among the Sylvan," Coleman answered.

"Really? I thought they didn't like humans. I guess I don't know too much about them, though, even if I do live in an old Sylvan watchtower. I've never even met one—they moved out of my forest years ago."

Coleman seemed thoughtful. "Maybe you will. Although most Sylvan hate us, there have been some friendships between the two races, even a few intermarriages. Generally the only humans they respect are those with psychic powers. They'd probably be comparatively friendly to a bird-path."

He clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Maybe I'll have a chance to tell you about the Sylvan sometime, but right now I have to finish rounding up my men and supplies."

"I hope you will tell me," Hawk replied, thinking that the exiled lord probably had a wealth of stories.

As they headed toward the front of the tavern, he continued, "I've got to report to Derek about what I've just seen. Evidently Ramsey was injured, possibly seriously."

"Now that is good news," replied Coleman.

Derek S'Mayler stood just inside the inn's courtyard talking to a messenger from Brian S'York. The man had given him a number of letters and now looked rather anxiously toward the inn's front porch, where Stephen had set up a large table of food.

Noticing the man's gaze, Derek motioned toward the innkeeper. "Go ahead, get some food and rest. It will take a little while for me to answer these."

The messenger smiled gratefully and headed for the porch.

As the man passed Hawk and Coleman, Hawk recognized him. It was Bill Loehr, the human-telepath stationed at Castle York. He wondered why the man was delivering messages. However, before Hawk could question it, Derek looked up from a half-read letter and called them over. "Any sign of S'Stratford's troops?" he asked Hawk.

"No—my birds have flown only about halfway to Swego so far. But I do have some interesting news. When my eagles passed over a group of Empire soldiers about ten miles down the Tompkins Road, they spotted Ramsey. He was on a litter, apparently unconscious."

"I hope he's out for good," said Derek.

"One other thing, though. That falcon-telepath I fought the other day is still alive. I saw him clearly. By the way, he's also a sorcerer—he has a large amber spellstone on a pendant."

Derek slapped the letters against his thigh. "That must be the same man who started all those fires yesterday. He seemed to come out of nowhere. I had thought that Ramsey's men included only a few minor sorcerers, like the fellow we captured the other day. However, this man is quite powerful, although he didn't seem too well trained."

Coleman spoke. "Did you say it was an amber spellstone?"

"That's right," Hawk answered.

"Wasn't Geoff S'Akron supposed to be with Ramsey? He controls the Pendant of Thantos," Coleman continued.

"Of course!" Derek remembered hearing of the amulet. "But S'Akron is supposed to be an extremely poor sorcerer, and isn't he in his late forties? The man I fought looked to be in his early thirties. He was a medium-sized, blond-haired man riding a bay. Didn't you notice him when they rode into town? He seemed to realize that something was wrong and galloped forward, shouting, but he couldn't stop the men."

Coleman thoughtfully brushed back his long gray hair. "Wait a minute—I do remember that man. He wasn't wearing any pendant that I noticed when he rode in, but . . . wasn't the fat fellow leading the column wearing one? Yes, the man in front could have been Geoff S'Akron."

"Well, evidently S'Akron died during the ambush, and this other man, whoever he is, grabbed the Pendant of Thantos." Derek frowned. "And he can use the Thantos stone. A telepathic sorcerer? That's a combination I don't like."

"It will take awhile for my birds to reach Swego," Hawk interrupted. "I'll have to give you more details then. Meanwhile I'd like to see a few of my friends who were wounded."

"Sure, go ahead." As Hawk moved off, Derek S'Mayler handed a letter to Coleman. "You'd better take a look at this—Brian wants you back at Castle York."

Hawk ran up the steps of the inn and walked quickly through the common room, which was crowded with the wounded. As he headed toward Ro's room he felt uneasy and anxious, yet eager. However, when he reached her door he suddenly felt too embarrassed to knock. She was a beautiful woman, and not just any woman; she was a S'Cascar. He was a nobody; a nameless orphan, smelling of birds and mud.

He touched the door gently with his fingertips, longing to knock but not knowing what to say. Although he didn't think he'd made a sound, to his dismay Ro called out, "Come in," as though he had tapped.

While he hesitated, the door swung open.

"I thought someone was there," she said.

Hawk glanced up at her and felt again the inadequacy of his height and bearing. He managed to nod and step inside.

Turning toward the mirror above the dresser, Ro waved him toward a chair. He sank into it gratefully and watched as she picked up a pair of scissors and began to cut off singed ends of hair. She seemed to have recovered completely.

Then she glanced at Hawk and smiled. "I'm afraid I don't remember much about the fire. It's almost like a dream, except for my hair and a few burns. But Coleman told me what you did."

She turned toward him. "Thank you." Then she stepped forward and impulsively bent to kiss him chastely on the cheek.

His lips moved automatically to return her gesture, but just brushed her skin as she straightened. Hawk felt himself blushing, so he pushed deeper into the cushions and looked away, hoping she had not noticed.

"I didn't do anything," he mumbled. While she returned to the mirror and began to braid her hair into a gold rope on one side of her face, he watched her from the corners of his eyes.

"Coleman also told me I was delirious and blurted out my real name." She glanced at his face, which was reflected behind hers in the mirror. "I'm relieved, really. It's nice to be able to talk to someone who knows. You can't imagine how hard it has been not to give myself away. Things keep coming up about Cascar that make me want to say things that would be, well, odd coming from a hunter's daughter. I wish everyone knew—of course, with the way I was babbling yesterday, it could already be all over camp."

"Oh, no. No one heard you except S'Wessex's aide, Hank Siclari, and me, and I gather he already knew about it. And I won't tell anyone; Lord S'Wessex stressed the importance of that."

Ro looked at him with concern. "I didn't think you would. I just thought that someone else might have overheard me."

"I'm sure they didn't."

"That's what Coleman said." She tied off the end of the braid. "Still, I almost wish they had. I just hope I can end this pretense soon."

She grabbed her swordbelt, bow, and quiver and slung them over her shoulder. Then she reached for her small pack of belongings.

"Here, let me help you." Hawk took the pack and opened the door.

Picking up the brown traveling cloak laid out on the foot of the bed, Ro said, "We'll be moving out soon. Will you be going along the Tompkins Road with S'Mayler?"

Hawk nodded.

"We're to move south to the Kellerton area around the Shrine of the Three Miracles," Ro continued. Then she stopped abruptly, just outside the door. "Hey, Coleman said I did manage to get all the horses out of the stable in time, but what about saddles, bridles, and so on? Are we going to have to ride bareback?"

Hawk laughed. "I really don't know. I don't think so, though. I noticed they'd salvaged some of the equipment; and last night some extra supplies were brought in from nearby farms; they probably brought some extra saddles as well." His face grew somber as he remembered the dead and wounded. "There won't be as many of us riding out anyway."

They walked slowly through the common room, bidding reluctant good-byes to wounded friends being sent back to Castle York, knowing that they might never see some of them again. Once outside they breathed deeply of the fresh, rain-washed air until the smell of disinfectant and death faded into memory.

"Miss Roslyn, how are you feeling?" said Stephen, waving them over.

Ro gratefully accepted a cup of steaming broth and a hard roll. "Fine this morning, thank you. But what about your head?"

The innkeeper patted his bandages gingerly. "Oh, it's quite a bump, yes, miss, but you should have seen what I did to the guys that gave it to me! Three of them, miss, climbing through the window, right into my kitchen. Good thing I had a meat ax, wasn't it?" He winked and nodded. "But that didn't stop me from fixing supper. I knew that when the fighting was over everyone was gonna be real hungry."

Hawk couldn't help but smile at the man's irrepressible good humor.

"Hank Siclari is over there, rounding up your company, miss," Stephen continued, pointing to the archway that led to the stable. "Here's a package of food for your journey; it's not much, most of our supplies got burned up, but it will last until you can go hunting. And one for you, Master Hawk." Stephen grinned half-heartedly. "Safe journey to you. Good luck."

Hawk nodded. "Thank you, good luck to you too."

Ro said graciously, "I'll miss your cooking when we're on the road. Keep up the good work and take care of yourself."

"You too, Miss Roslyn."

They found Hank Siclari at the corral behind the ruined stable. "Ro! You are looking so much better," said Siclari, "a bit pale, perhaps, but I think I've got something that will put a little color in your cheeks." Taking the girl's hand, he led her toward the end of the corral where most of S'Wessex's company had gathered to saddle their horses and await the order to move out. There were only a few women among the group.

Hawk was surprised at the warm way the men greeted Ro—clapping her on the back, hugging her, and kissing her on the cheek while they wished her well and thanked and congratulated her for saving the horses. He envied their easy camaraderie, and wondered if he would ever be able to accept such a woman as a friend and companion so easily. But it seemed that S'Wessex's men considered her just another one of their company. She had evidently earned both their respect and affection.

At the end of the row of well-wishers stood her chestnut gelding. Ro threw her arms around the horse's neck and rubbed its forehead. "This isn't the surprise, is it?"

"I'm sorry about the saddle, it's the best we could do. Your saddle wasn't one of the ones salvaged," said Siclari. "But your surprise is what David managed to save."

David, a tall, gangling youth with curly dark hair stepped forward and handed her a guitar.

"I can't believe it!" Ro smiled at Hawk. "I had left this hanging in the stable."

"It's a little bit scorched on the underside, and it got a little rain-soaked, but David says it will play," continued Siclari.

The youth said, "I tuned it, Ro. I’ve got my autoharp here, how about playing a tune together?"

As he pulled out his instrument, Ro strummed a few chords. The company shouted encouragement, eager to hear a cheerful song.

Then Ro and David began to play a lively ditty. The tune was fast, catchy, and punctuated with a long series of funny, slightly ribald verses that Ro sang with a rich soprano voice. The men stomped their feet, clapped, and chimed in on the chorus. For a moment the war was forgotten.

When Ro and David finished the song, everyone hollered at once requesting other songs. However, before they could begin another one, Coleman S'Wessex and Derek S'Mayler arrived.

"Attention everyone . . . " Coleman boomed, and his men quieted. "We've received some dispatches from Castle York. There is going to be a slight change. I've been ordered back to York for a special mission, but you are to continue with the plans I outlined last night."

Coleman's voice cut like steel through the excited clamor that ensued. "Ro, you'll be coming with me. Hank, old friend, I'm afraid you are now in charge."

"I might have known," said Hank Siclari in mock annoyance.

"If all goes well, I'll be seeing all of you soon." S'Wessex patted Siclari's shoulder affectionately. "You'd better get them moving out now. Good luck."

"What in N'Omb's fires does Lord S'York want you for?" asked Siclari.

"He wants me to visit the Sylvan again."

"Oh. I might have known that too. You're wasting your time, but damn it, I hope you can accomplish something." Siclari clasped his friend's arm.

Hawk heard no more of their conversation, for around him the men had begun to mount their horses, calling their good-byes to Lord S'Wessex and Ro. Finally they rode out, heading down the Tompkins Road toward Swego.

Hawk watched Ro smile and wave until the company disappeared behind the trees. When she turned toward him, he saw that her eyes were full of tears.

"As they rode off, I could sense it," she said. "They're going to die—most of them are going to die."

Hawk suddenly found himself with his arm around her, patting her shoulder. He felt surprised and embarrassed at his boldness, but stood his ground and said. "They'll make it, you'll see . . . . "

"No. Don't you understand? I sensed it with my crazy sixth sense. I know they're going to die."

"Can't we stop them, warn them?" asked Hawk in sudden alarm.

"No," she said softly, pulling away from him to stare in the direction that Hank Siclari's party had gone. "I don't know how or when . . . or why. I don't know what to warn them against. I just know the result."

Feeling as powerless to comfort her as she was to help them, Hawk said nothing. In the silence, he grew aware of Derek's and Coleman's voices behind him. When he heard Derek mention his name, he turned and walked back toward them. Ro brushed the tears from her eyes and followed.

"Is Brian S'York crazy?" Derek said. "Ordering my best scout back to York?"

"He sent you another telepath . . . " Coleman replied.

"I've met the man before, his name is Loehr. He is very competent, but he doesn't have the range." Derek tapped Coleman's chest with the dispatches he still held. "The range, Coleman, that's the important thing."

"Hey, what's going on?" interrupted Hawk.

Derek's voice became more exasperated than angry. "S'York wants you to go with Coleman on this harebrained mission to the Sylvan, and he's sent me a human-telepath as your replacement."

"I know the man; I saw him when he arrived. He's quite a good telepath," said Hawk.

"Lord S'York has ordered us to visit the Sylvan to try to gain their help against the Taral Empire," Coleman explained. "We've been invited to meet with Feder, the chief of the Sylvan forest of Alycia."

Derek looked over his letter from Brian S'York again. "You are supposed to leave as soon as possible. I guess you might as well go now—we won't have those wagons finished for the wounded for a couple more hours. They were pretty badly damaged by the fire." He clapped Hawk lightly on the shoulder. "I'm going to miss you, Hawk. Get back as soon as you can."

"What about my birds?" Hawk asked, feeling a bit bewildered and at the same time pleased at being chosen for such a mission. "I won't be able to get them to Swego now, so we won't know what's happening there."

"I guess you'll have to turn them back and take them with you. When the port is attacked, I'm sure the Swego garrison will send a messenger or a carrier pigeon to York," Derek replied.

"But that will take a lot longer and won't give you the detailed information you'll need about S'Stratford's forces," said Hawk.

"Don't you think I know that?" Derek pounded his fist into his hand. "That's what I've been telling Coleman. No matter how good Loehr is, he doesn't have your range."

"But he is a human-telepath, Derek," said Coleman S'Wessex. "He can interrogate prisoners and get much of the same information, probably some better information as well. Also, he can control the minds of the enemy, which should be quite useful. Really, you've got no choice. It is a direct order."

"I know," said Derek glumly.

"But why does he want me on this mission anyway?" asked Hawk.

Coleman smiled. "Brian S'York feels that we need to make as strong an impression as possible with the Sylvan. He'd probably prefer to send a sorcerer like Derek, but he knows that he can't be spared from here. So he decided to send his most impressive telepath, and that is you, Hawk, not only because you are a bird-path, but because you do have a fantastic range, as do some of the Sylvan. Also, he knows you've been living in a skytree forest, so he thinks you'll be comfortable in Sylvan territory."

Derek shrugged, resigned but still unhappy. "The chances of convincing the Sylvan to help us are remote at best. I don't know why Brian thinks they'd listen to you now; you've been trying to convince them to help us for years."

"Although Taral has deliberately encouraged the Sylvan's position of neutrality, the raid on the Avedon forest last month may have weakened that position," Coleman replied. "This is the first time the Sylvan have requested a meeting with me; in the past I've always been the one to initiate contact. Perhaps the attack on a Sylvan forest by some of Taral's men has made the forest people become aware of their danger."

Hawk remembered what he'd heard about the incident. Evidently contrary to orders not to antagonize the Sylvan or to jeopardize their neutrality, the ambitious governor of the Empire's satellite kingdom of Cumberland had raided the Avedon skytree forest in the province's center. When Taral learned what had happened, he had not only sent apologies and reparations to the Sylvan but had also had the irresponsible governor executed. Despite this and the fact that the forest people had repulsed the invaders easily, there was growing concern among the Sylvan leaders that the raid had been only a prelude to some future concerted effort by the Empire itself.

Derek shook his head. "I still doubt that it will do us much good. The Sylvan will say that the raid proved that they are powerful enough to defend themselves against invaders and that they don't need our help. Well, at least you probably won't be talking to the Sylvan for very long, so you can send Hawk back here soon."

"Maybe the chance to convince the Sylvan to aid us is slim, but we must take it," Coleman replied. "We need their help to stop the Empire's invasion and retake our lands. When I think of what the Empire has done to my own kingdom of Wessex—the death and destruction; looting, rape, and senseless killings to drive the people into submission; then they tax the ones who are left so heavily that they hardly have enough left to feed themselves—when I think of that, I know I must do everything I can to prevent that from happening here in York and to drive the invaders out of Wessex!"

Ro touched Coleman's arm lightly. Knowing how much Wessex's loss hurt him, she changed the subject. "Why do you want me along? I should be with the rest of the company. I can catch up with them."

Coleman glanced warily at Derek S'Mayler, who knew nothing of Ro's true identity or paranormal powers. "We can discuss that on the road. Meanwhile you'd better start loading your gear. Hawk, your horse should be in the corral, and there are some blankets and saddles by the wall." Then he clasped Derek's hand. "I'll try to be back as soon as I can. Good hunting."

"Give my regards to Brian," replied Derek. He gestured toward the gutted stable and town. "Tell him about this, will you? Tell him we'll do our best to slow S'Stratford, but I don't know how much we can delay him."

Hawk strode over to the pile of saddles and studied them absentmindedly. He had mixed feelings about the sudden turn of events. Although the chance to visit the Sylvan excited him, he was dismayed at leaving Derek S'Mayler just when his scouting ability would be greatly needed. He felt as though he were letting his friend down. Yet at the same time he knew S'Wessex was right. If he could help convince the Sylvan to aid York against the Empire, he'd be doing something far more important than anything he could do here. Also, the prospect of working with Ro was a pleasant one, if somewhat unsettling.

He began to rummage through the pile of saddles. Some were thick farmer's saddles, some were slightly charred, and others appeared to be brand new. Suddenly, as he dug through the pile of leather, his fingers touched an odd-shaped horn. He pushed and pulled the saddle into the sun. It was his saddle. The delicate design around the edge was scorched and marred, and black streaks of soot covered the back and seat, but the perch-shaped pommel he'd made for his birds seemed undamaged. The saddle was no longer pretty, but it was still functional.

The sight of the perch made him remember his eagles, so he telepathed to the birds. They were flying over the Tompkins Road, heading straight toward Swego. He hesitated, longing to discover if S'Stratford's ships had landed in the port, but he knew that he had to order the birds back now in order to maintain contact.

The eagles wheeled slowly, gliding like kites upon the wind, glad to return to their master and the fine food he provided. While they winged eastward, Hawk's curiosity about Swego faded, and he began to wonder about his new mission to the Sylvan.

He felt as though the hand of destiny had gripped him somewhere along the line, and he was being forced through a chain of events that were changing not only his life, but also his sense of himself. He didn't feel quite as shy as he used to, or as lonely. And he found himself wondering what the future would bring with far more confidence than he'd ever felt before.

9

The weariness Jaxton felt had reached a point beyond exhaustion. It was an aching numbness that seemed absolute and unendurable, yet somehow managed to increase with each dreary mile they traveled. He could not remember when he'd eaten last, and when he tried to count the days they'd traveled, they ran together in his mind so that he could not sift them into a pattern that would tell him exactly how far they'd come or how soon they'd reach Swego.

Even that goal no longer had any real meaning, for he knew they'd traveled far enough that they should have long since met S'Stratford's invasion force. Yet even if S'Stratford had run into trouble, perhaps been defeated, they still had no real choice except to head for the port. For without S'Stratford they would have to escape from York some way, and they could always buy passage back to the Empire by ship.

He took a small sip of water from his nearly empty canteen and again tried to recall the days. First Ramsey had fallen into a coma, brought on either by the overuse of his sorcery powers, by a spell set by Derek S'Mayler, or by some combination of factors. Then they had traveled hard to escape pursuit. Without adequate rest or food, Jaxton had become quite drained of strength. He had reached the point where he could barely function as a telepath.

At first they had expected to meet S'Stratford at every bend in the road. But gradually despair had come to drive them harder than hope.

"Sir, there's some smoke ahead."

Jaxton looked up into the excited face of Wagner Prenis, a soldier who'd been scouting ahead.

Rubbing his eyes, Jaxton Sinclair squinted at the reddening western sky, but all he could see was the sun's bloated disk.

"There, sir," said Prenis, pointing insistently toward the crimson sky.

"Well, damn it, go find out what it is," barked Jaxton.

As the man rode off, the telepath tried to contact birds ahead, but in his present state of fatigue he couldn't sort through the conflicting sensory images he received to find any real meaning. So he prodded his horse into a faster gait and rode after the soldier.

He found Wagner Prenis halted at the forest's edge, looking down on a hillside of fields stretching to the vast Inland Sea below. The road wound down like a ribbon of black silk to the squat, rectangular spool of the town of Swego.

Pulling the binoculars from Prenis's hand, he surveyed the sailing ships anchored in the harbor. Black and silver flags identified them as S'Stratford's fleet. Although part of the town had been burning, now most of the fires had been extinguished. Through the lenses he could just make out the Empire's banner atop the stone fortress at the base of the town.

"Here, have some more wine and some of this smoked trout. It's delicious," said Lord Douglas S'Stratford as he refilled Jaxton's glass. "There's plenty more where this came from, you know? This town was as stuffed as a guinea hen with goods waiting to be shipped. It was certainly nice of the York to provide so many supplies for us. If these greedy Swego merchants hadn't been so eager to continue to sell to the League and the Empire while York was readying for war, we'd have never gotten such a good haul."

"I think I'll have a bit more of this pheasant," said Jaxton. "I enjoy fowl more than fish."

He lay back into the sofa and crossed his legs, unconcerned that as he moved, his dirt-clogged boots streaked the silken cushions. After a good night's sleep and several fine meals, he felt rejuvenated. He glanced upward and traced the gilded latticework of the ornately painted ceiling, admiring Douglas S'Stratford's ability to find and occupy the best house in town. It had belonged to the commandant of Swego's fortress.

In fact, he felt so good that as he asked about Ramsey's condition, he wasn't sure what motivated the question—concern for his old friend, or his ambitious realization that if Ramsey died there would be an empty seat on the Council of Seven.

"He's still in a coma," answered S'Stratford. "It's as if after his duel with Derek S'Mayler his body went into shock. The lack of proper food and rest evidently worsened his condition.

"But I can see that you are looking much better now," he continued as he studied Jaxton. "You realize that with your cousin Geoff S'Akron's death, you have become the Regent S'Akron until Geoff's boy becomes old enough to rule?"

Jaxton nodded somberly, but inwardly he felt a surge of elation. Geoff's son Michael was only nine, so he could rule for many years before he would even have to worry about taking care of the child. Meanwhile, he could control the Pendant of Thantos, and with it the kingdom of Akron, as he pleased.

S'Stratford continued without pausing long enough for Jaxton to reply. "I can't say I'm sorry to hear that Geoff is dead. Even though you haven't had much training in sorcery, I'm sure you can do more with the Thantos stone than he ever could. We can teach you quite a bit in the next few weeks, and Jessica S'Logan is here too. She'll be very happy to give you all sorts of training, you know?"

Jaxton smiled at the double meaning in S'Stratford's words. The Red Witch was as fond of men as of wearing the red clothes that had given her that nickname.

"I'll look forward to that," he said as the longwinded S'Stratford paused to pour himself a glass of fine York wine.

Then S'Stratford said, "You may have had some bad luck at Threeforks, but we had a pretty easy time of taking over this town. There was some minor resistance, of course, but the only real problem was in getting here in the first place. I think we originally underestimated Lord S'Mayler. He was really rather clever. He had Suzanne S'Elgyn and Lord S'Decatur stationed at Hayden Island, right in the middle of the Inland Sea. They sent hurricanes at our ships so that we couldn't get through the Hayden Straits. At first we thought they were natural; it was the right time of the year, you know? So after we docked back at Stratford Bay the second time, we decided to use sorcery to remove the storm."

He paced the room as he talked, reminding Jaxton of a bantam cock. S'Stratford's dark hair was thinning and beginning to gray, but his small, wiry body seemed that of a boy.

"That's when we realized the storm's true nature. Jessica and I and the other sorcerers with us had to join together to block the spell, that's how strong it was. We killed S'Decatur and captured that old witch S'Elgyn. They really had us fooled, because S'Decatur used his power to amplify S'Elgyn's ability to control the weather. After we broke through the storm, we sailed right into Swego without any more trouble." S'Stratford sighed and then frowned. "Of course, we didn't know about Derek S'Mayler's fake messenger or ambush, you know?"

Jaxton knew. When he had sorted through everything that had happened, he had realized that Ramsey must have received fake dispatches saying S'Stratford had landed when his ships actually remained at sea. S'Stratford had confirmed this.

Jaxton asked, "Well, what do we do now? Ramsey's troops were virtually wiped out, and I doubt that S'Mayler had very many losses."

"Relax. We've got ten times as many men as you had. Yours was just the advance party. We'll continue on to Castle York as we planned, with one minor change. We'll travel by way of the Keller Road to avoid Threeforks. It is a longer route, but we'll be in less danger of attack. Derek S'Mayler will undoubtedly expect us to travel by the Tompkins Road."

"Are you sure that's wise?" interrupted Jaxton. "That will delay us even more. I'm sure S'Mayler doesn't have the time to set up any sort of ambush again, and we'd be able to go around Threeforks if necessary."

"It probably doesn't matter much," Douglas S'Stratford replied. "S'Mayler is likely to try to cover both roads, and that means his troops will be divided and less effective. From what you've told me about the ambush, it sounds as if S'Mayler can't have more than a couple of hundred men. We know that all of York's regular army is tied up in the south against our main force." He stopped pacing long enough to sip his wine. "I really don't think S'Mayler will be much of a hindrance, but this time we'll be watching for trouble, and we won't let it surprise us."

Jaxton nodded resignedly, tired of trying to squeeze his comments into S'Stratford's monologue.

"Well, we will be cleaning up in the town today, sending out our advance scouts and so on, then we'll move out the main forces at dawn. I've arranged a little present for you in your room, now that you're feeling better." S'Stratford smirked like a child who'd stolen a piece of candy. "It should be there by now. You can rest awhile and then meet with Jessica and me at dinner."

Although Jaxton had no idea what S'Stratford had planned for him, as he rose and made his way back to his room, he wondered if Ramsey could have recovered and if he would find the sorcerer waiting. However, his room was unoccupied, without any sign of a disturbance or a surprise.

He wandered over to the window. It had a very good view of the town. From its vantage point several stories above the street, he could see S'Stratford's men systematically looting the buildings, piling various goods into carts for ultimate transportation back to Stratford by ship or southward, as supplies for their army.

The bodies of the Swego townspeople who'd defended the port had been removed from the square below. However, hangmen's ropes strung from the huge oak in the center of town displayed the forms of some of S'Stratford's later victims. Jaxton's excellent view enabled him to see that most of the men and women had been whipped or tortured before being hung. Even as he watched, another unfortunate woman was carried into the square and tied to the base of one of the greening copper statues of horsemen standing at the corners of the square. One of the soldiers in the group began to whip the girl.

Before he could witness the end to the grisly drama, someone knocked at Jaxton's door.

"Come in," he called.

Two soldiers entered, half-dragging a pretty young girl in a torn dress.

"Lord S'Stratford sends his compliments," said one of the men.

Jaxton laughed deeply, caught hold of one of the girl's hands, and pulled her to him. "Please thank him for his hospitality."

Slamming the door after the men, Jaxton drew the trembling girl toward his bed. She hardly fought as he kissed her tear-streaked face and removed her dress.

10

The duet of mating thrushes brushed through the forest, painting a delicate song. The twin voices complemented and contrasted in sweet harmony, while Hawk listened raptly to the melodic, piccolo-like notes. The forest seemed especially full of birds, all singing ancient tunes of courtship prompted by seasonal rhythms.

The sharp edge of the birds' excitement blended with Hawk's eagerness to reach the skytree forest of Alycia, but his buoyant exhilaration masked a knot of anxiety. Since they had already passed several skytrees, he knew that they would soon enter the Sylvan territory.

After a brief stop at Castle York, Hawk, Coleman, and Ro had ridden south. Skirting the area around the Twin Lakes, they journeyed toward the badlands bordering southern York and western Cascar. Alycia, the largest Sylvan forest, lay just on the other side of the York border.

They traveled disguised as N'Omb pilgrims, ostensibly heading to the shrine at Elmera, about fifteen miles northwest of Alycia. Wearing simple gray garb, with their weapons and personal possessions concealed inside offering bags, they had avoided arousing the suspicion of Empire troops patrolling the CascarYork border near the holy place. They counted on the fact that so far Taral had not broken the sanctity and neutrality of N'Omb.

Hawk had found himself enjoying Coleman's and Ro's companionship far more than he expected. Instead of feeling nervous and shy, he actually relished their company. He wasn't looking forward to returning to his lonely job as a scout after this mission.

He remembered the first night they camped out together. As they unsaddled and groomed their horses, Coleman S'Wessex revealed the source of his wide knowledge of the forest people and their customs.

"When I told you I have friends among the Sylvan, Hawk, I wasn't being entirely accurate," Coleman said. "Actually, I have a Sylvan half-brother. His name is Elihen; he's a rather prominent member of the Arthuria forest tribe in northern Wessex."

Hawk was astounded. "I didn't think the royal families married anyone outside the nobility, let alone Sylvan," he said.

Coleman nodded and continued to curry his horse. "That's generally true. Of course, the great families tend to intermarry, mostly for political reasons, to strengthen treaties and bonds between neighboring kingdoms and city-states. But although some people have frowned on them, there have been marriages to commoners as well.

"However, my half-brother arrived through a more usual liaison, one not sanctified by any marriage vow. My father was quite a lady's man in his day, as your friend S'Mayler is now, but he was not a sorcerer able to prevent conception. So I have two illegitimate half brothers that I know about, and probably other unknown siblings as well.

"Elihen's mother was the daughter of the chief of the Arthuria tribe. I don't know whether my father began the affair out of love or expediency, but it did cement relationships between the Arthuria tribe and the humans in the rest of Wessex. There have been quite a few such liaisons between the Sylvan and the royal houses for just such reasons, although few produce any offspring. Ro has some Sylvan blood, for example."

"My great-grandmother," Ro added.

"I still don't understand how this could happen," said Hawk. "Aren't the Sylvan alien? It's like trying to cross a dog with a cat, if you'll pardon my analogy."

"You're using the wrong analogy," Coleman explained. "It's more like crossing a horse with a donkey, which does produce an offspring, the mule. Actually, matings between Sylvan and humans rarely produce children. When they do, most are sterile males, which the Sylvan call shiffmen. Elihen is such. Occasionally, though, a female child or shiffem is produced, and she is not sterile. The male children are kept by the Sylvan, but the females are cast out—given to their human parent, if possible, or abandoned at the gates of the nearest castle.

"Ro's grandmother was a shiffem. She was taken in by her father, Lord S'Carlton, and raised with his legitimate children, though she was called a Carlton rather than a S'Carlton.

"The mixture of talents from S'Cascars, Rowens, S'Carltons, and the Sylvan may have helped cause Ro's wide-band telepathic ability. To my knowledge, it's unique. That's one reason I brought you along, Ro. Your heritage and abilities should impress the Sylvan."

"Will your half-brother be able to help us?" asked Hawk.

"According to Brian S'York, Elihen helped arrange this meeting for us in Alycia. He'll be there and do what he can.

"Elihen and I haven't been as close as most brothers or even most half-brothers. Considering the circumstances, that's not surprising. We don't even see each other more than every few months.

"But ever since the Empire's invasion we've been working together to form a human-Sylvan alliance. He's as convinced of its necessity as I am. He believes the Empire will attack the Sylvan when they finish with us. Being part human and part Sylvan, he's in a unique position to bring the two groups together. Although the Sylvan usually look down on shiffmen, Elihen's talents have made him well respected. He's a member of the tribal council in Arthuria, and he's a prominent shaper."

"Shaper?"

"All the Sylvan possess some paranormal powers, but some are more skillful and powerful than others. Those individuals who are most adept at shaping living skytrees are trained from early childhood. The shapers can increase or decrease tree growth, hollow out trunks, shape chambers and rooms within the trunk or branches, even create furniture in the living wood," Coleman explained.

"The Sylvan have a somewhat symbiotic relationship with the skytrees," he continued, "though some say the relationship is more of a parasitic one, since the Sylvan seem to derive more good from the skytrees than vice versa. They can shape the trees to their needs and draw strength from them. Also, the skytrees provide almost all the nourishment for the Sylvan. Their dependence on the delaap nuts and tomaad sap is so great that the Sylvan die without them, though the legends say that this was not always the case. That's why few Sylvan leave their forests, even to visit other forests. If they do, they have to carry their own supplies, and the perishable nuts don't last very long.

"In return for this, the Sylvan direct the skytree roots toward water and minerals, keep the trees free of disease, prune, and generally protect the trees from harm.

"The old stories say that the Sylvan were once human, that N'Omb punished a group of men who were more interested in growing their crops than in worshiping N'Omb by banishing them to the skytrees, to care for and be dependent on the trees forever. Of course, the Sylvan legends have a different slant. They say that the Sylvan were blessed by their god and lifted above men to live among his mightiest creations, the skytrees. They don't worship N'Omb as we do, preferring to believe in an earth god they call Shuull. They believe the skytrees are divine conduits to the god who dwells in the earth. When they drain energy from the trees, they believe they are receiving power from Shuull.

"But that's enough talk about the Sylvan for now. It's getting late." Coleman glanced up at the dusk-gray sky. "We've about finished with the horses. We'd better start the fire."

"We might be able to catch a few fish for supper," suggested Hawk. They had camped next to a fast-flowing stream.

"That's a good idea. Why don't you and Ro take the gear while I gather some wood? There seems to be plenty of brush."

"All right."

While Hawk collected the line and hooks, Ro rummaged through her saddlebags for bait. Then Hawk took her arm and helped her down the steep-sided bank of the stream to a spot just above a pool formed by half-submerged rocks.

"Of course, with your ability to control animals I guess we really don't need bait. You could lure the fish in and even make them take the hook."

Ro frowned. "I could, but I wouldn't, not unless I had to." She looked sharply at Hawk. "Would you use your telepathy to bring a turkey, pheasant, or other game into the reach of your bow?"

"No, I wouldn't. It doesn't seem right somehow, although I guess I would if I were hungry enough." Hawk baited his hook and tossed it into the pool. Ro copied him, casting her line a little farther into the stream where the current carried it out.

"I had to use my ability to control and destroy the enemy falcons at the ambush," he continued. "I didn't like doing it. It seemed perverse to force the birds to die, but I couldn't take the chance that they'd provide Ramsey's men with information on our troop placement."

Ro squeezed his arm sympathetically. "You had to do it. I'm sure every sorcerer or telepath has had to use his or her powers in ways they didn't like. I know I've had to. We have to compromise with ourselves to achieve what's the best in the long run. It can hurt sometimes, but we do what we have to do."

Ro's eyes seemed to echo the sadness and loneliness that Hawk himself had felt. He realized that they had a lot in common. Although he would never be able to forget that she was a woman, he was beginning to accept her as a friend and comrade.

"From what Coleman has told me about the Sylvan," she continued, "I gather that they believe their powers come from Shuull and that they rationalize that all their actions are due to Shuull's will. I wish it were as easy for us to justify everything we do."

Hawk nodded. "I've heard some sorcerers use similar logic, attributing their power to N'Omb rather than to their own abilities and spellstones. I don't think N'Omb has anything to do with my telepathy. I suppose I don't really believe in N'Omb; if I did, I'd be a pilgrim," he touched the long gray robe he wore, "instead of masquerading as one."

"I don't believe in N'Omb or disbelieve," said Ro.

"I don't know. My precognition, telepathy, and immunity to magic seem to be natural abilities; they are my responsibility to use as wisely as I can. They are weapons I can use against Taral's Empire, and I'll use them any way I have to, because the most important things in my life right now are destroying the Empire and regaining my kingdom, if I can."

"And I'll use every ability I have against the Empire, no matter what the cost," said Hawk. "Taral won't conquer York as he did the rest of the Eastern Kingdoms."

"No, he won't." The determination in her voice matched his, and their eyes were solemn, as if they'd each sworn an oath.

Suddenly the road ahead forked, and Hawk stopped mentally replaying the past week's conversations. He concentrated on the present.

They turned to the right, following a little-used trail that led toward the heart of the gigantic forest.

When the skytrees became large enough to blot out the sky completely, Hawk began to feel a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, and in the next moment Ro voiced his thoughts with a certainty born of her precognitive powers.

"There is someone watching us," she said.

"Just keep going and don't look around," advised Coleman. "The Sylvan will show themselves when they are ready, probably by suddenly dropping out of the trees and surrounding us. When they do, just follow their orders. I'll do the talking."

The trees increased in breadth and height, while the path became harder to follow, until it almost disappeared, obliterated by the masses of fallen leaves.

The Sylvan arrived with a suddenness that startled Hawk, despite Coleman's warning. Tall figures swung through the greenery ahead of them on long ropes. Around them other Sylvan slid down ropes or stepped from concealed tree-doors.

Hawk had expected vaguely humanoid monsters, but although the Sylvan were strange, they seemed surprisingly human. Ranging about six to eight feet in height, the thin men had long silver-green hair tied back in ponytails. Fine body-hair gave their light skin a soft, greenish tinge. Their eyes were slightly larger than humans' with huge pupils for, he supposed, better sight in the forest's dim interior. The nails on their bare feet and their thin, tapered fingers were long and clawlike to facilitate tree climbing. Otherwise they seemed to be quite human.

About a dozen Sylvan had appeared. They wore loose, thigh-length tunics fashioned from dolaan, a soft, clothlike material made from specially treated skytree leaves. Most of the tunics were natural leaf-green, but a few had been dyed a darker green or brown. Many were decorated with leaf or bird designs; some were trimmed with osmur or squirrel fur. They wore no jewelry, but one man, evidently the leader, had an abstract design of blue and red paint on his right cheek.

The painted Sylvan stepped forward and addressed them in oddly accented but understandable speech. "What are N'Omb pilgrims doing in these woods?" Coleman answered quietly yet authoritatively: "We are not N'Omb pilgrims. We have merely assumed this garb to enter your forest unobtrusively. I am Coleman S'Wessex. My companions are Hawk and Ro." He did not look back at them but instead maintained eye contact with the Sylvan. "We are here to see Feder, head of the Council of Chieftans. He is expecting us."

Remaining expressionless, the Sylvan pointed at them with his bow. "Dismount," he commanded.

As they did so, some of the Sylvan stepped forward and took their horses. They removed the saddles, bedrolls, and offering bags and tied them to ropes or pushed them into baskets that were lowered silently from the branches above. Then they hoisted all the belongings into the trees. Meanwhile, others led their horses into the base of an enormous tree nearby. Hawk could see other horses inside the trunk's barn-sized interior.

The Sylvan leader approached Coleman and stared at him for a long moment. Then he walked to Ro and inspected her in a similar manner. When he reached Hawk and stared down into Hawk's eyes, Hawk felt a sharp mental probe, different from any he had known. His shield seemed to be no defense against the Sylvan mindprobe; he felt as though he were trying to block the sun with his hand, for all he could do was shadow his mind, not conceal it. Although the probe only lasted for an instant, it seemed to search out and find not his surface thoughts and memories but rather the depths of his soul. When it disappeared, it left no mark or damage, as would a normal telepathic probe of such intensity.

At close range the Sylvan seemed older than Hawk had originally thought. Although his hair had no sign of gray, the fine wrinkles on his brow and by the corners of his eyes indicated that he was middle-aged, perhaps forty or fifty. Hawk also noticed another peculiarity: One of the Sylvan's eyes was gray, the other hazel.

If the Sylvan had learned anything important, it did not show in his stoic expression. He motioned Hawk and the others toward the swaying ropes.

Although Coleman had described what to expect, Hawk looked apprehensively at the ropes. He was used to heights, but he didn't like the idea of being carried aloft by the thin lines. However, he knew they would have to appear unruffled no matter what happened, if they were to have any chance of winning the Sylvan to their cause. So he gamely followed Coleman's example by grabbing the rope, stepping on the knot at the end, and letting himself be pulled upward by unseen hands.

The swiftly moving line passed a series of huge branches. Looking up, Hawk could make out the shapes of several pulleys fastened to a bough above.

When he reached the top, he saw Coleman and several of the Sylvan standing on a fifteen-foot-wide branch about a foot away. Clutching the rope with one hand, he stepped onto the limb. The top part was unnaturally flat, apparently shaped by the Sylvan for easier walking.

Turning, he saw Ro arrive and step over without hesitation, seemingly as comfortable with heights as the Sylvan themselves.

They were led toward the sixty-foot-wide trunk, through a knothole, and up a twenty-foot ladder. Then they went out another hole on the opposite side of the trunk and climbed a rope ladder to a crossing branch. This branch was thinner and not flattened, but the Sylvan walked along it as nonchalantly as along the first. Coleman was equally at ease, having visited his half-brother innumerable times. However, Ro gave Hawk a doubtful look before she bravely followed Coleman, taking his earlier advice to look straight ahead, not down. Then they traveled up a ladder that had been carved outside the trunk. At the top was a platform with a number of ropes tied loosely to a post at the far end. The Sylvan leader took one and swung over to another trunk. The rest of the party followed.

They had now entered the very heart of the forest, where most of the trees were over sixty feet in diameter and some of the branches were half as thick.

They passed through another knothole into a spacious room, evidently a guardhouse or armory, since the walls were lined with weapons. A narrow stairway in the room's center led onto a flat branch-walkway and to yet another rope ladder.

As Hawk plodded upward, he envied the Sylvan's stamina. They showed no signs of exertion. He also wished that he were about a foot taller, since the Sylvan had spaced the steps in their ladders and stairs farther apart than normal to accommodate their size.

The platform at the top had a spectacular view of the Sylvan village. Hawk held one of the branches jutting up like guardrails from the edge of the platform's living wood and simply stared.

It was impossible to determine how high they were, perhaps two hundred or more feet, for the ground was totally obscured by the thick branches and huge leaves.

Dozens of suspension bridges, strung out like necklaces of rope and timber, connected the circle of trees in the center of the forest. Many of the branches had rounded bulges with windows where rooms had been formed. Airy tree houses had been built onto other limbs.

Knotholes, some large enough for doors, others small portholes, dotted the great trunks themselves. The multilevel village began at about the same height as the branch they stood on and soared upward toward bright patches of sky that leaked sunlight onto the village. Structures and platforms perched in even the highest branches.

Bright pastel shades of pink, violet, blue, and yellow painted on the outside structures broke the forest's green monotony. Most of the roofs were made of dolaan. Here and there the sun sparkled off decorations of metal embedded in the walls and bridges. Drying clothes hung from some of the smaller limbs like banners.

The village was alive with movement as Sylvan swung on ropes, ascended ladders, and crossed bridges.

Some of the Sylvan guards had disappeared, but the remainder escorted them across a narrow footbridge that shifted and swayed disconcertingly. At the end of the bridge was a flat branch that had lost its bark over centuries of use.

Passing villagers looked at them with curiosity as they entered a fourteen-foot-high archway into a trunk containing a room so large and open that it looked like a plaza and seemed to serve much the same purpose. Again the congregating Sylvan greeted them with stares.

Exiting through another arch, they entered a hall running through the center of one of the branches. They passed several doors and then ascended by rope ladder to the second branch above. The Sylvan led them down another narrow hallway to a room with polished walls and furniture shaped from growing wood. It was small but comfortably outfitted with chairs, fur-covered sleeping pallets, tables, and bookshelves.

As the Sylvan leader motioned them inside he said: "We will bring you some refreshments shortly." Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Hawk's mouth dropped open in astonishment. Their gear, even their weapons, lay in a neat array on the large table in the room's center. Evidently someone had unpacked and examined each item.

"Wow!" Ro exclaimed, collapsing into a chair. "I never thought I had a fear of heights before, but I thought I was going to fall a half dozen times."

Coleman patted her shoulder comfortingly. "You did very well, both of you did. You didn't show your fear, and that was the important thing. If you had fallen, the forest is so thick with branches you wouldn't have fallen too far before you'd have landed on another branch."

"I suppose so," Ro answered, "though I don't know how much of a comfort that is. I didn't remember that the Sylvan villages were so high. When I was about ten years old my father had to visit the Aseneth village in Cascar to sign a treaty. He wanted to impress the Sylvan with his sincerity, so he took my brothers and me along. After all, he'd bring his children only if he really trusted the Sylvan, right? I remember that one of the Sylvan carried me the whole way up, mostly by way of an interior tree ladder, so I never really realized the distance we climbed."

"Hey, why couldn't we have come straight through one of these trunks? At least one must have a stair or ladder all the way to the ground," said Hawk.

Coleman examined the room as he explained. "I'm sure they could have chosen an easier way to get us here, but they took a roundabout path to test us. As I told you before, they dislike and distrust humans, believing us to be inferior creatures. We have to prove to them that we can be just as brave, just as psychically talented as they are. Obviously they could have pulled us almost straight up by rope, as they did our gear."

"Who was the Sylvan with the painted cheek?" asked Hawk. "What did it mean?"

"As I mentioned before, the most psychically gifted Sylvan are trained as defenders, communicators, and shapers. They are prominent members of the society and wear appropriate face-paint designs to show their authority. The defenders are the smallest group; they wear designs on their left cheek. They fight any intruders or dangerous animals psychically. The communicators are basically telepathy with fantastic range who link the isolated skytree forests; they can also mindprobe. Their right cheeks are painted. The shapers, who control tree growth and are naturally the most important members of the community, have both cheeks painted.

"The tribe's chief is generally the master shaper. His face, including his forehead and nose, is covered. The size, shape, and color of the design spells out the person's exact abilities and position. The paint is applied in a ritualized manner each day before the performance of his duties."

Coleman brushed his fingers thoughtfully through his hair. "I'm no expert on the subject, but I believe our guide was rather important. Red paint is reserved for the highest authority, and, of course, that mind-probe he gave us was expert."

"I'm rather surprised that they returned our weapons," said Hawk as he checked over their belongings. Nothing seemed to be missing.

"The Sylvan are quite confident of their abilities, perhaps overly confident. The mindprobe confirmed our identities and intentions, so they'll treat us as guests for the time being, and if we do anything harmful, we'll be out on our ears, which would be rather catastrophic at this height."

Hawk turned his attention to the table. It grew out of the floor like a misshapen toadstool. A pliant, light-brown bark covered the pedestal and underside. The top was fiat and polished smooth. It had an intricate pattern of swirled grain that seemed designed rather than natural.

Wondering if there were a guard outside, Hawk walked to the door and listened.

"Don't open it," cautioned Coleman. "I doubt there is a guard, but you never can tell. We're supposed to have the good manners to wait here until the Sylvan approach us. They'll bring food and drink, and then probably leave us waiting here for hours, perhaps days, before Feder will actually see us."

"Is it all right for me to call my eagles in?" asked Hawk. He had ordered the birds to perch outside the Sylvan village while they entered the forest.

"Go ahead. It would be best if they were here with us."

Meanwhile Ro sat quietly in the chair, trying to relax. Her body tingled with the release of tension, as though she had stepped into a bath of ice. Coleman noticed her closed eyes and clenched fists. He remembered having a touch of acrophobia himself the first few times he'd visited the Sylvan.

Touching her hair gently, he said, "You'll get used to it, and a lot sooner than you'd think. If you weren't going to, you'd have never made it across that first swinging rope. Why don't you take a nice hot shower—you'll feel a lot better."

Ro opened her eyes and smiled up at Coleman. "I'd love a shower, but there's not even a toilet here." She glanced around the room again to confirm her first impression.

Coleman S'Wessex laughed. "I told you the Sylvan were marvelous tree engineers." He walked to the wall near the bookcase. "Come here." He showed her the protrusion of dark-colored wood at about her eye-level, which would be about the right height for the tall Sylvan to place a doorknob. "Twist it to the right." She did, and an arched door swung out, its edges normally concealed by the grain pattern. Inside grew a sink and toilet, as well as a recessed floor-level basin behind a projection of thin wood that ran from the floor to the ceiling. As with the main room, phosphorescent moss provided the lighting.

"Just press the knobs above the sink and by the wall of the shower for water and the knob there on the wall to flush the toilet," Coleman explained.

Ro gingerly pressed the right-hand knob above the sink, and warm water gushed out of a hollow, rootlike protuberance. "How . . . ?"

"Most of the main trees have roots running to hot springs if they are available, as well as to cold underground rivers. The trees pump up the water for the plumbing. They also extract nutrients and water from the waste before pumping it back to the ground. It's a perfect system."

Having located his birds, Hawk looked past Coleman's shoulder at the bathroom with admiration. "They don't have this in all the trees; I had to build my own system in my watchtower."

While Ro picked out some clean clothes, took her shower, and changed, Hawk and Coleman continued to discuss the Sylvan plumbing.

"Only the largest trees are capable of supporting such a complicated system; outlying structures on the forest's edge rely on buckets and holes in the floor," said Coleman.

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

Then a female Sylvan entered, carrying a tray of food. Her tunic was similar to the males', complete with belt knife, but the dolaan had been bleached and dyed light blue. Her six-foot form moved gracefully, and her large breasts jiggled rhythmically beneath the thin garment, making Hawk feel a wave of embarrassment. But he didn't look away. A single blue skytree flower, shaped like a horn, adorned her long, braided hair. Silently she cleared a space among their belongings, set down the tray, and left.

Coleman lifted the bright towel covering the wooden tray and, seeing the shriveled bits of half-cooked squirrel meat, angrily tossed the cloth back down on the food.

Turning to Hawk he said, "So, we'll be eating some more of our dried rations tonight. The Sylvan are giving us the treatment they normally reserve for human traders and hunters."

"What's wrong with the food?" Hawk asked.

"If the Sylvan considered us honored guests, we'd get tomaad and delaap, delaap wine, delicately cooked stews of osmur and deer or squirrel with ground delaap nuts—any of a number of dishes. But not this—"

Hawk looked at the shriveled bits of meat. Although they did not look too appetizing, after the ride and climb they did not seem all that bad either.

"Despite the invitation Elihen wrangled for us from Feder, evidently the Sylvan still feel contempt toward us and our offer of mutual aid," Coleman continued.

"Perhaps it's another test," said Hawk. "Why would they invite us here unless they were at least slightly interested in our ideas?"

Coleman studied the tray. "Perhaps. This is the first time I've been invited to Alycia, the first time Feder himself has agreed to negotiate."

Acting as an intermediary for York and the refugees from the kingdoms under the Empire's control, Coleman S'Wessex had met with the Sylvan leaders for years to try to bring them over to York's side. In the last year, since Taral's intention to invade York had become clear, he had even participated in a formal series of meetings with some of the Sylvan chieftans. However, the meetings had led nowhere. But now that a Sylvan village had been attacked and York invaded, the Sylvan had suddenly taken the initiative, inviting Coleman to meet with Feder, the leader of the Council of Chieftans and head of the largest Sylvan forest, Alycia.

"Well, if Feder wants to verify the fact that we know something of Sylvan customs, we'll wait to eat until he serves us something worth eating," said Coleman.

11

Two days and six uneaten meals of squirrel later, Hawk fed the last of their dried rations to his eagles and contemplated sending the birds out to hunt. If Coleman remained firm in his refusal to lose honor by eating an unworthy meal, and if the Sylvan did not change their attitude, the birds could always provide them with a meal of raw mice or hare.

As it was, Hawk longed to send the birds outside just for exercise, anything to alleviate the boredom of waiting, but Coleman had thought it best if the birds remained inside. They perched atop the bookshelves most of the day like lifeless ornaments, until the Sylvan girl entered the room to bring or remove the trays, whereupon they glared at her and the food that they wanted to eat but were ordered not to.

Coleman paced the room, silent most of the time, becoming less talkative as the hours stretched on. Ro strummed her guitar.

Pausing in midsong, she asked Hawk, "Want to play another game of cards?"

"Oh, why not," he replied. "Maybe this time you'll let me beat you."

As he sat down at the table and began to shuffle the deck of forty-eight oblong cards, the door to the room slid open and a tall man stepped inside.

"Elihen," said Coleman.

Other than being eight feet tall, the man seemed totally human and bore a strong resemblance to his half-brother. His hair was black, streaked with gray; his nails and eyes looked normal.

Coleman solemnly extended his hand, palm up, in the traditional Sylvan greeting. His half-brother smiled wryly and completed the gesture by placing his palm on top. Then the big Sylvan grinned, and Coleman stepped forward to embrace his brother in a quick bear hug.

Hawk sensed that their relationship was both closer and more complex than Coleman had wanted to admit.

"It's been too long," said Elihen. He spoke with the strange, lilting Sylvan accent.

"I guess it has been several months since I was here last."

Elihen nodded. "I'm sorry I couldn't get in to see you sooner, but this place has been in turmoil since you arrived. Feder insisted that no one contact you while he reevaluated the situation."

"But he invited us . . . " began Coleman.

His half-brother nodded. "Reluctantly. After Taral's forces attacked Avedon last month, even Feder became disturbed. But then you arrived with a telepath whom even Feder's best communicator, Proter, can't mindprobe. Feder represents the majority of the tribal chieftans—they are suspicious of humans to begin with, and they don't want to get involved in a human war. They refuse to realize its inevitability. Naturally Feder and some of the other important Sylvan who are here were upset to find a human able to withstand the best Sylvan telepath."

"What are you talking about?" asked Coleman. "That woman you brought," Elihen pointed at Ro, "has a mind-shield that Proter couldn't break." "What's this?" Coleman turned to Ro.

"I don't know," she replied. "When the Sylvan telepath looked at me . . . "

"That was Proter," interrupted Elihen.

"Well, when he looked into my eyes, I felt his mind-touch. I guess I must have automatically blocked it, although I've had no training." Ro shrugged. "What did I do?"

Coleman sighed. "You're probably as immune to telepathic attack as to sorcery."

"I couldn't really get through to her when we both communicated with one of my eagles," added Hawk. "Forgive me, Elihen, let me introduce you before we try to sort this out," said Coleman. "This young lady, who seems to have caused all the trouble, is Ro S'Cascar. I told you about her when I saw you several months ago."

"Oh, I'm beginning to understand. She has the Rowen immunity; yes, I remember you telling me about that." He turned toward Ro. "And your grandmother was a shiffem?" His face began to relax. Recognizing their kinship, he held out his hand in the Sylvan greeting. Ro smiled and placed her hand over his.

"And this is Hawk, a bird-path from York," Coleman continued.

Elihen nodded an acknowledgment but did not extend his hand.

Then he sat down at the table and faced his brother. "At any rate, a couple of the chiefs of nearby forests decided that this meeting was important enough to attend in person, instead of relying on reports from the communicators. When they learned that one of you couldn't be probed, they were so suspicious that they wanted Feder to call off negotiations completely. There was quite an uproar, and I could do nothing. As a shiffman I'm in a precarious position. I dare not seem too partial toward humans or I could jeopardize what influence I have. But to my surprise Feder became conciliatory and said that the meetings would take place after you were evaluated and tested to prove your worthiness." A note of irony edged into his voice. "He's a great one for tests.

"Although Feder's probably the most conservative chief, and normally quite opposed to a Sylvan-human alliance, the Avedon incident seems to have finally convinced him of Taral's potential danger. Meanwhile you've been off limits for two days while he had you watched."

"I take it we passed his test, since he allowed you to visit," said Coleman.

"Evidently. I received word that I could greet you and prepare you for an initial audience with Feder tomorrow. When I explain Miss S'Cascar's background and the reason for Proter's failure, it will ease tension considerably."

"Wait a minute, you can't do that!" exclaimed Coleman. "I told you before that Ro's existence must be kept secret to protect her."

"But under the circumstances it's very important for the chieftans and especially for Feder to realize that she is part Sylvan. Sylvan distrust of humans runs deep—with much justification." Elihen's face tensed with conflict as he struggled to bring his mixed loyalties into accord.

Ro put her arm around Coleman's shoulders. "He's right. You thought it would help if the Sylvan knew about my powers, but you didn't think it through. How could they understand the true nature and origin of my abilities without knowing my identity? If they don't trust me, I'd be a detriment, not a help, to this mission. Coleman, you knew it had to come out sometime."

Elihen nodded agreement. "I can explain the situation to Feder and the others and ask them not to pass on the information."

"That wouldn't be any help; the news would leak out," replied Coleman. "You know as well as I do that some of the Sylvan have contacts with the Empire, just as you have a certain allegiance to Wessex and the Eastern Kingdoms."

"My allegiance is to the Sylvan," Elihen snapped. Sensing the undercurrents of strain in the relationship between the two brothers, Ro tried to smooth things over.

"That telepath, Proter, could have picked up the information anyway, when he scanned you and Hawk," she said to Coleman.

"He could have for all I know," Hawk added. "He penetrated my shields as though they weren't even there."

"Perhaps he kept it to himself or passed it on to Feder. And if he hasn't already learned about me, he could at any time by probing you," Ro pointed out.

"That's true," confirmed Elihen. "It would be just like Feder to learn something valuable and then withhold the information from the other chieftans until he could use it to his advantage. Perhaps he did know about Ro, and maybe that's why he didn't want to call off the meeting."

"Please Coleman, the masquerade has gone on long enough. Perhaps the fact that I'm a S'Cascar can help convince the Sylvan to support us."

Shaking his head, Coleman resigned himself to the truth of their arguments. "I don't like it, but I guess it's necessary. Maybe I shouldn't have brought you with me, Ro."

"It will work out," she replied.

Suddenly the door opened, and several young Sylvan girls carried in trays of food—sliced delaap nuts, dishes of cooked delaap with venison and osmur, flasks of tomaad and a liquor called dinuuci made from the fermented skytree nuts. There was even a plate of raw meat scraps for the eagles.

"So Feder has finally decided to give us some decent food," said Coleman to his half-brother. "Part of his test consisted of offering us half-cooked squirrel meat and nothing else—which we returned. We haven't had a good meal in days."

As soon as the Sylvan left, Hawk fed his hungry birds and then joined the others at the table.

Although Elihen sat with them, he ate little of the food. He seemed to be somewhat ill at ease to be sharing a meal with humans. Hawk guessed that Elihen had accepted the necessity of having humans as allies, but that socializing with them conflicted with too many deep-seated prohibitions.

When they finished the enormous meal, they discussed the arguments they would use to prove to the Sylvan that war with Taral would be inevitable. Already the tribal chieftains were divided on whether to support York or to continue their neutral policy. If they could convince Feder, head of the Sylvan Council and leader of the conservative pro-neutrality faction, they would be able to swing the entire Council to their side.

In the morning they repeated the arguments to Feder himself.

Feder was just as Hawk expected—his face an elaborate mask of paint covering granite-chiseled features; his body so tall, thin, and graceful that it did seem nonhuman; his aspect savage, his manner cold, his attitude superior.

He examined them as though he were dissecting insects, watching them through one blue eye and one vivid green one, while Coleman S'Wessex explained the reasons why the Sylvan should fight against Taral. Feder said nothing in reply. Instead, he let the three visiting chiefs ask all the questions.

"You say that Taral will turn on us and attack all the forests as he did at Avedon," said the chief of the Aseneth tribe, "but we easily repelled their attack and we could do so again."

Coleman smiled. He'd been waiting for that comment. He replied with well-chosen words. "That was not a concerted attack by Taral's main forces, but rather an isolated incident by a power-hungry governor who was eager to steal your tomaad, which as you know is a very valuable medicine. When Taral attacks you, it will be with the full backing of his sorcerers. You must realize that Taral is no ordinary sorcerer. He had the power to break the Triad stones, to pulverize Castle Cascar into rubble, and to conquer almost all of the Eastern Kingdoms in little over a decade. He is a greater sorcerer than S'Shegan, and he plans to follow S'Shegan's example, with a different outcome."

He paused and then touched the curved wall of Feder's council chambers. "These trees are mighty, but they are not indestructible. More than a hundred years ago, during the Great War, S'Shegan attacked your forests, and he was able to destroy some of them. If he hadn't been stopped, and stopped by humans, I might add, there probably would be no Sylvan left."

The Sylvan chiefs glared at him angrily, but Feder remained expressionless.

"You recall the forest he attacked in northern York?"

"Artoria," Elihen identified.

"The center of that forest burned like a candle, and even now, more than a hundred years later, nothing grows there. Hawk here can attest to that, he lives in an ancient Sylvan watchtower on the edge."

"There is no need; we know of that forest," replied the Aseneth chief.

"And you know of the other places where entire forests burned. Now there is blackened earth and the charred trunks of skytrees . . . " His voice drifted off as he let them think about that.

"The Empire is greedy. Do you really think they'd let you alone? Their war has been expensive. They need your wealth, your supplies, your abilities. You have tomaad and valuable wood, as well as the skill to shape it. Moreover, do you really think they'd allow small pockets of possible resistance to remain in the middle of their conquered lands—forests where outlaws and renegades could hide?'

Then Feder rose and spoke. "Enough. We have heard these arguments before. We know them. We will consider them." He strode around the table until he reached Ro and Hawk. Then he inspected them with a penetrating gaze that made Hawk feel he was being analyzed, categorized, and filed.

"Elihen has spoken to me of your abilities. I would like to see a demonstration. Please follow me."

The sudden ending to the meeting surprised everyone, even the other chiefs, but they followed Feder outside meekly. Hawk's eagles had been brought, and there were several cages with mice and squirrels.

Feder questioned Ro intently about her family, background, training, and immunity to magic. He ordered her to demonstrate her ability to control the animals. Then he turned to Hawk, interrogated him about his telepathy, and had him fly the eagles. Hawk resented the Sylvan's condescending attitude, but responded with calm self-assurance, confident of his own abilities.

When he finished, Feder said, "Thank you. Elihen, please take them back to their room. I am going to call a full Council meeting tonight. I will inform you of our final decision tomorrow."

With that announcement Feder and the other chiefs returned to the council chambers.

"What the devil is going on?" asked Coleman. He felt bewildered by the sudden shift in events.

Elihen shook his head, as confused as the humans. "I don't know. None of us expected him to call a full Council meeting. They do it telepathically, of course, through the communicators. But what's he up to? When I talked to him earlier this morning and told him about Ro's identity, he already seemed to know about it. He mentioned that there had been some new developments, but he didn't say what they were."

"What did he mean by a final decision?' asked Coleman. "Why didn't he tell us now? I'm getting tired of all this delay."

"I don't know, but from his tone it sounded as though he has made up his mind once and for all about fighting Taral," Elihen answered.

"It did sound that way," added Hawk. "At least we'll have the decision tomorrow." He was as anxious as Coleman to get back to the fighting.

"I'll take you back to your room. Council meetings are closed, but I'll see what I can find out." Elihen led them toward the tree trunk. "I just don't understand why he was so interested in Hawk's and Ro's abilities; why did he ask all those questions?"

Equally bewildered, Ro shook her head, but she had a sudden hunch that she and Hawk were being singled out for another Sylvan test. Only this one would be as dangerous as anything she'd ever done.

12

Bright sunlight splashed off the walled city of Keller-ton, making it seem like a dark, sparkling jewel against the shiny blue of Lake Lounsbury lying behind it. From his vantage point atop a watchtower guarding the city, Jaxton Sinclair studied the spires of the N'Omb Shrine of the Three Miracles that rose from the center of the town like three silver needles.

It was a place of wonder and hope for the thousands of N'Omb faithful who traveled to see it each year and to be blessed. Yet the name meant something else to him—something sad and almost sinister, stemming from a loss that had occurred so long ago he had almost forgotten it, but that could never be totally forgotten.

Jaxton suppressed his stirring memories and looked toward Swego, which lay about forty miles directly northwest of Kellerton. Through his binoculars he could just make out the outline of the Inland Sea.

Suddenly his new aide-de-camp, Wagner Prenis, tapped him on the shoulder. "Lord Sinclair, I see something over there."

Jaxton smiled at his new title, courtesy of his position as Regent S'Akron. In the unfortunate event his ward should die, he would add the S'Akron name to his own—Lord Jaxton Sinclair S'Akron—it had a sound to it that he liked.

He turned and followed Prenis over to another of the tower's slitted windows. Surveying the strip of the Keller Road that ran northeast along the lake and followed the Lounsbury River eastward toward Castle York, Jaxton thought he could even see a dark smudge on the horizon that could be its fortifications—perhaps thirty miles away.

Something moved on the road—several wagons coming toward Kellerton. He watched them for several minutes until he was sure, then announced, "Farmers, bringing vegetables to market."

However, he continued to search the road for any signs of the guerrilla forces that had plagued them for days. He felt certain that most had died during the series of skirmishes that had occurred since they had left Swego. Probably the survivors would regroup and seek to cut the Keller Road behind them to block the flow of supplies, rather than try to head them off. Still, it paid to be cautious.

Having finished his inspection of the road, Jaxton handed the binoculars back to the guard manning the watchtower and instructed him: "Everything appears to be in good order. Notify headquarters of any enemy movement immediately. There's a slim possibility that what's left of S'Mayler's forces may ever try to attack Kellerton itself."

"Yes, sir," the man replied. "We've worked out signals with the guards at the city's main gate."

"Good." Jaxton hoped the man would be diligent. He didn't want any surprises. He motioned to Wagner Prenis. "We'll be going back to the town now."

They descended the ancient brick and stone tower with care, for the narrow, corkscrew stairs were broken and steeply pitched. When they reached the bottom, they mounted their horses and rode the overgrown path down the hill to the Keller Road. A few hundred feet on, the road branched, and they turned left onto a cobblestone street leading down to the walled town. Kellerton had been built near the ruins of a city destroyed by N'Omb's wrath thousands of years before, and much of its grayish stonework had come from the rubble.

As they passed through the narrow, arched gate into the almost deserted streets within, Jaxton noticed the town's dual nature. On the surface everything appeared to be quite normal, with few signs of the occupation. But the undercurrents of fear and change were reflected in the faces of the few townspeople who ventured outdoors, even though S'Stratford's directives against looting and rampage were being strictly followed. He had ordered his soldiers not to sack any more towns or villages. Instead, all conquered lands were to be annexed into the Empire as peaceably as possible. Since the men's lust and greed had been satiated at Swego, S'Stratford knew that now they would be willing to accept the discipline necessary to subjugate rather than destroy the rest of York.

Jaxton and Prenis dismounted in front of S'Stratford's headquarters, the red-brick city hall. The building was tall enough to be a tower, but it seemed almost squat compared to the spires of the cathedral-like shrine across the square.

The plaza was almost empty. Normally it would be filled with crowds of pilgrims waiting to enter the shrine. In its center a group of N'Omb priests gathered around a kiosk that shimmered in a blue-gold halo. The magic protected a display of minor holy relics inside.

Jaxton found the sight of the gray-robed pilgrims and white-robed priests disturbing. They reminded him too much of the past. His mother had been devoutly religious, but when she'd disappeared during a pilgrimage to several of the holy shrines, he'd developed a hatred of the N'Omb priests and all they represented.

Irritated at himself for feeling pain at a wound he considered long healed, he brusquely handed his reins to Wagner Prenis and stalked into the city hall. The dim hallway led to a set of narrow wooden steps curving upward into a darkness pungent with decay. The stairs appeared to have endured centuries of use and, thought Jaxton as he stepped on the shuddering boards, perhaps centuries of termites.

Reaching the second floor, he passed along a hallway stained coal black from the torches lining it. He opened the door at the end and again admired S'Stratford's ability to find the best accommodations, even in the musty hallways of the city hall. The former mayor's office was brightly lit by several enormous chandeliers and the sunlight from two bay windows. The walnut paneling and furniture were quite luxurious, far more than anything else Jaxton had seen in the town, except for the Shrine of the Three Miracles itself, of course, which siphoned off most of the city's wealth.

As he expected, Jaxton found Douglas S'Stratford with Jessica S'Logan.

"Ah, Jaxton, we were just talking about you," said S'Stratford.

"Darling?' The Red Witch kissed Jaxton quickly but firmly on the lips. He had gotten to know her rather well during the past couple of weeks. She had even found time to teach him something about the use of the Pendant of Thantos.

"We've decided on our next move," continued S'Stratford, ignoring Jessica Slogan's actions. He'd seen her work on other men before; in fact, he'd been one of her targets. Somehow he didn't think she'd find Jaxton Sinclair to be as malleable as she hoped.

"When we leave here tomorrow, you will remain behind as temporary mayor of this region. You'll maintain control here and ensure the delivery of our supplies."

"That's a nice job," said Jaxton sarcastically. "Don't you think someone else could do it? Now that I have the Thantos spellstone, I think I'd be of more help coming with you."

Jessica moved closer so that he felt the warmth of her body, smelled her exotic perfume, and heard the faint rustle of petticoats beneath her red taffeta gown.

"That's why we want you here, darling, to use its power to keep the Keller Road safe. When the siege of York Castle is about to break, we'll send word for you to join us."

"That's fair, you know," added Douglas S'Stratford.

Jaxton realized the futility of arguing. He had been chosen to remain at Kellerton, and that meant he'd have the responsibility of preventing sabotage and hijackings of the supplies being transported along the Keller Road.

"I have a present for you," said Jessica with exquisite sweetness. Jaxton resisted the urge to put his arm around her, for he'd already learned to recognize her ploys, and he was determined not to fall for them. He would enjoy their relationship as long as possible, but he would not let her use him. However, when she pulled forth a cage containing a large, alert falcon, he could not help but be touched by the thoughtfulness of the gift, even though he suspected that her motives were probably mixed—after all, he'd be more useful with a trained bird of his own.

"I heard that you lost your falcons, so I thought you might like this one."

"Thank you very much," he replied, taking the cage.

"It is easier for a telepath to work with a bird he is used to. He looks like a fine hunter."

S'Stratford walked over to one of the windows to watch the small crowd in the plaza below. "You'll have lots of use for him," he said. "So far the N'Omb priests have stayed out of things, and we've respected their neutrality. I want to keep it that way. So I want you to move carefully where the N'Ombs are concerned. Although we've occupied this town, remember that the shrine itself is strictly neutral—I don't want any of our men harassing priests or pilgrims or deciding to steal a little loot from the shrine, right?

Some of the priests don't like the Empire, some are even trying to persuade the whole Church to come out against us—so I don't want any incidents, you understand?"

"I know," Jaxton replied.

"Of course he does, Douglas," added Jessica S'Logan. "Jaxton is going to do an excellent job here, I'm sure of that." She moved closer to the telepath and leaned against him. "Of course, I wish you were coming with us instead, but we'll be back together very soon."

S'Stratford nodded. "Once we join up with the Southern Imperial Army at York, there is nothing that's going to stop us. A siege of a few months perhaps, that's all we'll need."

"I hope you are right," said Jaxton.

Jessica S'Logan pressed her hand against his thigh. "It's too bad Ramsey is still unconscious. It's a real shame to see a sorcerer of such talent lying there totally useless. And of course his seat on the Council of Seven is vacant now . . . "

She batted her beautiful green eyes at Jaxton and offhandedly smoothed her flaming red hair. He knew what she was thinking, what she'd been hinting at for days. She could influence the Council to appoint him to Ramsey's seat, at least temporarily, if he'd agree to support her in the power struggle within the Council. She wanted to control as much of the newly conquered lands as possible, as did everyone else on the Council of Seven.

"Yes, it is sad," he added. "He was . . . is a good friend."

S'Stratford turned back toward them. "Well, I'm convinced of one thing now, Derek S'Mayler is the major force we have to reckon with, you know? He devised that ambush, and he was a strong enough sorcerer to defeat Ramsey. Taral's always warned us about him, and now we know why. Jessica, you know the man. Is there some weakness we can use against him?"

The Red Witch laughed. "I knew him many years ago. His weakness then was women, and we used that against him. I hear it still is his weakness, but I don't know how we can use that against him now. I really don't know how we can get to him. But it won't matter, he'll be no match for Taral."

"What sorcerer is?" said S'Stratford. "Still, Ramsey was a great sorcerer, one of the best, and now he's lying in a coma while Derek S'Mayler is out there," he gestured at the window, "sending raiding parties against us."

Jessica S'Logan filled three glasses with brandy from a decanter sitting on the mayor's desk. "We'll be testing S'Mayler's abilities soon enough, so why don't we stop worrying about them? The downfall of York is inevitable. Let's drink a toast to that, shall we?"

She handed one of the glasses to S'Stratford and another to Jaxton. "Let's drink to all the poor York soldiers who are going to be dead very soon," she said.

"To our victory," added S'Stratford as the glasses clinked together, "and to their deaths."

"To the defeat of York," toasted Jaxton Sinclair.

13

"Perhaps the downfall of York is near," said Lord Brian S'York, refilling Derek S'Mayler's glass and then his own. He stared at the thick, cold walls of Castle York and wondered how long they could withstand the siege that now seemed inevitable. The defeat of the York troops attempting to hold back Taral's main forces at Twin Lakes had been a severe blow. When Derek arrived with the news of heavy losses to the forces protecting the north and of S'Stratford's imminent arrival into the area, he'd had to face the fact that York's forces were no match for Taral's more numerous troops.

"We may be outnumbered," said Derek, as though he had read the thoughts that shadowed S'tork's face with worry, "but we're not finished by a long shot. We've weakened S'Stratford's forces, and I wouldn't say that Taral's army in the south was intact either—their losses were considerable."

"Well, we're well prepared for a siege at least, and with the sorcerers we've got and the protective spells you and the other League sorcerers laid on the castle itself, Taral won't find us as easy a target as the other kingdoms he's fought. We haven't really opposed him with sorcery yet." S'York put his left elbow on the table, propped up his head with the back of his hand, and glanced glumly across at Derek. "But I still think we'll need a miracle to win."

"One miracle coming up," said a deep voice from the doorway behind him. Brian S'York half rose from his chair and swung around to face Coleman S'Wessex, who had just entered the room. Behind him came Ro and Hawk.

Derek S'Mayler studied their travel-stained pilgrim garb and smiled wryly. "Well, either your disguise was so good that N'Omb granted your prayers, or somehow you've gotten the Sylvan to agree to help us."

Coleman smiled, but Ro and Hawk looked grim.

"Not quite," said Hawk, slipping into a chair.

"May we join you in your drink?" asked Coleman, pouring himself a large glass of whiskey without waiting for an answer. Then he drank it, straight.

"Certainly," murmured S'York. He called out to the guard standing just outside the door. "Jeff!" When the man entered he continued, "Have the kitchen send up some food for these people, they look as though they could use something to eat, and some sleep.” The guard nodded and hurried out.

"You're right about that, we rode almost straight through after talking with Feder." Coleman sank into a chair. Ro remained standing, leaning against door frame, with her gray cloak trailing over her arm. Although she declined S'York's offer of whiskey, Hawk poured himself a short one with a little water. Then Derek's exasperated voice punctured the silence. "Well, aren't you going to tell us what Feder said?"

Coleman took another sip of his drink and set it down thoughtfully, letting the liquid fill his empty stomach with a warm glow. Then he replied, "Feder has agreed to help us, and the Sylvan Council has gone along with his wishes . . . "

"That's wonderful!" interjected S'York.

"Not totally," Coleman continued hastily, "there's a condition . . . "

Brian S'York slapped his hands against his thighs impatiently. "I might have known the Sylvan would never agree to help us without demanding something in return."

"Yes, Feder wants something from us. It's a kind of test. He thinks we may be able to accomplish something the Sylvan can't, and if we can, he'll accept that as a sign that their god Shuull is in favor of their participation in the war."

Coleman sighed, wondering how to tell the story so that it made sense. "The attack on the Avedon forest in Cumberland evidently really shook up the Sylvan. So some of them with close contacts with the Empire tried to learn more about what happened. They discovered what we had learned, that Taral's Council of Seven had not planned the raid, but rather that it had been caused by the overly ambitious governor of Cumberland.

"But in the process the Sylvan got some information that we didn't. They obtained a paper that described Taral's entire blueprint of future conquests! And it was unequivocal proof that Taral intends to move against the Sylvan once he finishes off York.

"Naturally the Sylvan were . . . disturbed . . . to say the least. But Feder and some of the others still weren't willing to ally themselves with us—we're mere humans you understand—unless they could get some sort of directive from Shuull himself that this would be a good thing. The anti-human feeling is quite strong in some places. So Feder demanded that we pass a test in order to prove ourselves."

Hawk nodded. "He's evidently quite fond of tests. He told us that he was sorry that the ancient testing of Sylvan children is no longer done. You know what that is?" Hawk's voice rose with indignation. "They used to take the Sylvan children when they'd reached the age of six and shape a tree trunk near the edge of the forest around them. Each child would be sealed off completely within the tree. If the child could unshape the tree before he ran out of air, he'd prove himself a true Sylvan and would live. And if he didn't have a strong enough psychic ability, he'd be left sealed inside the tree forever!"

"It was one way to improve the psychic powers of the tribe," said Derek S'Mayler darkly.

"Well, he's appointed Ro and me to be the guinea pigs in this test, and I don't like it," exclaimed Hawk. "What's this?" S'York looked at Coleman.

The exiled lord of Wessex answered grimly. "Feder wants them to recover a Sylvan religious object. That's the test. Unfortunately, the N'Omb priests consider it a holy relic of N'Omb, and they are the ones that have it." He let that sink in.

"You see, it's some sort of a plaque that the Sylvan found while shaping the roots of one of the trees at Artoria, a skytree forest destroyed by S'Shegan during the Great War. Since the Sylvan believe their god Shuull lives in the ground, they thought the plaque was a message from him. After Artoria burned, a looter found the plaque among the ruins. Evidently he left it at the Shrine of the Three Miracles as an offering. The N'Omb priests said it was a relic of N'Omb, a fragment from some ancient city lying buried beneath the Artoria forest. So they kept it.

"Eventually the Sylvan heard about it and demanded their relic back. However, the N'Omb priests refused and have kept on refusing."

Derek nodded. "The relationship between the N'Omb priests and the Sylvan never was very good."

"So, if we can recover Shuull's plaque and return it to the Sylvan, it will prove to Feder and the rest that we're in Shuull's favor. Feder says that once he gets the plaque, the Sylvan will join us."

"Their psychic powers would give us the edge we need!" exclaimed Brian S'York.

Derek looked more than a little doubtful. "But where is this plaque? And wouldn't we offend the N'Omb priests by taking it?"

"That's the catch," Hawk replied. "It's a sacred relic of N'Omb now, sitting at the Shrine of the Three Miracles at Kellerton. It is guarded by N'Omb priests and their spells. That's why the Sylvan never recovered it themselves. There is no way the N'Omb priests are just going to give it to us, which means that we will have to steal it. Or at least Ro and I have to—that's another little condition Feder wanted. The two of us are supposed to 'obtain' the plaque and return it to Alycia without any assistance."

Hawk had never been especially religious, but the idea of stealing a sacred N'Omb relic disturbed him for several reasons. Although the Church's power had declined since the discovery of spellstones a few hundred years ago, it still had enough influence to see to it that the old laws it had established remained in force. Stealing a N'Omb relic could earn the death penalty as easily as studying the forbidden ancient sciences. But even more disturbing was the thought that in stealing the plaque they would be behaving no better than the Empire's looters.

"Feder seems to have given you an impossible task," said Derek. "S'Stratford's forces have taken over Kellerton, so he controls your access to the shrine. You'd have to get through their lines, pass by the N'Omb priests unnoticed, and then break any protecting spells to get the plaque out—it is just impossible. Our time is running out too; the Empire will have York under siege in a couple of days. And even if we could steal the relic, do we have the right? I don't like the thought of committing a sacrilege against the Church."

Coleman shook his head. "But without the Sylvan we're going to lose this war. If stealing the plaque will gain their aid, we must do it."

Then Ro spoke. Her voice was tinged with such authority that S'York and S'Mayler looked at her in surprise. "The fact that Kellerton is occupied by S'Stratford's troops might actually work to our advantage. We can make it look as though Empire soldiers were responsible for the theft. They've certainly looted enough towns to have given them a reputation for greed, and there'd be a large profit in returning a stolen plaque to the Sylvan."

"Even if you could get into the town unnoticed, how can you bypass the N'Omb defenses? Any sorcerer trying to break their spells would be caught immediately, and neither of you are sorcerers anyway. . .

Coleman interrupted Derek. "I'm afraid that I haven't been quite truthful with you about Ro. She's been using the name Roslyn at my insistence, because I was afraid that, had her true identity been known, she'd have been a target for assassination. Ro is really Roger S'Cascar, Sir William's daughter."

"What!" exploded Derek S'Mayler, rising from his chair.

"I can tell you the details later, but when she escaped from the holocaust at Cascar, I sent her to Greton for safety. However, the important thing is that her mother was a Rowen, so she has the Rowen immunity to magic. She can walk through any protective spells that the N'Omb priests might have and take the Sylvan plaque without sounding any alarms."

Brian S'York stood up and slowly walked over to Ro. He studied her closely, as though he had never seen her before. "A S'Cascar alive . . . it is hard to believe. You should have told me before." He took her hand and bowed slightly to kiss it. Then he studied her face again. "Ro S'Cascar, yes, strange I never saw it before. I played with your brothers as children, and when we were teen-agers and you were perhaps eight or nine, you used to tag along sometimes. You were quite a tomboy even then."

"It was very long ago," said Ro, squeezing his hand for a moment. Releasing it, she stepped forward and leaned against the back of Coleman's chair. Then she announced with assurance, "Hawk has developed a plan for stealing the plaque; it's a simple plan, but such plans are always the best. We think that it has a good chance of succeeding."

Hawk nodded agreement but did not voice his reservations. His plan could work, but they would both be in a great deal of danger.

Suddenly he felt very unsure of himself and of his whole role in obtaining the plaque. He wondered if Feder hadn't made some mistake in selecting him to obtain it.

Somehow he'd never seen himself as a doer, a hero. He had always been the observer, the scout reporting to others but not acting on what he had seen. It had always been up to other men to be the heroes. He glanced around the room at Derek S'Mayler, who was perhaps as great a sorcerer as Taral; Brian S'York, who ruled the largest and what could well be the last of the Eastern Kingdoms; and Coleman S'Wessex, who had lost his kingdom and now fought to regain it—these were men of nobility and greatness, these were the men who were destined for heroics, not someone like himself.

He felt inadequate to the task. It was one of them who should be accompanying Ro. But he had no choice; Feder had made that clear. It was he and Ro who must steal the plaque.

He listened while Ro described his plan to the others, searching it again for flaws; but he could not find any. It just might work. There was nothing they could do except to try it, for without the plaque they wouldn't get the Sylvan's help, and without the Sylvan they stood a very good chance of losing the war.

Then they discussed the plan from every angle, until Hawk grew weary of it. He decided to get some fresh air, so he opened one of the glass doors at the back of the room and stepped outside into S'York's private garden, leaving the others to rehash the problems.

Enclosed by the castle walls, the garden could only he entered through S'York's encircling apartments. His library, study, and even his bedroom had wide doors leading outside. Although grass, flowers, and bushes sprouted from the ground, the trees were placed in large pots, for the garden and the apartments were several stories high in the castle's inner keep, and the ground was actually only a few feet deep.

Hawk wandered over to the far end of the garden, where someone had constructed an artificial pool with a three-foot waterfall. He watched the goldfish and tried to relax, to think about something besides the Sylvan plaque.

After some time he grew aware of the voices of Ro and Derek behind him, so he rose and headed toward them along a path edged with drooping daffodils.

"I don't know about this plan of Hawk's," Derek's voice drifted through the trees. "If you should antagonize the N'Omb priests, it would be disastrous."

"It would be even more disastrous if we don't take this chance to win the Sylvan to our side," Ro answered.

"Besides, I don't think you should go on this mission, it's too dangerous." Derek's tone had become peremptory.

As the path suddenly twisted to the right, revealing Ro and Derek, Hawk paused and then pulled back out of their line of sight but to where he could still see them. There was something about their nearness and the tone of their voices as they faced each other that made Hawk feel he might be intruding.

"Why do you care?" said Ro with disdain.

"I don't know why, but I do." Derek reached forward, pulled Ro to him, and kissed her.

Hawk felt a wave of jealousy and embarrassment, but he could not move away.

For a moment Ro responded, then she pulled back and firmly blocked Derek's encircling arms. "No, this won't work. It's no good."

A shadow of anger crossed Derek's face. "I want you as I haven't wanted anyone in a long time, and you want me just as much."

Ro stepped backward, her left hand still outstretched protectively. Her voice was cool and calm, but her face seemed pale and tight. "You don't want me, you only want to prove that you can have me. You want to convince yourself that I'm no different from any other woman you've known." Her voice had become confident, almost challenging. "But I am different, and you're wrong—I don't want you."

"Don't you?" said Derek, moving forward and reaching for Ro. As his right hand clutched her shoulder, she shrank back and then raised her arm to slap him, but Derek grabbed her wrist with his other hand. Twisting from his grip, Ro pulled away.

"Just stay away from me, that's all I want," she said with an iciness that made Derek hesitate and then step backward.

They stared at each other with a wary coldness that reminded Hawk of the looks of rival eagles before a fight. Then Derek lowered his hands and clenched them.

"That's fine with me," he said, turning and stalking back along the path toward the castle wall.

Ro stood motionless, staring into the greenery after him, looking as pale and haughty as a swan. When the slam of a door echoed through the garden, confirming Derek's departure, Ro suddenly turned toward the trees concealing Hawk.

As he watched her, wondering if he should leave, he noticed tears beginning to drift down her cheeks. Instinctively he walked toward her.

She saw him and tried to brush away the drops, but as she struggled to regain her composure, she lost it completely.

Hawk pulled her gently to him and let her sob against his shoulder. He felt surprised at the change in himself. A few weeks ago he'd almost been too shy even to talk to her. Now he was holding her. But the differences in their heights still made him feel awkward.

He led her to a nearby bench and sat beside her. Nestled against him, Ro suddenly seemed like an injured bird.

He tried to comfort her, not understanding her hurt or his own, and realized that it had become very important to him to learn what her true feelings toward Derek S'Mayler were.

"I—" he stuttered, and then the words tumbled out, "I overheard part of your conversation with Derek."

Ro rubbed her eyes, looked at him, and blinked through slowing tears.

"Oh, Hawk, you heard what I said?" She drew a few ragged breaths. "I lied to him. I did want him, and maybe I've even fal . . . " Her voice drifted off, and she shook her head as if to deny the unsaid thought. But Hawk could see it in her tear-brimmed eyes, even though he did not want to—Ro was in love with Derek S'Mayler.

"But you hardly know him," Hawk protested. "And you're right in what you said to him; he wants to conquer women, to use them like objects. He's my friend, Ro, but I've seen him use so many women. . . . "

"I know. I've heard about his reputation, his affairs. Why does he act that way?"

"I guess he just mistrusts women," answered Hawk. "Do you know about his wife?"

Ro shrugged. "Coleman told me something about it. He married his childhood sweetheart, didn't he? Then he found out that she'd been unfaithful."

"There was more to it than that. Her name was Joyce S'Roehm. I've been told that she was a beautiful girl, hardly more than fifteen, and Derek wasn't much older. Their marriage was supposed to cement the ties between the neighboring states of Roehm and Mayler. From what I've heard, she was a spoiled child who wasn't satisfied with the life in Mayler. Evidently it's a small, rather poor kingdom in the Western League.

"Joyce S'Roehm ran off with another man a few months after the wedding, and some months after that she died bearing Derek's stillborn child. The scandal caused ill feelings between the two kingdoms of Mayler and Roehm, eventually leading to a short war and Derek's father's death."

"And he blamed himself for all this?" asked Ro.

"I guess so. But more than that, he blamed the girl."

"I can understand how that could scar someone, but for one experience to shatter a man like Derek. . . . "

Trying to recall the gossip he'd heard, Hawk shook his head. "Evidently Derek had several devastating encounters with women. There was one woman in particular, named Jessica S'Logan. She had an affair with him and supposedly charmed half the lords of the Western League before they discovered that she was a spy for the Empire. She managed to escape. Now she's on the Empire's Council of Seven. They call her the Red Witch."

Ro sat up straighter and pulled a handkerchief from her trouser pocket. "How he hates them! And he feels the same way about me! I could sense it, Hawk—a knife of hate and fear coming at me from his mind that wants to cut up me and every other woman into little pieces to make up for the pain he's suffered."

Her green eyes had a faraway look. "But I could sense other things too—depths of tenderness hiding beneath the pain, that brilliant mind, his basically good nature, and his terrible loneliness. And there's something else—several times I've had a precognition that our destinies are bound together, that we will have a relationship—and yet how can it be?"

Hawk struggled to understand what she was saying and to understand the strange, frozen emptiness her words left inside him.

She dejectedly wiped her eyes and face. "I'm so mixed up. . . . Oh, I shouldn't talk to you about this, Hawk. You're a good friend, but it's none of your concern."

"No, I want you to tell me about it. It will make you feel better." As the words slid from his lips, Hawk wondered if he was really concerned with helping her or if he wanted only to satisfy the jealous curiosity that unexpectedly gnawed at him.

She tilted her head back and stared upward at the trees, dabbing at the moisture that clouded her emerald eyes. "You didn't know, did you, that I was married once?"

Hawk shook his head slightly, not showing his surprise.

"In Greton, of course. His name was Garth." The words came slowly, edged with the softness of her tears. "Garth Lindsay. That's not important, I suppose. Anyway, he was killed, and suddenly it seemed there was nothing left for me in Greton, so I returned to the Eastern Kingdoms, determined to put my bitterness to good use in avenging the deaths of my family." She paused and sighed. "Vengeance requires a lot of bitterness. I didn't think I'd ever even look at another man—but no one does when they've lost someone, I guess. Then I met Derek and, to my surprise, I found myself very much attracted to him, perhaps because he reminded me of Garth. . . . "

"I met Derek several months ago, at a ball at Castle Elgyn. Coleman had taken me along—we were hoping to convince some of the Western League members to help York. Of course, Coleman warned me about Derek S'Mayler, but you know how charming Derek can be, and between that and my clairvoyant feelings that we would become friends and more than friends, I just didn't believe Coleman could be right. Derek and I spent several days together—they were very good days—and they led, inevitably, to the fact that he wanted to make love to me."

Hawk wondered if Ro could sense his feelings, his embarrassment, and his need to know what had happened. However, she gave no sign that her unpredictable sixth sense had caught his thoughts.

"But it was too soon for me, too soon after Garth's

death. I was attracted to Derek, but Garth's loss was an ache inside me—at times it still is."

She looked down at Hawk, and her eyes, which still glittered with tears, blazed with an anger born of hurt. "When I said 'no' to Derek he turned on me, without even giving me a chance to explain; he said vile things—and what was worse was that suddenly I could sense his hatred, his fear of me.

"It was as if some part of his mind realized that he was on the verge of really liking me, perhaps even having deep feelings, and it reacted to protect itself from pain by finding some rationale, however crazy, to turn those positive feelings into hatred. I was a symbol of those other women that had hurt him, I guess, and so he had to hate me.

"Perhaps if I had known what drove him I would have acted differently. Maybe I could have helped him somehow." She sighed. "But I ran from his hatred and I kept going. I left the castle that night and went back to Wessex.

"And then a month or two later Taral started advancing into York, S'Wessex's men moved to York, and we found ourselves eventually stationed at Three-forks under Derek's command." She smiled bitterly at the irony.

"He didn't bother me though; he didn't even talk to me unless he had to, and I didn't talk to him. Until today . . . "

Hawk put his arm around her again and patted her shoulder comfortingly. "We'll be leaving here tomorrow, Ro, and I'm sure he won't bother you. I won't let him."

"You're a good friend." She smiled weakly at him, not seeing how the word 'friend' cut him. "You're right, tomorrow we'll be on our way to Kellerton . . . "

Abruptly she seemed to bring herself under control, and after a few more sniffles she stood up and, taking his hand, pulled Hawk up as well.

"Let's get some rest if we can," she said. "We'll need all our wits about us in the next few days."

"Are you sure you're all right?" Hawk asked, looking at the forced calm of her face with concern.

"I won't let him upset me, he's not worth it," she answered. Then she frowned. "But I don't want him see that I've been crying . . . "

"Come on with me, there's a pond and you can wash your face," Hawk said, leading her back through the garden.

"Thank you." Her eyes were the warm color of trees in sunlight. "And thanks for listening to me, for being here."

"Hey, what are friends for?" The words sounded casual, but they burned in his throat.

He laughed shallowly, trying to bolster her spirits. "Wait until you see the goldfish in this pond, they are as big as trout. Which reminds me, that food S'York ordered should be here by now."

His stomach felt full of rocks, but he gamely continued for her sake. "I could eat a dozen of them, couldn't you?"

"A dozen trout or a dozen goldfish?" she joked without humor, following his lead.

And then suddenly they both laughed, and the laughter was genuine, despite the pain.

14

The next morning was clear and crisp and crowded with the fragrance of early spring blossoms, the sight of greening trees, and the sound of countless birds winging north.

Hawk missed the company of his eagles, but he resigned himself to their absence. He had left them, his perch-horned saddle, and even his weapons behind—everything that might identify him as someone other than a farmer on a pilgrimage to the N'Omb shrine at Kellerton seeking N'Omb's blessing on his spring planting; everything, that is, except the one thing he could not leave behind—his mother's jade pin, which still hung on a chain around his neck, concealed beneath his gray shirt. It was the only link he had with his unknown past; he had always carried it, and he would always keep it with him, no matter the danger.

Ro also carried one object with her that was not in character with her disguise as a N'Omb pilgrim—but her reasons were practical rather than personal. Common sense as well as sixth sense had insisted that she carry a knife, even though pilgrims were forbidden to carry personal possessions, in order to maintain their vows of piety and anonymity. It lay hidden inside her boot—a cold, comforting pressure against her calf.

They dared not take anything else out of character, not even weapons concealed inside their offering bags, for they might meet invading Empire troops at any time. With the siege of York about to start, pilgrims were likely to be inspected, perhaps even cursorily searched.

Knowing that the Keller Road was filled with S'Stratford's advancing troops, they traveled an indirect route over cow paths and back lanes. This led them through the farmlands west of Castle York.

Word of the Empire's invasion of central York had spread like fire in a drought. Everywhere farmers labored frantically to bury stores of grain and salted meat and to hide valued possessions, because they knew that if the Empire won, which seemed all too likely, their farms would be heavily taxed to supply its army.

The people seemed to realize the futility of flight, for there was really no refuge anywhere in the Eastern Kingdoms. However, there was some movement of young men and boys into the mountains and badlands to the southwest as they sought to avoid possible conscription into the Empire's army.

Hawk and Ro traveled quickly, seeking to reach Kellerton on the morning of the third day, for that was a holy day—the Feast of Saint Steffan. They needed the cover of large numbers of pilgrims, and in these troubled times they could count on crowds only during high holy days. Invasion of York or not, the faithful would turn out to worship Saint Steffan at the Shrine of the Three Miracles, since he was one of the most revered N'Omb saints, and he had been involved in two of the three miracles that had given the shrine its name.

Twice they were stopped by Empire patrols and questioned. The second time their saddlebags and offerings were inspected, an event that made Hawk very thankful they'd heeded Coleman S'Wessex's advice and taken grain rather than swords for this trip. He wished that Feder had not been so adamant that they recover the plaque without help—he felt that Coleman's experience and advice would be useful, perhaps crucial. Instead he had to rely on himself and his plan, and on Ro's strange abilities.

As they rode, Hawk watched her and tried to sort out his confusion of feelings toward her. He was attracted to her, yes, but there was more to it than that. He admired her. In fact, the more he saw of her, the more impressed he became. It was not just her courage or her knowledge—it was her self-assurance, perhaps because that was the one quality he felt lacking in himself.

He remembered how calm she had been when they had been stopped by the Empire patrols. She had smiled and even joked with the soldiers, while he'd barely managed to mutter "May the blessings of N'Omb be with you" to them while thinking of the sword he didn't have. Her charm had distracted the soldiers from seeing his nervousness.

Yet of late he had felt more confidence in himself. Even if he had been thrust involuntarily into the center of the action, he seemed to be up to the challenge. And to his surprise he was enjoying the adventure.

Late on the second day they camped in a patch of woods just east of the city, and on the following dawn they rode down to Kellerton.

"We'll enter by the east gate," said Hawk as the path dipped, revealing the walled town and the dark blue lake beyond it. "There will be less security than at the main gate."

"Will we get there before the doors of the shrine open for the day?" asked Ro.

"No problem."

While they approached the city, Hawk probed the minds of the pigeons and starlings nested on the ledges and nooks around the ancient buildings. He flew above the city gates and noted the skeleton regiment of soldiers holding the town. He sat overlooking the square and watched the gray-garbed pilgrims gather. He drifted over the market stalls at the edges of the plaza and smelled the fresh-baked bread, the cheese, and the herbs. He fluttered to the pavement and picked at a discarded crust while studying the Shrine of the Three Miracles.

He remembered visiting the shrine once when he was younger, seeking information about his mother and his identity, since the party of pilgrims she'd been with had been found nearby. But the priests had not been able to tell him anything about the group. Evidently they'd been killed by highwaymen before they ever reached Kellerton.

Hawk called to the birds scattered around the town and urged them into the square until they covered the sides and roof of the cathedral with a cloak of dark feathers.

He felt a sudden uneasiness as he noticed the closeness of the cathedral to the pavilion containing the N'Omb relics. His plan might cause some birds to be injured.

Realizing this, Hawk suddenly wondered if he were really any different from the enemy bird-path. He was ready to steal a relic, which was a gross sacrilege against the god N'Omb, and he might maim or kill some birds in the process.

Yet he had to believe that the actions were justified if they could bring victory and peace.

Determinedly he pushed his doubts and misgivings from his mind and concentrated on the task ahead. They had almost reached Kellerton.

The breach in the wall that was the gate glared at them like an eye and grew until it became a gaping mouth around them. Two soldiers stood just inside, holding spears that gleamed like teeth in the darkness.

"Halt," commanded one. "Where are you from and what is your business in the city?"

Hawk wet dry lips and tried to mimic the beatific smile expected of a N'Omb pilgrim. To his surprise, the words he had rehearsed mentally slipped out without flaw or strained inflection. "We're from Miller's Lane," he said, naming one of the back roads just east of Kellerton. "We're seeking Saint Steffan's blessings for our crop."

"It's such a beautiful day for Saint Steffan's festival, isn't it?" added Ro, smiling down at the two men. At the sight of the pretty girl, they could not help but smile back and nod.

"I hope to see you at the services," she continued. "Oh, sure," one of the men stammered.

The other avoided her glance and said, "You can go on through now."

While Hawk rode forward, Ro lagged behind for a moment and smiled again at the soldiers. "Thank you," she murmured sweetly, casting a veiled glance at the gate's fortifications and the guardhouse in the wall. Then she urged her horse after Hawk.

When they turned left onto a main street, Hawk noticed that the shoppers seemed less boisterous than he remembered from other festival days, but there were almost as many as usual. Colored streamers hung between rooftops, painted banners bearing images of Saint Steffan dangled from windows, and shopkeepers leaned against doorways urging milling townspeople and pilgrims inside.

The smell of fresh-baked cookies shaped to resemble Saint Steffan's cap lingered in the air and pressed against nostrils and lips so invitingly that many stopped to buy them from strolling vendors.

Hawk headed into an alley in the center of the town. It curved back toward the way they had come and would serve as an exit in the event that they needed to leave quickly.

As they tied their horses to a post just inside the passage, Ro asked, "How soon before the shrine opens?"

"About half an hour. The priests should be conducting some sort of opening ceremonies about now." Hawk adjusted the hood of his cloak and slung one of the offering bags over his shoulders. As he grabbed the second he spoke softly: "The birds are in position."

She nodded. "Then we're all set?"

He gave her a nervous half-smile. "Let's go."

Reaching down to the top of her boot, Ro unobtrusively pulled out a button she had hidden there and slipped it into her pocket. Then she followed Hawk into the flow of pilgrims heading toward the square.

A white-robed priest stood in front of the main doors into the cathedral. While he announced the day's events and extolled Saint Steffan's virtues, other priests walked through the crowd giving blessings. Two stood in front of the kiosk in the center of the square guarding the relics lying inside.

Hawk and Ro wandered by the stands selling food and mementos and then drifted over to the small pavilion. Most of the bits of metal and glass displayed inside looked like so much junk, but to the followers of N'Omb they were priceless signs of the god himself.

Suddenly Ro's fingers dug sharply into Hawk's arm. He followed her gaze to a flat plate among the twisted scraps. According to the label it was a sign from an ancient dwelling place of N'Omb, but to Hawk it was the Sylvan plaque, lying exactly in the position the Sylvan chief, Feder, had described.

It seemed nothing more than a rectangular piece of copper that had turned dark green with age. The inscription was in an ancient language, illegible and undecipherable. It hardly seemed something valuable, or something worth risking his or Ro's life to try to obtain. But if it would cement the alliance between York and the Sylvan, they had no choice except to steal it or to die in the attempt.

Hawk glanced at the bronze clock on the city hall tower across the square. It was almost nine o'clock, time for the main doors to open.

"I must give the offerings now," he told Ro.

Her face remained as calm and serene as those of the pilgrims around them as she watched him walk toward the offering platform at the back of the cathedral, about fifty yards from the main doors, but her skin tingled with a sudden foreboding of his danger that came too late and remained too vague to do Hawk any good, even if she could tell him about it. She had no choice except to continue with her part of the mission, for she sensed that it would succeed.

Then the clock began to chime, and the crowd turned to watch it. Small doors at the base of its face opened, revealing mechanical figures of famous saints. Moving hands and legs in time to the chimes, they paraded in a circle until the last bell rang, then they reentered the clock.

As the pilgrims turned back toward the shrine and began to crowd against its main doors in anticipation that they would open, Hawk reached the edge of the offering platform and handed the bags of grain to one of the novices. With mingled excitement and abhorrence, he contacted the gathered birds, and then, as the main doors opened, he sent them diving from the rooftops and ledges into the crowd massed at the cathedral's entrance.

There was instant pandemonium. Startled pilgrims ran or tried to dodge; some tried to squeeze into the shrine, but the sudden press of the crowd plugged the door. Priests shouted, women screamed, and birds shrieked.

Hawk controlled the birds as carefully as he could to prevent injuries to them and to the pilgrims. But it was difficult to direct so many at once in the tight space.

A pigeon landed on a woman's head, and she flailed about, knocking down others in the crowd; one of the priests began to shout a hurried spell and point his finger at some of the birds, which fell one by one onto the frightened throng; at the same time a large group of starlings careened into a market stall, knocking part of it over, while other maddened birds dashed themselves against the doorway of the shrine.

Ro took advantage of that first moment of confusion. While all eyes stared at the chaos near the cathedral doors, she stepped up into the kiosk. The blue-gold force field did not flicker, the protective runes engraved upon the kiosk did not flame, the alarms did not sound.

She slipped the Sylvan plaque into the folds of her robe and left in its place a silver button bearing the Imperial insignia. It had come from an Empire soldier's uniform. The plaque's absence might not be noticed for days or weeks, but when it was, suspicion would fall on the Empire rather than on York or the Sylvan.

Then she stepped down and melted into the crowd. No one had noticed her.

As soon as Hawk saw Ro leave the kiosk, he began to edge his way around the side of the square toward the city hall. Meanwhile he sent the birds into another dive.

"I wish we didn't have to attend this damn ceremony for Saint Steffan," said Wagner Prenis to another of Jaxton Sinclair's lieutenants as they hurried down the warped stairs of the city hall.

Jaxton, who waited for them on the first-floor landing, heard the remark and said sharply, "You may not believe in N'Omb, but these people do. We have to show them that although we've occupied their town, we'll respect their beliefs and property. Kellerton is now part of the Taral Empire, and as its acting mayor I have a duty to pay my respects to N'Omb. Though I don't like it any better than you do, we're going to sit through that service and look as though we like it."

"Yes, sir," said Prenis, looking at his boots. He knew his superior well enough to make no further objections.

As they walked down the long hallway toward the front door, the guard at the end suddenly gave a startled cry and dashed outside.

"What the . . . ?" exclaimed Jaxton.

Closely followed by his aides, he ran to the door and outside into the square.

The plaza was a turmoil of writhing gray and white as twisting pilgrims and priests dodged and ran, trying to evade black feathered darts that clawed and raked and bit. Yet the screams and cries were far out of proportion to actual injuries.

While a gray cloud of pigeons whirled down from the spires of the shrine, Jaxton's thoughts automatically thrust out into the birds. Touching their minds, he suddenly found himself in deadly combat with the hawk-telepath he had met before. Only this time the man's mind was no wisp of shielded thought darting out of range but was instead solid, near, and dangerous.

Jaxton's shield shuddered and held under a barrage of lightning-like thrusts. He counterattacked, but the mental pounding continued so fiercely that Jaxton realized that the hawk-telepath was far more powerful than he had thought.

While the two minds grappled, the birds spun and careened in an uncontrolled frenzy, for they were still linked to the men. They dived against the buildings and flew blindly onto the ground.

Jaxton wondered why the enemy telepath had disrupted the Saint Steffan festival. Was this merely a diversion while Derek S'Mayler attacked Kellerton? Yet there had been no alarm of an attack or any sighting of York troops. Moreover, it seemed unlikely that York would take the chance of offending the N'Omb priests. Or was this a plot of some kind? An attempt to discredit the Empire? Some of the townspeople knew that he was a bird-path. Did York intend to make it look as though he had done this?

He thrust deeply into the enemy mind, seeking the answer, but inner shields blocked him. So he battered at his enemy's motor controls while skillfully sending a concealed probe that seized the nervous system. The ploy worked, and for a moment he found himself staring around the square through a stranger's eyes. That was when he realized that the man stood not thirty feet away, at the corner of the city hall.

Suddenly Hawk struck back sharply, pushing Jaxton out so fiercely that Jaxton found himself fighting to control his own body against the other's assault. The power of the onslaught surprised and frightened Jaxton. Evidently his previous encounters with the hawk-telepath had been only at a great distance; at this close range his opponent's strength was formidable. Perhaps too formidable.

He tried to use the Pendant of Thantos against the man, but discovered that he needed all his power for the telepathic duel. Unable to use sorcery, he ordered his men forward.

"Get him," he yelled hoarsely, pointing to the short, bearded man dressed as a pilgrim who stood strangely still amidst the chaos. "He's the one causing this."

While they ran toward Hawk with drawn swords, Jaxton felt a wave of pain as the other lashed against his shields. Realizing that he might not be able to win the duel, he decided to break off contact and let his men capture the telepath. He slashed out with all his might and then abruptly severed the connection.

Released from the bond, the birds that could still fly fluttered up into the sky in fear and bewilderment. The shadows of their beating wings swept across the faces of the terrified people. Then they were gone.

The dazed pilgrims fell on their knees, thanking N'Omb for deliverance from the strange attack. Some gestured with their hands, drawing circles in midair to signify a prayer to N'Omb. The superstitious people thought that the sign could protect them against sorcery.

Soldiers ran in to try to restore order.

Meanwhile, Wagner Prenis had reached Hawk.

"I want him alive," Jaxton yelled as his aide's sword flashed in the sunlight.

Without a weapon and momentarily stunned by Jaxton's final blow, Hawk had no choice except to submit.

Jaxton stepped forward and inspected Hawk intently. "What are you doing here?" The other gave no answer. "Your life will be spared if you speak." The hawk-telepath's eyes met his defiantly. "No? But you will answer my questions sooner or later, make no mistake about that." Jaxton motioned to the soldiers. "Take him down to the city hall dungeon and put him in the shielded cell. I'll question him later—until then he can consider the consequences of silence."

As two of the men herded Hawk toward the city hall, Jaxton turned his attention to Wagner Prenis. "Double the guard and put them on immediate alert.

This may have been a diversion while York tries to attack Kellerton or to cut our supply route to Swego. I want scouts on the Keller Road in both directions, and I want a messenger sent to S'Stratford."

"There's been no word of any York troops in the area for days," mused Prenis.

"We can't overlook any possibility. Get going and report back to me as soon as you can."

"Yes, sir."

Jaxton surveyed the square. The N'Omb priests seemed to have taken the bird attack in their stride and were now helping the injured and urging the rest of the pilgrims to enter the shrine. They evidently intended to continue the Saint Steffan services in spite of the attack.

Quickly he searched the area telepathically through the eyes of nearby birds. Empire soldiers still manned the city walls, the traffic on the Keller Road appeared to be normal, the fields and forests just beyond the city remained serene.

Satisfied that York was not attacking the city, Jaxton felt sure that the bird attack had been calculated to discredit him and, through him, the Empire. He sought out Father Richards, the shrine's high priest, and found him examining the twisted body of a pigeon near the cathedral's main door. The sleeve of his white velvet robe was stained, and a bit of torn skin with feathers still attached clung to his shoulder.

Richards let the dead bird fall from his hand as he turned to glare at Jaxton Sinclair. A wave of anger splashed across his face in a dark red tide.

"What was the meaning of this?" He gestured toward the blood-splattered cobblestones, the broken bodies of birds, and the frightened pilgrims. As his voice boomed, the crowd twisted toward him and stared at Jaxton with growing suspicion.

"Please listen to me," replied Jaxton in a low, authoritative voice. "We've captured the man who did this; he's a bird-telepath from York."

"What!" Richards' disbelief was evident. He and the townspeople would much rather blame the attack on the Empire that had captured their town than on their own people. "I can't believe York would do such a thing . . . "

"Please come with me to the city hall and you can see the man for yourself." Jaxton pressed the priest's arm gently, and the man began to move forward. "Believe me, the Empire had nothing to do with this. We would not violate the sanctity of N'Omb for any reason. York has committed this sacrilege in an attempt to discredit me, but fortunately we were able to capture their spy."

Richards' expression had become stoic. "I'll examine this man, but I still find it hard to believe that York was behind this senseless attack. It is incredible that anyone would disrupt the Saint Steffan festival! Why nothing like this has ever happened before."

"Obviously York has no respect for N'Omb," replied Jaxton, as he led the way into the city hall. He felt relieved when its door closed behind them, shutting out the accusing looks and angry glances. He was tempted to place the city under curfew, but he knew that would only increase the townspeople's resentment and suspicions. He had to obtain the York telepath's confession, either willingly or through torture, to lay to rest any doubts that the N'Omb priests would have about the origin of the bird attack.

One of the prison guards escorted them down the narrow stone steps into the dungeon. They passed the guard stationed at the first level and then descended into the deserted second level. The dark holes on this floor were empty except for the shielded one that lay at the end of the corridor. Its walls, ceiling, and door were covered with a fine silver mesh inlay that effectively blocked telepathy and sorcery. Rune-inscribed posts in the four corners cast spells that also prevented magic from taking place within the room.

Through the silver lattice covering the iron grille in the door, they could see the York telepath sitting calmly on the plain wooden shelf that served as his bunk. His cloak and belt had been taken, and dark bruises on his jaw indicated that he'd put up some resistance before being tossed into the cell.

"So you have captured someone," noted Richards with a trace of sarcasm. "But what proof do you have that he planned the attack?"

"He's a bird-telepath—look at the scars on his arms and hands!" Jaxton pulled up his sleeve and displayed his own bird-clawed arm. "Those marks are like mine—the scars of someone who has handled birds all his life. Believe me, I know this man; I've fought him before. When I saw the birds attacking today, I engaged him in a telepathic duel and stopped his attack."

Father Richards reexamined the prisoner. "Who are you?" he asked, but Hawk continued to stare indifferently at the floor.

"Even if he is a telepath and did start the attack, what proof do you have that he is from York? He could be a thief who tried to distract the crowd while he committed some robbery, or he could be some sort of heretic trying to disturb our services."

The prisoner looked up at this and grinned. Excitement flushed his face, and he glowered in passable counterfeit of the manic passion of a fanatic. "Down with N'Omb," he cried, suddenly rising to his feet and rushing forward. He banged against the door with a fury that shook the thick oak slab. "Death to the priests of N'Omb. They bleed us dry with their constant demands for tribute. While they live in luxury, our children starve!"

"Enough of this, you spy," shouted Jaxton in dismay. "He's trying to trick you, can't you see that? I know he's York's man."

He pulled Richards back from the cell as the tele- path continued to curse and .blaspheme against N'Omb. "Guard, did you search the York spy?"

"Yes, sir," said the guard, stiffening to attention "He put up a bit of a scrap when we searched him, but we didn't find much."

"Come on, Father Richards, let's take a look. Perhaps he was carrying the proof you want."

Jaxton moved back to the guard's station at the end of the corridor and began to examine the meager pile of possessions lying on the table. There was a standard pilgrim's cloak of coarse gray wool, a common brown belt without markings, a handkerchief tied around a bit of journeybread, a few coins, and an innocuous-looking piece of knotted cord that might serve as a garrote. Then he spotted a slender gold chain peeking out from beneath the cloak.

He pulled up the chain and gasped as he saw the small jade pin suspended from it. He reached for the pin warily, as though it might burn his hand, and then studied it intently. The shape of seven leaves, tips outward, was unmistakable--it was the symbol of the S'Akron family.

However, the pin represented more than that. Memories of his childhood flashed through his mind as clearly and sharply as if they had just taken place.

His mother sat brushing her long brown hair. On her dress was a small jade pin of seven leaves. She talked about his grandfather, the Lord of Akron, and explained that although her brother would rule when her father died, Jaxton should never forget that he was in line for the throne. She pointed to the pin and explained that the seven leaves represented the seven provinces of Akron. It had been a gift from her father. The Sinclairs owned most of the land in one of those provinces.

Wearing a gown of gold and silver and green, she bent to tuck him in before she went out to a ball, and the leaf pin glittered at her throat.

His mother, dressed in simple gray, supervised the packing for a pilgrimage to baptize and bless her newborn son, his brother, who lay quietly in his cradle. His name would be Gregory, after her father, the lord of Akron. She told Jaxton to be good and that she would bring him back a special present for his coming ninth birthday. He remembered her lifting the pin from her jewel box, studying it, returning it, and then taking it out again. "I shouldn't take this," she said, "but it's always been special to me—kind of my lucky piece. Do you think I should take it?" He nodded and then watched her pin the piece of jade inside her traveling cloak. He felt a surge of pleasure at sharing her secret bit of self-indulgence.

She kissed him good-bye, told him to study his lessons, and promised that he could go with her on the next pilgrimage. Handing his baby brother to the nurse inside the carriage, she'd patted him once more and then stepped inside.

His mother had never come back. And the pin, his brother, and the whole party of pilgrims had disappeared without a trace. They had been seen last heading away from the N'Omb shrine at Elmera toward the Shrine of the Three Miracles.

"Is something wrong?" asked the high priest.

Jaxton clenched the pin inside his fingers and tried to look unconcerned. "No, nothing. There's nothing here of interest—it's just an ordinary necklace. However, we have methods to get the truth out of this man, as I'm sure you know. I'll let you know what we find out."

He put his arm around the priest's shoulder and guided him toward the stairs. "Meanwhile, I hope you'll explain what has happened to your congregation. I want them to know that the Empire had nothing to do with this incident."

"Well, the man seems to be some sort of fanatic, and for the moment we'll let it go at that. You may not have had anything to do with this, Lord Sinclair, but neither am I willing to believe that York is behind this. We have N'Omb sorcerers capable of casting certain spells to bring forth the truth from this man . . . "

"That may be useful, perhaps tomorrow, but I want to question the spy myself first. He is my prisoner." "I understand, Lord Sinclair."

Jaxton beckoned to one of his soldiers. "Please show Father Richards out and advise the men to give him whatever assistance is necessary to aid the injured and clean up the damage." He hoped the gesture would help pacify the priest and convince the townspeople that the Empire had not been responsible for the bird attack.

"Yes, sir."

Jaxton watched until they had gone and then looked at the pin again.

What sort of a plot is this? he wondered. Or is it coincidence? He pulled the Pendant of Thantos from beneath his tunic and examined the gold border of leaves that surrounded the amber spellstone. The shape, style, and the individual leaves were identical to the jade pin's. It was definitely the insignia of the S'Akron family. Moreover, the pin itself seemed to be an exact duplicate of the one that had belonged to his mother.

Suddenly a chain of logic clicked through his mind that he could not accept. Perhaps the pin was not a duplicate. . . .

A turmoil of fear, curiosity, and anger whirled through his mind, but his features became dispassionate. Tucking the Thantos stone beneath his shirt, he walked back to the shielded cell. Then he swung the jade pin in front of the grille.

"Where did you get this?"

Hawk leaped forward at the sight of his pin and grabbed the bars. "Give it back to me."

"Where did you get this?" Jaxton repeated with the threat of lightning behind the thunder of his voice.

"It's mine; it's of no value to you. Please give it to me."

"Why do you want it so badly?"

"It's just an ordinary pin. It was my mother's, that's all."

Jaxton jerked back from the door. "What do you mean? Who was she?"

Hawk did not reply, but his fists clenched and his eyes watched the pin with longing.

"Who was she? Tell me, and I'll give you the pin."

Thinking that it could do no harm to tell his captor the truth in this instance, and believing that it might regain him his mother's pin, Hawk replied, "It was my mother's, but I'm afraid I can't tell you who she was. She and her party were killed by highwaymen when I was a baby, and that's all I have of her or know of her."

Jaxton's expression became dark with fury, and he snatched the pin out of Hawk's view and put it in his pocket.

"But you said you'd give it to me."

Backing away, Jaxton tried not to think about the knowledge that was suddenly thrust on him.

"You're a liar," he yelled at Hawk, while a part of his mind coolly appraised the man's face and said, yes, his nose is shaped like my father's; and his eyes are brown like mine and hers.

Then he whirled and stalked out. No. It's impossible, he thought.

"Lord Sinclair, shall we begin the torture?" called the guard, running to catch him.

"Not now, not yet. I'll let you know . . . "

He struggled to control his thoughts. It can't be. But he could devise no other explanation. No one else knew about the pin, and the man seemed to be telling the truth. He was about the right age, there was the slight resemblance, and, moreover, he was a bird-telepath as Jaxton was and as Jaxton's father had been.

He tried to add up the facts so that they came out coincidence, but the odds were against it. He suddenly wanted to go back to his room to think, to understand, to escape.

His fingers felt for the pin inside his pocket. The jade was cool and undeniably real, as undeniable as the truth he knew he must face.

My brother is alive, he thought.

And there was more than that.

My brother is my enemy.

15

Hawk's body shifted uncomfortably on the wooden slab that served as his bed. He edged his legs away from the roughness of cracked wood until they touched the silver-covered stone wall. Slowly the chill seeped through his trousers, forcing his legs back toward the jagged area. The sharp, splintered board dug into his leg again, so he turned over and curled up into a fetal position, hugging himself to fight the dungeon's damp cold.

For perhaps the hundreth time he wished that they had given him a blanket or at least had let him keep his cloak; then his lips twitched into a smile that was almost a grimace—how foolish to be angered at the lack of warmth when he should be thankful that conditions were not much worse. So far they'd given him much better treatment than he'd expected or could hope to continue to receive.

He wondered why they had left him alone throughout the day rather than beginning the torture they'd threatened. He puzzled over Jaxton Sinclair's questions about his pin and the man's strange reaction to his answers. Considering the events that the dawn undoubtedly would bring, he wondered if he would be able to withstand the torture. As a telepath he would be able to shield himself partially from pain and even from the thought probes of a human telepath or the truth spells of a sorcerer.

That made him think about Jaxton Sinclair again. What strange quirk of fate had brought to Kellerton the one man capable of destroying his carefully thought out plan? Indeed, it seemed that since he'd first crossed paths with the falcon-telepath at the ruins of Castle Buchanan, he had been caught up in a web of fate or circumstance. From that moment he had been thrust from his role as an observer into the center of the action, and now it seemed somehow inevitable that he and Sinclair had clashed again.

He felt somewhat pleased, however, about his performance during their second meeting. This time he'd not only been strong enough to shield himself from Sinclair's attacks, but he had also been powerful enough to return them with effect. He realized now that his telepathic abilities had been weakened by the distance separating him from Jaxton during their first clash. At close range he was apparently the other's equal, perhaps his better. He only wished he had been able to continue their duel to its conclusion, whatever the outcome.

However, he was thankful that the falcon-telepath had not sensed him sooner and that Ro had gotten away undetected. He wondered where she was now, how far she had gotten toward the Sylvan forest of Alycia. He had no doubt that she was on her way, for they had decided that in the event that one of them were captured, the other would try to get the plaque to the Sylvan without delay. Their mission was far more important than the safety of one person.

He squeezed his eyes together and tried to relax, knowing that he needed as much rest as he could get, but realizing that he was far too keyed up to sleep.

In the darkness of his mind, he found himself visualizing Ro's face—her sea-green eyes that could command or caress; her sweet, soft lips; her smooth, pale skin; the curtain of golden hair. And then he remembered her with Derek S'Mayler and her face shifted—her eyes filled with tears for another; her lips yielding to his kiss; her soft skin and hair caressed by another man.

His fists clenched at the memory, and he felt surprise at the intensity of his jealousy. He'd known so few women in his life—he'd always been a loner, playing with the birds instead of with the other children; learning the ways of the forest while other boys learned the ways of love.

What did he really know of love or even of his own emotions? Was he in love or merely infatuated? What did he feel for Ro? Affection, friendship, or lust?

Why was he thinking about her anyway? It was obvious that she loved Derek, and obvious, too, that she thought of him only as a comrade in arms. She'd never treated him as anything but a friend.

Besides, she was an S'Cascar and he was a nobody.

Then he smiled at his foolishness; considering the circumstances, his speculations were meaningless. In all probability he would be dead in a few days, perhaps by his own volition. . . .

He shuddered at the thought that had been lurking in the back of his mind, but he had to face it—he could not let them succeed in proving that he'd been sent by York, for that might jeopardize the N'Omb neutrality and ally them with the Empire. His best chance lay in the story that the N'Omb priest had unwittingly suggested. He would pretend to be one of the anti-N'Omb heretics that occasionally surfaced. Even if they didn't believe him, they wouldn't be able to prove that he had been sent by York; that is, unless their torture or truth spells succeeded. And if he felt that they would succeed, he would have no choice except to kill himself by using a mind technique he'd learned from another telepath long ago.

A few weeks earlier he would not have thought that he had the courage to carry out such an action. But now he realized that he'd always had the will and that he would do it when the time came.

Forlornly he wondered if he should do it now, before the torture even began. But he would use it only as a last resort, for he wanted to live, and against all odds he'd hold onto the thin hope of rescue or escape as long as he could.

He opened his eyes and again studied the cell, searching for any weakness. It was quite dark now, with only a small patch of light filtering through the door's window onto the floor. That opening was far too small to fit through, even if he could have removed the grille, and the door itself was securely bolted and locked from the outside. At the bottom was a slit leading into a cagelike contraption so that food could be sent in without breaking the silver shield.

As he glanced at the heavy silver mesh inlay covering the walls, something near the floor caught his eye.

Two tiny red eyes, reflecting the light from the hallway, stared at him. When he moved toward the wall they disappeared. He knelt and touched the silver embedded in the walls—the mesh had been patched and reinforced with iron to cover a rat hole. Running his fingers over the surface, he could find no break or weakness in the patch.

He closed his eyes and once more tried to break through the barrier, probing at every seam and corner for an opening, but his thoughts came bouncing back to reverberate against his mind-shields with such intensity that he had to stop.

Finally he studied the bare earth floor and the foul black hole in the corner that served for sanitation, but his thoughts found no exit there. Either it was also lined with silver, or telepathy just could not reach through the tons of rock and dirt to the surface.

So he returned to the bunk and forced himself to relax until, at last, he dozed in a half-sleep of disconnected thoughts and images.

Then he heard a noise that brought him awake and made him shiver—the rustlings and squeals of many rats. He suddenly felt almost grateful for the silver mesh.

He tried to drift back to sleep, but the sounds continued and increased until it seemed as if there were thousands of rats in the walls. Abruptly the squeals ended in an unnatural silence that jerked him upright.

Then he heard footsteps—a guard making his rounds. Suddenly the squeals began again and mixed with a scream that could have come only from a human throat. There was a thud, and the frenzied squeals became a roar.

Hawk's skin crawled, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, but he could not fight the compulsion to look through the window into the corridor. When he did, he saw what he knew would be there.

The hallway was covered with a dark, living carpet of rats. In the center of the turmoil something large twitched and grew still, until only the rats that covered it moved. Then the rats' frenzy eased. They grew quieter and began to disappear back into their holes.

From the shifting mass of black came the sound of metal on metal. More of the creatures left, until Hawk could see several moving purposefully toward him, away from the shape that had once been a man. They were dragging a ring of keys behind them.

That was when he realized that the rats were being directed.

"Ro!" He breathed her name with sudden hope for himself and fear for her safety. Although it could be someone else, he knew that she could control almost any type of animal, although her range was quite limited. Was she now standing against the building's outer wall, directing this attack?

The rats began to climb on top of each other at the foot of his door, pulling the key ring up toward the lock. However, they could not climb high enough before their pyramid fell apart. He shuddered as several managed to climb the door and gnaw at the bolt.

They pushed and pulled with teeth and paws, fell, then climbed back. Although they struggled, they couldn't slide the bolt or maneuver the key into position.

Then as suddenly as they had started, they dropped the keys and began to wander off. Unable to open the cell, whoever controlled them had given up. Gradually the rats disappeared, until only a few remained to chew at the guard's body.

Hawk stared at the keys, which lay tantalizingly close but beyond his reach. He listened to the silence of the empty dungeon, wondering if anyone else had heard the rats, but no one came. He had been taken down two flights of stairs to the dungeon's lowest level, and evidently any other prisoners were on the floor above him.

He watched, waited, and hoped until the hope became worry and the worry turned to fear—fear for Ro more than for himself and for the outcome of their mission.

How could she try to rescue him instead of taking the plaque to safety? Yet as he wondered what he would have done if their positions had been reversed, he realized that he could not have left without attempting to free her—not because of any love he might feel for her as a woman, but because of their friendship, their comradeship.

Again he considered his feelings toward her. He remembered the way she had killed the osmur; the rescue of the horses, though it had placed her in peril of the thing she feared most; the savagery of the rat attack that had torn the throat out of a guard almost before he could scream—what kind of man could love such a woman? One could respect her, perhaps even worship her—but really love her, take her to wife? Suddenly he wondered what sort of man her husband had been.

Then he heard quick footsteps at the end of the hall. He took a deep breath and pressed against the door, straining to see who approached.

It was Ro.

She avoided looking at the guard's corpse as the last of the rats scuttled into the shadows. With swift efficiency she unlocked his cell and handed him the sword she carried. The blade was smeared with blood.

As Hawk took it, he saw that she still held a knife.

It had also been used.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. "The plaque . . . "

"It's safe enough for the moment, but we've got to get out of here, and quickly."

He followed her past the guard's station at the bottom of the stairs. Without breaking stride, she swept his cloak from the table and thrust it back at him. Wordlessly he donned it and continued up the stairs after her.

On the landing, a second guard lay with a deep wound across the side of his neck. Ro stopped long enough to take his sword, which was stuck into the rat she had used to distract his attention on her way in.

She halted at the first floor and placed a warning hand on Hawk's shoulder. There were footsteps and voices on the stairs above them. Hawk shrank back against the wall, gripping his sword tightly. Then he realized that the footsteps were receding—someone was climbing the stairs, not descending to their level.

He waved Ro ahead into the long, silent hallway. At the foot of the door leading into the square lay yet another soldier. This one's throat was cut, evidently by a knife, and his sword was missing. Hawk glanced down at the sword he now held.

Outside, Ro led him through the streets to the alley where their horses had been tied, but the animals were no longer there. While his tension grew, he followed her down the dark alleyway through gray shadows cast by the gibbous moon above. He listened and waited for an alarm to sound behind them, but the city remained as quiet as a graveyard. Then they reached their horses, which were tied up almost at the end of the lane.

Ro clutched his arm and whispered, "They've doubled the guards and closed all the gates for the night. I'm going to get into the guardhouse and release that gate."

"But how . . . "

"I managed to make the acquaintance of one of the soldiers on the night shift at this gate. I hinted that I'd stop back to visit him late tonight . . . but I'm afraid he's not going to get exactly the visit he expects." She looked thoughtfully at the knife she still held and slipped it back into her boot. Then she tied the sword to her saddle, reached into the saddlebag, brought out a bottle of wine, and handed the reins to Hawk.

"I'll go up to the gate to meet my 'date' and get him to take me up to the guardhouse. You'll wait at the end of the street. As soon as you see the gate come up, ride in. There should be three guards left. I'll come out of the guardhouse, help you eliminate them, and then we'll ride the hell out of there."

Hawk shook his head at the brazenness of her plan. "This sounds terribly risky—and what if our escape is discovered?"

"It won't be, not for a few more minutes anyway." "How can you be so sure?"

Ro smiled. "My sixth sense. I've learned to trust my instincts."

Hawk hesitated. Her instincts worked sometimes—he remembered the osmur; but they hadn't been reliable enough to save her from the fire or to prevent his capture.

"It will work," she repeated, staring at him with those damned overpowering green eyes.

He realized that he had very little choice. He knew of no other way to get outside the city walls; if the guard were doubled, it seemed an impossible task to get through the gates. Ro at least had a plan, even if it sounded far-fetched—and any plan was better than none. Besides, he could not forget the way she had managed his escape so far, and the trail of dead soldiers she had left behind.

"All right."

He led the horses and followed her to the deep shadows at the end of the lane. A couple of hundred feet away lay the closed gate, and in the torchlight he could see four soldiers. Two lounged on the steps leading up to the guardhouse, playing cards, while the other two watched.

"Get back," Ro whispered. Hawk pulled back against the wall of the corner house.

Ro fluffed her long hair, unbuttoned the top of her drab gray blouse, and then moved forward with a sway to her hips and a jaunty air far different from her usual determined walk. The wine bottle swinging from her right hand seemed to shift color as she walked—first red in the reflected torchlight, then silver in the moonlight.

She began to hum, and Hawk remembered the tune, she'd been singing it when he'd first seen her at Threeforks. The soldiers heard her too and rose to their feet, suddenly alert. But when they saw a shapely young woman emerge from the shadows, they relaxed.

A big, bear-shouldered man recognized her and called out. He moved toward her. They spoke for a few minutes, while Hawk watched and tried to catch their words, but he could make out only a few of them —something about the wine she'd brought. Then they laughed and one of the other guards snickered, and the big man put his arm around Ro in a way that made Hawk's face redden in anger. She snuggled against the man and said something; they laughed again. Finally the big man took the bottle of wine and tossed it to his friends. With his arm tightly around Ro and her face pressed against his shoulder, they walked up the steps and into the guardroom. The door closed behind them with a thud that echoed over the deserted street.

As his stomach knotted in fear and anger at himself for agreeing to such a crazy plan, Hawk mounted and prodded his horse forward. He hoped that the guards would not notice his presence in the shadows, and they didn't, for they were too busy joking, drinking, and staring up at the gatehouse.

He waited, hardly daring to breathe, trying not to think of what was happening in that room or of what he would do if the gate did not open. Sniffing the cool evening air, he glanced at the sky. From the positions of the stars and the three-quarter moon shining through slight wisps of cirrus clouds, he guessed that it was about two or three o'clock in the morning.

Then the swoosh and banging of metal resounded through the still air as the iron gate crashed upward. Automatically Hawk spurred his horse at the sound and, with a yell, charged the three startled soldiers. He slashed down at them widely, trying not so much to engage one of them as to harass all of them and prevent them from running for the rope that led to the alarm bell on top of the gatehouse.

The door at the top of the stairs flew open, and Ro ran down the steps, bloody knife in hand. One of the soldiers saw her and headed up the steps. In a single fluid motion she threw her knife with deadly accuracy and continued down the stairs. The guard staggered but managed to graze her side with his sword before she slammed into him while chopping down across the back of his neck with the side of her hand. He tumbled off the steps and lay still.

Meanwhile Hawk engaged the two remaining soldiers. As he swung down at them, he lunged for his own sword, which was shorter and not so heavy. Despite the awkwardness of fighting a mounted opponent, the soldiers were attacking him forcefully, and one had nicked his leg.

Then one of them made the mistake of trying to wound Hawk's horse. As the soldier's blade thrust downward, Hawk reined the animal into a partial rear and rammed his sword into the man's shoulder. This maneuver disrupted the second soldier's attack so that Hawk had time to pull his sword back and parry that guard's next thrust.

Meanwhile the wounded man stumbled away, his sword arm hanging uselessly at his side, and ran unsteadily toward the alarm bell. Ro instinctively dodged forward to stop him. The man heard her, whirled around, and drew his dagger using his left hand. Weaponless, Ro stepped back into a defensive crouch, thrusting her arms out as shields.

While Hawk finished off his second assailant, Ro's opponent lunged forward. She sidestepped the blow, only to slip on a patch of blood that ran from the body of the first soldier. She fell.

As the dagger glittered toward her in the torchlight, Hawk spurred his horse into the soldier, knocking him down. His body skittered across the cobblestones, crashed into the wall, and lay still.

When Ro stood, Hawk noticed a widening red stain on her left side. "Did he stab you?" he asked as she mounted.

"No, the swordsman on the stairs grazed my side; I'll be all right. Were you hurt?"

"I've just got a couple of nicks."

Then they were outside the gate, riding at a gallop into the woods. Once inside the trees they slowed.

"What's the matter?" Hawk asked when Ro pulled her horse up sharply.

"The Sylvan plaque. I hid it in one of these trees earlier in the day—I couldn't chance letting it be found on me."

She studied them for a moment. In the darkness it was difficult to tell one tree from the next, so she let her instincts take over. She wheeled her chestnut farther into the trees in the direction that suddenly seemed right and halted by the tree she identified more by hunch than sight. Reaching into the crevice where the tree forked in two, she found the Sylvan plaque.

Hawk breathed a sigh of relief and urged his horse into the lead. As he headed through the forest to one of the country roads winding south through farmlands, he hoped any pursuers would think they had gone directly to Castle York and would search to the northeast.

Although the moon was bright, gathering clouds began to obscure it, making it difficult to ride at full speed. At least the same condition would hamper anyone following them.

When they'd traveled a few miles, Hawk glanced back at Ro. To his dismay he found that she was slumped forward.

"What's wrong?" he called.

"I'm all right." But her face was too white in the moonlight.

"We'd better take a look at that wound," Hawk said, stopping his horse. As he dismounted he felt a throbbing pain in his leg and realized that he'd almost forgotten his own cut in the excitement of the escape.

Ro did not move from her saddle. "We've got to keep going; the alarm must have sounded by now."

"Not until we bind that wound." He reached her side and began to help her from her horse. As she slipped down he saw that the material she'd pressed against the wound was saturated with blood. He eased her to the ground and peeled back her torn garment and the makeshift bandage to reveal a long, jagged wound along her side.

Taking a clean shirt from his saddlebag, he tore it into strips. Then he knelt by her to clean and bandage the gash.

"You shouldn't have rescued me; you should have taken the plaque on to the Sylvan."

Ro shook her head. "I couldn't leave you behind. We're a team. Besides, I should have sensed that you would be in danger. By the time I knew, it was too late to warn you."

"It wasn't your fault. You didn't know that the other bird-path was around any more than I did. I overheard the guards talking about him; his name is Jaxton Sinclair. He's also a sorcerer—he started the fire at Threeforks."

"If he should come after us . . . " Ro whispered the thought that Hawk had been considering.

"I don't think he will. He's in charge of Kellerton, and the town is evidently undermanned as it is. I really don't think he'd take the chance of coming after us himself. In fact, I doubt that he can spare very many men to track us."

He finished bandaging Ro, pulled down the cloak she'd tied to the back of her bedroll, and put it around her shoulders. Then he used his sword to rip open his trouser leg so that he could bind his own cut.

"How bad is it?" asked Ro.

"A flesh wound. Your wound is a lot more serious.

It's not that deep, but you've lost a lot of blood . . ."

"I'm all right," said Ro, pulling herself erect. "Damn it." Hawk limped over to her. "I'm not sure you're in any condition to ride."

"I'm going to ride," she contradicted with her characteristic determination. "We're hardly out of Sinclair's range, if he should try to stop us with sorcery, and we've left a trail easy enough for a child to follow. Come on, you know that I'm right—we've got to put as many miles between us and Kellerton as we can and get to the Sylvan before it's too late."

Hawk nodded, acknowledging the truth of her words. He knew that even now Castle York could be under siege, fighting against the greatest alliance of sorcerers ever known—Taral and his Council of Seven. They dared not waste any time in reaching the Sylvan.

"Are you sure you'll be able to ride?" he asked, helping her mount.

"You did a good job of doctoring. The bleeding's stopped now."

"Okay, but if it starts again, let me know." Worriedly he thought of the long ride ahead that might reopen her wound at any time.

She seemed to sense his fears, for she smiled at him and her eyes glowed with that same fierce intensity and determination he'd seen before.

"I'm an S'Cascar, remember? Do you think I'm going to let a little flesh wound stop me?" With that comment she galloped off, forcing Hawk to gather his canteen and sword quickly, mount, and pound after her.

Then she slowed and let him retake the lead. As he passed her he saw her face clearly in the moonlight.

It was the same beautiful face he'd daydreamed about, but the cold reality of the blood she'd dispassionately spilled washed away his romantic fantasies. For the first time he began to realize that it was not the differences in their height, rank, or birth that would keep them apart, but rather something more fundamental. Even if he were high-born, there would be a gulf between them.

He admired her self-confidence, her ability to command, her ruthlessness in a fight. But these were the qualities he wanted in a friend, not a lover.

Uneasily he thought of the men that had died in their escape, the birds he'd hurt, the loss of his mother's pin. The cost was high, but at least they had accomplished their mission. Now all that was left was to take the plaque to the Sylvan.

He just hoped that the Sylvan's aid would not come too late.

16

As Jaxton listened to Wagner Prenis report on the escape, he reflected that the last twenty-four hours were just about the worst he had ever been through.

First had come the bird attack at the Shrine of the Three Miracles, then the battle with the hawk-telepath, and finally the revelation that the man Hawk was in fact his own brother.

In the next hours he'd had to suppress the shock of that as he prepared the town for further possible attacks. He'd also spoken with various N'Omb priests and town officials in a somewhat successful attempt to mollify their fears that he and the Empire were behind the disruption of the Saint Steffan festival.

It wasn't until late that night that he'd had a real chance to think about his brother. In the privacy of his apartments he'd stared at the jade leaf pin and felt the doubts and questions return to the surface of his mind. When he again compared its pattern to that of the gold border around the Pendant of Thantos, he had realized that the means to verify the pin's origin lay within his grasp. The spellstone could be used to reveal strong memories that might be associated with an object.

As the great clock tower tolled the hour of one, he had drawn the double circle around the pin and said the spell that wove a web of remembrance. Then he'd placed the amber powerstone over the pin and stared at it until the translucent crystal became opaque.

Flashes of swiftly changing scenes swirled in a collage of color on the surface of the Thantos. They were glimpses of the lives of those who had worn the pin. It was like looking through the bottom of a bottle as soundless images twisted and formed and then altered. Most of the scenes were meaningless to Jaxton, but they were enough to tell him what he needed to know.

In the kaleidoscope of shapes and colors he had seen his mother and glimpsed her death at the hands of highwaymen. He'd seen a child grow into a man—the man Hawk. Finally there had been scenes of Hawk struggling with the guards when they'd taken the pin from him. Then the images faded, and the Pendant became lifeless.

He'd hoped that the pin would reveal some useful information about York, perhaps even confirm his suspicions about the reasons for the bird attack, but the images were too warped and fragmentary to do much more than whet his curiosity.

Although the spell had confirmed Hawk's identity, Jaxton had realized that the truth could not alter the decision he had already made. In the morning the hawk-telepath would be tortured, would confess, and would die. It did not matter that a bond of blood lay between them. As far as anyone else knew, his brother had died in childhood, and there could be no alteration in that story. Hawk was a threat to him in too many ways, any one of which would be sufficient for his removal. He was a York spy, a powerful bird-telepath, an unwanted heir to the kingdom of Akron . . .

It was regrettable and not a little ironic to have found a long lost brother only to be forced to eliminate him, Jaxton thought as he took the jade pin and slipped its chain over his head. It was his now—a memento of his mother. As for his brother, as far as Jaxton was concerned he had died with her a long time ago.

He had slept then—the deep, untroubled sleep of one with a clean conscience, or of one without any—until Wagner Prenis had knocked frantically at his door bringing news of the latest in the day's series of disasters.

Jaxton pushed aside the memories of the day and concentrated more fully on his aide's description of the escape.

"One of the soldiers at the east gate sounded the alarm." Prenis's thin face tensed. "When my men and I went to investigate, we discovered the body of the guard on watch at the main door. Then we found the two dead prison guards—one's body had been half-eaten by rats."

"Rats?"

"Yes, sir—the dungeon's full of them. After the guard was killed, they evidently were attracted by the blood . . . and . . . well, they can get awfully hungry."

"I see. So someone got in, killed the three guards, freed the spy, and then they all escaped by the east gate?" asked Jaxton.

"Well, yes and no . . . " Prenis wet his lips. "Apparently only two of them left by the gate. I've sent out patrols to look for any other accomplices. According to the wounded guard, only a woman and the prisoner rode out."

"Well, how many others were involved?"

The lieutenant looked at the floor. "The guard didn't see any others, and nobody saw anything happening at the city hall, at least nobody who's able to tell the tale."

Jaxton poured some water into the washbowl and splashed his face to wash away the cotton that seemed to fog his mind; he must have misunderstood the man.

He rubbed his eyes and turned back to Prenis. "Are you saying that the telepath managed to escape with the help of just one woman?"

"Well, no, sir, I mean, I don't know. It doesn't seem likely that a lone woman could have broken him out of the cell. More than likely it took a couple men to take out the three guards there without raising an alarm. But the wounded guard swears that there were just the two of them at the gate. Evidently the girl was quite a looker, sir, and one of the men took her up to the guardhouse . . . "

Jaxton slammed his fist into his hand. "So she opened the gate?"

"Yes, sir, and stuck a knife in him too, it seems. Then she and the telepath killed the other two guards and left the wounded man for dead. He was unconscious for a while, but finally woke up and managed to ring the alarm bell."

"You said you sent men after them?"

"Yes, I sent a search party out just as soon as we learned about the escape. I figure they couldn't have had much more than a couple hour's head start, and they didn't have any spare horses with them. I'm sure my men will catch up with them long before they reach Castle York."

"If they're heading for York . . . " mused Jaxton. Although it was their most likely destination, the roads would be clogged with S'Stratford's troops, and the siege could have started by now. No, they might have gone aground somewhere nearby, even headed to Threeforks. If the alarm had sounded sooner, he could have caught them with the Thantos spellstone, but by now they were well out of his range. It crossed his mind that perhaps he should go after Hawk himself. However, the nature of the escape seemed to indicate that there were other York agents still at large within Kellerton; could he afford to leave when they might be planning something else?

He looked up at Prenis and said, "Triple the guard if you have to, but I don't want any of their accomplices to get out of the city; and those guards had better be alert!"

"Yes, sir; I'll put whatever men are available on duty, but we're really shorthanded."

Jaxton ran his fingers through sleep-tousled hair. "I know. Do the best you can."

"Yes, sir!" said Prenis. He hurried out.

Casting a wistful glance at his still warm bed, Jaxton hesitated and then dismissed the thought of getting any more sleep. So he washed his face again, shaved, and dressed. Then he crossed the hall to his office, poured himself a stiff drink, and walked over to one of the bay windows facing the square.

The cloudy sky had begun to lighten; in the early morning gray he could make out soldiers below patrolling in front of the city hail. Unfortunately their diligence had come too late.

His eyes were drawn to the shrine's spires. He wondered what the N'Omb priests would think when they learned of Hawk's escape. Although the N'Omb Church was officially neutral in the war, the priests stationed in the Eastern Kingdoms naturally sided against the invaders. They hoped the Church would condemn the Empire. They would try to use an incident such as the bird attack to force the issue.

Jaxton guessed that Father Richards would suggest that Hawk's escape had been only a convenient ploy to conceal the Empire's complicity in the bird attack. The deaths of the six soldiers might help convince the priest of the truth, but Jaxton doubted that even that would completely remove the priest's suspicions.

Suddenly there was a flurry of activity in the plaza as a horseman rode up to the building. He was quickly escorted inside. Jaxton hoped that the man had some good news about the escaped prisoner and his accomplices, but when the rider entered his room a few minutes later, Jaxton received the last of the day's surprises.

The horseman was a messenger from S'Stratford bringing word that the battle for York had begun and that Jaxton's presence was urgently requested.

The content of the summons put a stop to any thoughts Jaxton might have had about pursuing the hawk-telepath himself. The order was imperative and unequivocal. The two halves of the Imperial Army had surrounded York, and the battle had begun earlier than anticipated. He was to leave his men garrisoned at Kellerton and head to Castle York at once.

"Guard, send for Lieutenant Prenis and have my horse saddled. I've been ordered to join our forces at Castle York—Prenis will be in charge while I'm gone."

Then he reread the dispatches. By the end of the day he would be facing Douglas S'Stratford. He wondered what S'Stratford would say when he learned about the strange bird attack. What had York hoped to gain by it?

It was just after sunset when Jaxton reached the army. From a distance the encampment looked as though a thousand fireflies had landed on the plain encircling the dark knoll of rock and gravel upon which stood the castle. At close range the lights became campfires surrounded by dour-faced soldiers, who ate if they could and readied their weapons, for the word had been passed that an attack was expected at midnight.

A soldier escorted Jaxton across the muddy pastures to one of the tents near the front lines. Inside sat Douglas S'Stratford and Jessica S'Logan discussing strategy over a map of the area spread across part of a table still cluttered with supper dishes. In preparation for battle, the redhead had forsaken her usual flamboyant crimson attire for modest brown tunic and trousers, but Jaxton noted with amusement that the inside of her waist-length cape was scarlet. Although she was not vain enough to let herself become an obvious target, she was too vain to give up her trademark completely.

At the sound of Jaxton's entrance S'Stratford looked up, and for a moment his worry-creased expression eased and a smile flickered across his face. Then his lips twitched back into a firm line and his brow furled.

After a quick, passionless kiss from Jessica, Jaxton reported the events at Kellerton and his judgment that the attack had been a last-ditch attempt to discredit the Empire—an attempt that had failed, leaving the N'Omb priests cautiously neutral.

As it turned out, S'Stratford accepted the story without much comment or concern. When he sketched out the situation at York for Jaxton, it became clear S'Stratford thought the bird attack was a trivial matter compared to the impending battle.

The York stronghold was well defended and heavily provisioned, and the presence of a formidable group of sorcerers and numerous protective spells reduced the possibility that the Empire could win with sorcery alone. S'Stratford explained that the Imperial troops had circled the castle at a radius of about one-half to three-quarters of a mile in classic siege strategy, hoping eventually to starve York into submission. However, Brian S'York had taken the offensive by staging a series of sorties from the castle and by positioning the remnants of Derek S'Mayler's forces somewhere to the northeast so that they could raid behind the lines.

Using his necromantic powers to foresee York's moves, Taral had discovered that a surprise attack was planned for that very evening. However, York's barrier of protective spells had been partially effective, and, as a result, Taral had learned only the time of the attack, not its shape or thrust. He had guessed that with just the moon and stars for light, the assault would almost certainly be based upon magic rather than might.

Since Taral expected that the main target would be their supply stockpile in the southwest, he had stationed himself and a group of his best sorcerers there. The rest of the Council members were scattered around the perimeter, with Jessica and S'Stratford defending the northwest.

Ramsey still lay in a coma. His spellstones were tuned to him in such a way that they remained useless for anyone else.

While S'Stratford talked, Jaxton studied the map and familiarized himself with the troop positions, castle layout, and fortifications. Then he tried to second-guess York's likely tactics, while reviewing his repertoire of magic to find the best way to counteract any type of attack.

Interrupting S'Stratford's monologue he asked: "If you think York's geared up for a full-fledged attack tonight, wouldn't the best thing be for us to set up a real counteroffensive?"

S'Stratford shook his head. "Unfortunately we're not quite ready for that. We expected we'd have weeks, perhaps months, before we'd need siege towers, so we had just started to build them when York began its sorties. We've got men working on them around the clock, but it will take several days to complete them."

"And when they are ready, Taral will begin the offensive," added Jessica. "I think he's just as impatient as I am to get this war over with and complete the take-over of the Eastern Kingdoms. He never wanted to use a siege here in the first place. But the rest of the Council thought we should be cautious." Her left hand clutched the table edge, her fingernails digging into the top and then tapping impatiently against its edge. "Ramsey was one of that group. I can't say I'm sorry to see him out of this now. He and the rest were afraid of Derek S'Mayler—afraid of his power and afraid that he might persuade his League friends to rescue York. He's dangerous, all right, but not that dangerous—I know."

Jaxton wondered just how accurate the Red Witch's assessment could be. She had known S'Mayler sixteen years ago, when Taral's plan for conquest had only been in the formulation stage and she'd been a spy in the Western League. Derek S'Mayler had been little more than a boy then, perhaps nineteen. Since then he'd had a lot of years to study and grow as a sorcerer.

He'd seen S'Mayler in action at Threeforks—and the empty shell he'd left of Ramsey. The man undoubtedly had planned most of York's strategy so far, and he'd probably dreamed up the bird attack as well.

"You know," he said, "I don't think either of you realizes how close he came to winning over the N'Ombs with that bird attack—I'm sure he was behind it."

"So what if he was?" Jessica replied. "It didn't work. I think you spent too much time listening to Ramsey. Despite all of S'York's efforts, and Derek S'Mayler's too, York didn't manage to enlist the League's help or to break the N'Omb neutrality. Time's run out for them; it's too late for them to get any major allies now. The war began the day our troops crossed into

York, and in a few days, perhaps a few weeks, Castle York itself will be ours."

"I hate to break off this fascinating discussion, but it is getting late, and we wouldn't want the battle to start without us, you know? The surprise will be on York when they discover that we are ready for their attack." S'Stratford rose and stretched his short, slim arms above his head. Then he gathered up his cloak and rune-covered staff. "We'd better get going outside. I'll give some final instructions to my men. Jessica, you can take Sinclair out to the front lines."

The Red Witch took Jaxton's hand and led him outside. "We've had a charmed circle set up for days, of course. When Taral sent word that there would be an attack tonight, Douglas and I set up a few more wards in the area."

The circle was painted on a rocky ridge just behind the front lines. The place had an unencumbered view of the York fortress and of most of the surrounding countryside. Four three-foot-high rune posts were placed equal distances apart along the circumference of the circle. Several chairs and a table had been set up inside.

Jessica S'Logan extended her hand over the northern post. Then she let the powerstone in her ring touch the pole's pointed top as she recited an opening spell. The engraved runes glowed a dull yellow, and the circle of blood on the ground seemed to shimmer as she entered.

Jaxton followed her example, using the Pendant of Thantos as the key to the warded area. Once inside he made himself a meal from the provisions stacked under the table and half-listened to the Red Witch chat about the war's progress and the new gowns she would order when it was over. Finally S'Stratford arrived and cast the last, binding spells that made the circle almost impregnable. During the attack they would be able to use their power to defend the troops and to return fire without having to expend any protecting themselves.

While they waited, the almost full moon rose higher in the sky, casting a silver glow over the dark gray stones of Castle York. The fortress remained quiet, as though its occupants really slept. The only signs of life were the flickering torches upon the outer wall that lighted the way for the usual night watch.

The Empire troops had moved quietly into position. The catapults and ballistae stood ready. They waited.

As midnight came and passed, the air seemed to tingle with the tension. Jaxton's eyes hurt as he strained to see any change on the castle walls. His back ached from sitting in the stiff wooden chair too long, so he paced around the table. Feeling like a trapped animal in a cage defined by the blood-red line that ringed them, he struggled to relax, knowing that part of the psychic energy he'd built up in preparation for the battle was beginning to leak away with the tension.

Douglas S'Stratford sat leaning back in his chair with his staff raised and pointed at the moon. His swarthy skin glistened with sweat as he concentrated on building up his own power reserves.

Jessica brought out a mirror and began inscribing a rune upon its surface as she chanted. Her spell could be keyed to any of the other members of the Council of Seven who had similar rune-activated mirrors. They would be able to see and hear one another through the devices.

She contacted each of the Council members in turn, but none had any activity to report.

By one-thirty the attack still had not begun. Suddenly there was a slight crackle of static behind Jaxton, and he turned to find Jessica receiving a message from Taral. Taral's voice was as cold and hard as frozen earth in winter as he announced that York had learned that they knew of the surprise attack. Now York had postponed its attack, so that Taral could no longer be sure when it would take place. However, he thought that it would come in the next few hours.

"N'Omb's damnation!" cried Jaxton as he recognized York's cleverness. When York had found out that Taral had learned of its plans, it had turned the tables on him by delaying the attack. While York's men relaxed for a few more hours and perhaps got some extra sleep, Taral's men would be forced to remain alert, waiting for an attack that would probably come only when they'd grown tired and irritated. Yet Taral couldn't run the risk of letting his men rest when the assault might come at any time; so they were compelled to wait the night out on York's terms.

Jaxton studied the dark walls of the fortress silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky. It was so quiet that he could almost imagine that it had been deserted.

Without warning, the night's silence exploded into sound as York's ballistae spewed forth heavy bolts and stones. The projectiles glowed faintly as they thundered into the Empire positions, since sorcery was boosting them farther than the normal range of about four hundred yards. Catapults sent arrows whistling through the sky, and at the same time streamers of light arched out over the castle as the ballistae launched balls of fire toward the supply depot in the southwest.

Jaxton and the other sorcerers around the line of battle blocked the hail of missiles and turned some back toward the citadel. The air blazed with sparks as spells clashed with counterspells above the battlefield. While the barrage continued, the wind began to whip into hurricane force, shafts of energy sailed toward the troops, and darts of light that exploded on contact lit the sky. During the turmoil Jessica relayed instructions from Taral, while S'Stratford pointed his staff toward the castle and murmured a spell that could dissolve the mortar holding its stones together. Jaxton concentrated on defense.

Then the moonlight touching the fields nearest Taral's position in the southwest began to shimmer and twist like steam rising toward the sun on a hot summer day. The light churned, coalesced, and solidified into the shapes of men, who ran into the massed troops and engaged them with swords of light that cut as sharply as steel. Most of the shadow-figures wavered and seemed to melt as Taral lashed back with a counterspell, but some continued to wreak havoc on the line, for they were indestructible unless hit with a blade made of silver.

One of the other sorcerers must have blocked the wind spell, for the gusts whirled into a dark funnel that sliced back toward the castle and then dissipated in a sudden whoosh as the forces canceled each other out.

The castle's battlements glowed when S'Stratford's spell hit rune-activated protective wards. The two parapets atop the outer wall disintegrated under the force of his attack. Suddenly the ground under them shook as a volley of counterspells forced S'Stratford to break off his assault.

Jessica reported that although the major offensive was aimed at their supplies, Derek S'Mayler's men had also begun a coordinated attack behind their lines in the east.

As the first rays of the sun touched the battlefield, the tempo of the conflict changed. When the rays reached the shadow soldiers, they dissolved into morning mist. The bombardment of rocks and projectiles stopped. The Empire sorcerers completely blocked York's spells and began to counterattack in earnest.

For a time the breeze seemed to sing the chants of the spells and counterspells. Then the battlefield grew still as the exhausted sorcerers on both sides gradually halted their attacks.

The outcome of the combat seemed clear to Jaxton. York had hit them with a full-scale attack against all fronts and had been stopped cold. Taral had successfully defended their supplies and returned fire as well. Empire casualties were few, and York's defensive spells had been penetrated.

Although York had struck with full force, Taral's sorcerers had retained some power reserves. More important, the strength of Taral's army had not even been tested against the castle, and it surely would be greater than that of the outnumbered forces inside York's walls.

Evidently Taral had come to the same conclusions, for shortly after the attack ended, he sent word to Douglas S'Stratford that preparations were to begin immediately for an all-out offensive. Scaling ladders were to be brought to the front lines, the siege towers were to be completed immediately, and sorcery was to be used to augment the digging of tunnels and approach trenches.

Jaxton considered the possibilities. The final stage had come in Taral's conquest of York. Even if York were to concentrate all its power on defense, it could be only a matter of weeks before its fall. Then the former Eastern Kingdoms would be completely consolidated under the Empire's banner, and the last rebel enclaves would be destroyed. Afterward, Taral would conquer the Sylvan, and in a few years the Western League would crumble.

With the loss of Ramsey and probably other members of the Council of Seven during the wars, the way would be clear for Jaxton to become a Council member. Jessica S'Logan would surely sponsor him once the current conflict ended.

York would need a new governor, and if he became Lord of Akron it would be logical for him to oversee the nearest captured kingdoms, such as Wessex and Cascar. If things worked out right, he'd be able to carve himself a niche among the richest provinces in the expanding Empire.

In Jaxton's mind the promise of his future suddenly flared as brightly as the rising sun.

17

Three days later, Hawk and Ro had almost reached the skytree forest of Alycia. They had ridden hard, crisscrossing through streams and over rocky areas to cover their trail. Although Ro's wound had not reopened, she was still weak, and Hawk knew that at times she'd been riding in an almost trancelike state of fatigue and pain, with only stubborn determination keeping her from slipping into unconsciousness.

The sustained pace probably would have killed their horses if Hawk hadn't traded them to a farmer for fresh mounts. Their new horses were no beauties, and the farmer had gotten a bargain by trading two old plow mares for well-bred, if exhausted, saddle horses, but the mares could take them the rest of the way.

The morning sun's image reflected and refracted into a thousand golden coins across the surface of the creek that paralleled their trail. Abruptly the brook dipped, tripped over a shallow waterfall, and rushed into a river. At the juncture the path they traveled merged into a hard dirt road that followed the river northward to Elmera and southward through the outskirts of the skytree forest, until the stream fed into the larger Susannah River forming the western border of the Kingdom of Cascar.

They turned south, and soon small skytrees appeared. Hawk looked back at Ro. She leaned forward, resting her fever-flushed face against the mare's neck. When she noticed Hawk's glance, she pulled herself erect and smiled slightly, as if to say she was all right. However, Hawk suspected that the wound had become infected and that her condition was more serious than she would admit. The only thing that reassured him was that they would soon be in the Sylvan village, where Ro would receive adequate food, rest, and medical treatment.

Then as the skytree forest thickened around them, hoofbeats echoed through the woods. Before they could react, riders appeared on the road ahead. The black and silver uniforms identified them as an Empire border patrol.

Hawk felt a surge of frustration and anger. It seemed bitterly ironic to be within the fringes of the Alycia forest only to run headlong into enemy soldiers.

As the patrol sighted them and slowed, Hawk quickly considered his options. If they tried to dash for the forest's safety, they'd be downed by the soldiers' arrows before they could get fifty feet. To fight it out with a dozen soldiers seemed out of the question, even if Ro had not been injured. He might have tried creating a diversion with attacking birds, but the ceiling of skytree leaves and branches overhead was too thick to allow tight maneuvering of a flock.

Since they seemed to have no choice except to brazen it out, Hawk prodded his horse forward.

Raising his left hand in a wave, he called out "Good morning!" as he reached and passed the patrol leader.

Somewhat surprised, the soldier nodded in return. His horse continued several steps farther before it suddenly clicked in the man's mind that there was something very wrong about the two pilgrims passing him. Immediately he wheeled his horse and galloped back toward them, yelling "Hold on there!" His column ground to a halt, and several of the men at its tail fanned outward, blocking Hawk's path.

The young officer slowly inspected Hawk's somewhat tattered robes and the stained side of Ro's pilgrim garb. However, that did not bother him as much as the tip of the sword he'd seen hanging out from under the edge of Hawk's cloak.

"Sorry to bother you, but we have to search all travelers." The officer waved a couple of his men forward.

"Of course." Hawk smiled and dismounted. "I hope this won't take long, my wife's horse took a fall and she bruised her side rather badly. We've had a long trip, and we're anxious to get home."

Inwardly Hawk congratulated himself on his coolness. Perhaps his constant exposure to Ro's self-assurance under pressure had given him a measure of his own.

The officer's voice was brittle with suspicion. "I take it you were visiting the shrine at Elmera?"

"Yes. We received N'Omb's blessing on our spring planting."

"And did he bless your sword while he was at it?" said the officer sarcastically as he drew his own blade and used its tip to lift Hawk's cloak and reveal Hawk's sword.

Hawk grinned sheepishly. "Oh, I know the priests don't like us to carry weapons on a pilgrimage—but what's a man to do? These woods are full of deserters from York's army, I hear, and they are not above waylaying a poor farmer for a few pennies or stealing his horses, even these old nags."

He glanced up at Ro's calm green eyes and thought he read approval in them. Suddenly she frowned and almost imperceptibly cocked her head, as if she heard something.

"Would you like to see the blade? It is a nice one," Hawk continued casually as he drew out the sword and offered it to the soldier for examination. Then he let a little fear creep into his face. "You wouldn't tell the priest about it, would you?"

But the officer's face had turned as hard and cold as his voice. "This is an Empire sword. Where did you get it?"

"Yes, a beauty isn't it?" Hawk replied guilelessly. "I bought it in Elmera last time I visited. You people do make a fine blade. I suppose the merchants have quite a supply of them, what with all this fighting."

Despite Hawk's expression of wide-eyed innocence and his convincing tone, he could see that the officer did not completely believe the story.

Although the soldier's expression had eased somewhat, he said, "I'm afraid I'll have to confiscate this. It is illegal for merchants to sell Imperial Army equipment. You and your wife will have to accompany us back to Elmera for further questioning. We will want to check your story and . . . "

He got no further than that, for a high-pitched wail like an elephant's scream resounded through the trees, and the soldier's head snapped back as though it had been struck.

Before Hawk consciously identified the source of the sound, it was in their midst—a huge mass of green fur dropping from a tree to smash one of the horses and its master into bloody, broken flesh in seconds. There was only the one osmur, but one was enough. Men shouted, drew swords, and tried to drive their frenzied mounts out of the path of the fifteen-foot apelike monster. However, the osmur moved faster—breaking the neck of the next horse, tossing a soldier into the air, throwing another man against a horse so forcibly that the animal fell over, pinning its rider underneath.

In the pandemonium of rearing, screaming, bolting horses, Ro's and Hawk's animals stood their ground under Ro's telepathic control, enabling Hawk to mount.

Then the osmur turned toward the officer and the two soldiers standing near him. It parried their blades as though they were table knives and slashed with its claws. Roaring again, it charged them, using its tusks and teeth as weapons.

Ro's horse galloped forward, and Hawk instinctively spurred his horse after her. The osmur howled, and Hawk shivered, half-expecting to feel its claws rip him from his horse's back.

Then he saw tall figures in the gloom ahead of them. As he slowed and started to swerve the mare away, he realized that they were Sylvan, not osmurs.

When he reached them he recognized Coleman's half-brother, Elihen, and the telepath-communicator, Proter. The third man stood alone, pressing his left hand against a skytree trunk while he concentrated intently. His painted left cheek identified him as a defender.

"You have the plaque?" asked Proter brusquely.

Hawk nodded. He started to ask what they were doing there, but Proter interrupted: "Please come now. We'll answer your questions later."

Elihen took the mares' reins and led them deeper into the woods. The defender remained behind, still standing motionless staring back at the road.

When they entered the darkened center of the forest, more Sylvan appeared, to lead their horses away and send their meager belongings aloft.

Hawk helped Ro down from her saddle. She had become quite pale, and he knew that she would never be able to make the strenuous climb to the village. When he told Elihen about her wound, the half-Sylvan immediately called for a basketlike seat to be lowered. After Ro was lifted into the trees, other ropes dropped down and were used to pull Hawk and the Sylvan upward in several stages, until at last Hawk found himself on the outskirts of the village. Ro was nowhere in sight.

He turned to Elihen. "Where is Ro?"

"She'll be given tomaad and cared for while you report to Feder." He leaned toward Hawk as Proter led the way toward Feder's council chambers and said softly, "I'm glad you got back with the plaque; I've received word from Coleman that Castle York is under attack."

"I'm rather glad to be here myself," Hawk replied. "If that osmur hadn't chosen that precise moment to arrive, I'm afraid we would have been taken to Elmera for questioning. I suspect that was due to more than coincidence—were you behind it?"

Elihen nodded. "Naturally our sentries sensed your entry into the forest, and then they alerted Proter that an Empire patrol had also arrived. When Proter learned that the patrol had stopped you, he had one of the defenders control an osmur, sending it to cause a diversion.

"I thought we had to make it back without any assistance?"

"Once you'd entered our forest, your test was over. Feder allowed us to help you."

"I'm glad you did," said Hawk softly as they arrived at the Sylvan chief's room.

Feder sat at his desk studying some papers. Seeing Hawk, he glared through his savage mask of paint.

Hawk stared back with a calmness that surprised him. The last time he'd faced Feder he'd had Coleman's and Ro's support; now he stood alone. Yet he felt quite confident, and Feder's air of superiority suddenly infuriated him. He had passed the Sylvan's test; that should have proved him worthy of Feder's respect.

Feeling quite annoyed, Hawk pulled the plaque from beneath his shirt and thrust it at the Sylvan leader. "Here's your plaque—we've kept our part of the bargain; now will you keep yours?"

Feder took the tarnished copper plate and studied it slowly, almost reverently, turning it over several times and tracing the inscription with his long, talon-like nails. Then he looked at Hawk and smiled slightly in good humor. Although the paint on his face distorted his expression to make him look ferocious, there was no mistaking the sincerity of his words.

"The Sylvan thank you for returning Shuul's message. He has shown his favor for our alliance, and we will honor his wishes, if you and the woman have received no outside help in this."

He glanced at the communicator and asked him if it were so. Then Hawk felt a deft probe as Proter searched his mind for confirmation.

"It is so," Proter announced.

Feder nodded, and his painted mask again twisted his smile into a grotesque grin. "Then the alliance between the Sylvan and the humans of York is sealed and shall last until our defeat or the defeat of the Empire."

He took a small flask from behind his desk and poured the tomaad into several tiny glasses. After each of them took one, he raised his in a toast.

"May Shuull guide and protect us." Then they touched glasses and drank.

The Sylvan did not send an army to aid York, for the problems involved in transporting enough of the perishable delaap nuts that were the staple of the Sylvan diet for such an army were insurmountable.

Instead, only a handful of the forest people accompanied Ro and Hawk the next day.

The Sylvan party consisted of Elihen, Proter, and Feder himself, as well as Eva, the Alycia tribe's chief shaper, and Calkins, its chief defender. Yet these five could tap the full power of the scattered Sylvan by linking through Proter, the communicator. His long-range telepathic power could draw energy from a network made up of different Sylvan tribes joined through their communicators, and then transfer that energy to the others.

Although they brought along supplies of tomaad and delaap, more of the skytree nuts would have to be sent in a few days, because they would remain edible for only a little more than a week. They also brought an extra wagonload of tomaad, which could be used as a medicine for the wounded or as a restorative for fatigued sorcerers. Its curative powers were evidenced by Ro's recovery from the sword wound, and even the small amount that Hawk had consumed had banished the accumulated fatigue of the past week's adventures.

As they left Alycia, the Sylvan party rode slightly ahead of Hawk and Ro, as though they had decided by unsaid agreement to maintain their distance from the humans. Hawk thought this was just as well, for he felt uncomfortable among the Sylvan with their fierce painted faces and cool air of superiority. Also, he felt dwarfed by the huge forest people and their great Percheron-like mounts.

Although he wasn't quite sure how their power over plants and animals could be used as a weapon, Elihen had assured him that there were many things the Sylvan could do. When they reached the turnoff from the road to Elmera, Hawk quickly learned about their abilities, for riding toward them was another Empire patrol.

Hawk guessed that the soldiers were in the area to investigate the previous day's osmur attack and to search for the two missing N'Omb pilgrims. Fortunately the Sylvan had provided Hawk and Ro with new garments, so the patrol did not recognize them immediately. Muffled in their hooded cloaks of dolaan and half-hidden behind the bulk of the wagons, Hawk and Ro hoped the soldiers would mistake them for Sylvan children.

Since the Empire still believed that the Sylvan were neutral, Hawk expected the forest people to bluff their way through. However, they wasted no time in declaring their new position. As the patrol ground to a halt, the Sylvan attacked with a ruthlessness that stunned Hawk.

While Proter coordinated their efforts, Calkins, the defender, took control of the patrol's horses, causing them to buck and rear, throwing their riders. Elihen and Eva reshaped the soldier's bows in a subtle fashion, making the wood so brittle that it could not be bent. Then the two shapers joined mental forces with Feder to command the plants edging the road. The tree limbs moved with unnatural fluidity and became arms that reached for the fallen men or plucked them from their mounts. The grass writhed and grabbed at running feet, pulling men off balance and into the trees. Some deformed branches became supple fingers that strangled, others twisted bodies in a deadly embrace to snap bones as easily as men normally broke twigs, while others whipped men into the air and smashed them back against the ground.

It was the first time these Sylvan had worked as a team in such a manner, but they were deadly efficient. In a few moments the patrol's horses were scattered, and its men hung lifelessly from grotesquely disfigured branches.

Frantic hoofbeats receded, the sound of moving branches diminished, and the forest became as quiet as the eye of a hurricane. In the hush, Hawk stared at eyes without pity inside frozen, painted masks, while his lips soundlessly murmured, "Oh, dear N'Omb. . "

Ro, who had killed so efficently to save him only a few days before, turned away pale, fighting back nausea.

While the Sylvan silently wheeled their horses and wagons into the trail leading northward to York, Hawk watched their impassive faces and knew that he would never again be able to think of the Sylvan as the peaceful forest-dwellers he had seen in Alycia. He would always carry the gruesome image of the broken bodies of men swaying slowly in the twisted arms of trees.

18

Dust clogged the air. Ahead, a muffled rumble like the thunder of heat lightning without rain grew louder, until some individual noises could be distinguished. Metal rang on metal. Leather ground against horseflesh. Voices cursed and called out. Men screamed.

Hawk, Ro, and the Sylvan party were just above the battle, riding through the low hills northeast of Castle York, where they'd hoped to join forces with Derek S'Mayler. They headed toward the Lounsbury River, which passed north of the stronghold.

As soon as Hawk had gotten within range of York, he'd used his parrot to inform Brian S'York of their success with the Sylvan and to arrange to meet S'Mayler's men. However, while they'd traveled the Empire had begun its full-scale offensive, forcing S'Mayler to leave the rendezvous to counterattack. So now they rode toward his new headquarters atop a rocky promontory about a mile east of the fortress.

Hawk contacted the mueagles that he'd left nested at York. As the birds surveyed the battlefield, he realized the full scope of Taral's assault.

Approach trenches grooved through the soil all the way to the castle's western walls. York's archers seemed to be slowly losing their fight to prevent the Empire troops from moving scaling ladders into position.

To the south, siege towers that were over a hundred feet high rolled haltingly toward the fortress. The lower stories housed battering rams; the upper stories carried archers whose object was to drive the defenders back from the walls. If they reached the castle, hinged bridges at the top of the tower could be dropped to allow the troops to cross over to the fortress. While soldiers sortied out of York to slow the advance, the castle's engines of war spewed forth rocks and flaming arrows to try to destroy the towers.

In the east, S'Mayler's forces clashed against Taral's cavalry, but were so outnumbered that they were more of an annoyance than a threat to the Imperial troops.

Meanwhile, the sorcerers on both sides attempted to help their armies, but their efforts were stalemated, which in effect gave the Empire's more numerous troops the advantage. Then the balance shifted as one of the Council of Seven succeeded in creating a huge hole in the outer wall near the approach trench. Hundreds of soldiers ran toward the breach through the rain of arrows. A knot of intense fighting developed that threatened to block the opening with bodies. "Hawk!"

He relegated his contact with the birds to a small corner of his mind and found Ro riding next to him, pressing his arm urgently. Looking around, he realized that they had arrived at S'Mayler's headquarters.

As they dismounted, Coleman S'Wessex appeared. Dark crescents under his eyes and the white stubble of several days' growth of beard underlined the seriousness of the situation. Although the exiled lord obviously had not gotten more than several hours of sleep in the last few days, he snapped off commands with a crispness that belied his fatigue.

The Sylvan supplies were quickly taken to a place of safety, the extra tomaad was distributed to the wounded and stockpiled for later use, and their travel-weary horses were led off to be groomed and fed.

Then Coleman greeted the Sylvan officially. "I'm glad you are here," he said. "The situation is a stale mate at the moment, but our position is weakening."

"I don't think York's outer wall will last much longer," added Hawk. He described what he had seen. "If someone could break through York's defensive spells once, they'll be able to do it again. And those siege towers will soon reach the castle."

"I think we can be of some help there," said Feder. The Sylvan leader's voice was warm and understated, but his strange eyes, one blue and one green, glinted with cold authority.

"Then we'll get you started right away."

Coleman led them up a rocky slope past stretchers of wounded men, milling horsemen about to ride out, sweat-streaked soldiers returning from battle carrying their injured comrades, and a pile of the dead who would await burial until some time when men could be spared to dig their graves. Even in the confusion the presence of the Sylvan drew stares, frightened looks, and surprised comment.

At the top of the hill a flat stone promontory overlooked the river just below, the castle to the east, and the battle that covered the valley.

Derek S'Mayler stood inside a hastily erected defensive circle. The carcasses of the two cows that had provided the blood still lay just outside its perimeter. With him were the telepath Bill Loehr and Vadim Strelkov, who was a sorcerer as well as one of Brian S'tork's lieutenants.

They were under attack. Each time one of Taral's spells hit the defensive field, its energy dissipated as light, causing the shield to look like a multicolored dome over the bloody circle.

Derek apparently sensed their approach, for he abruptly cut off his counterattacks and used the additional energy to cast a protective web that covered them in a golden haze. Where their new shield met the circle, a wedge-shaped doorway appeared, allowing them to enter. Once they were inside, the defenses returned to normal.

As they entered, Derek strode toward the Sylvan, but when he saw Ro he stopped, and for a moment their eyes locked. An expression flashed across Derek's face and then vanished into a mask of indifference, but not before Hawk recognized it as a mixture of concern and relief. Then Derek turned to greet Hawk and the Sylvan, and when Ro again stepped into his line of vision, he tried to look through her as though she did not exist, but he did not entirely succeed. They quickly discussed the best use of the Sylvan's power over plants and animals. Realizing that when the Sylvan's presence became known their position would be under even greater attack, Derek ordered his troops to retreat and fortify the hill. While the Sylvan used their powers offensively, he would concentrate on defense. Bill Loehr would maintain telepathic contact with the forces at the castle. Hawk would use his eagles to provide an overview of the action.

Their strategy decided, the Sylvan drew together in the center of the defensive ring. Their tall bodies grew rigid, and beneath their painted masks their faces became taut yet impassive.

The sounds of combat below were sharp and clear in the sudden silence inside the circle of blood. Then without any observable change, the Sylvan began to use their powers to reshape the course of the war.

At first Jaxton Sinclair was unaware of the subtle changes occurring on the battlefield. From his vantage point inside S'Stratford's defensive circle on a ridge about a mile northwest of S'Mayler's position, it was difficult to see the details of the fighting. Thus no one noticed the suddenly high proportion of arrows that missed their marks or the bows that turned brittle and broke when bent. However, when the great wooden wheels of the siege towers ceased to turn, and the beams and platforms altered shape just enough so that one by one the huge, mobile fortresses toppled, it became obvious to everyone that new players had entered the game.

"What's going on?" yelled S'Stratford.

Jessica looked up from her communications mirror, and for a moment her startled eyes caught Jaxton's.

Then without any warning or any of the sensations normally accompanying a spell, the four wooden rune-posts wavered and seemed to shift slightly, as though they were glass melted by a sudden wave of heat. The partial destruction of the runes was enough to destroy the spells warding the circle. The stored energy escaped with an intense flash of light and sound, leaving the sorcerers standing stunned and unprotected.

They automatically formed personal protective shields, but that meant channeling part of their power from offense to defense. As Jessica communicated with the other sorcerers along the line, the pattern of the new attack became clear. Rune posts were failing everywhere, horses were bolting out of control, weapons of wood were becoming useless.

Jaxton cupped his hands around the Pendant of Thantos and concentrated on its amber depths, searching out the source of the attack. A mental picture formed—giant men with painted faces inside a protective circle—Sylvan! Derek S'Mayler stood nearby, evidently using all of his sorcery for defense.

Then Jaxton sensed the link between Hawk and his mueagles. At that touch he pulled away, breaking his contact with the enemy. He had come too close to losing his last telepathic battle with Hawk to risk another one.

So his brother was here now; but he was a threat that could be dealt with later. The immediate danger was the presence of the Sylvan.

"Sylvan!" The word slid from his lips like a curse. "Evidently York has managed to gain them as an ally." He described what he had seen.

"That explains what's happened to our runes, the siege towers, and everything else," said Douglas

S'Stratford grimly. "Given enough time they can ruin every piece of wood we've got—arrows, wagons, catapults . . . "

"Our army would be destroyed!" finished Jaxton. "And their powers are so different from ours that we can't counteract their actions with our spells."

S'Stratford nodded. "However, they wouldn't be able to resist a direct sorcery attack against their persons; that's why they are being shielded by Derek S'Mayler's circle and his powers. As long as he uses his powers only for defense, he should be able to withstand our attacks and protect the Sylvan, especially since we must use part of our powers for defense against the other York sorcerers' assaults."

"Our only chance is to divert some of our troops from the attack on the castle and hope that S'Mayler won't be able to withstand both our sorcery and our army," Jaxton suggested.

Reluctantly, S'Stratford turned to Jessica Slogan. "Contact Taral and the rest and tell them to concentrate on the sorcerers at Castle York; that will leave us free to handle S'Mayler and the Sylvan."

"Jaxton, order our men to break off their attack. Turn every usable catapult and ballista on Derek S'Mayler's position. Taral's men can close the gap in the line when we pull out. While the cavalry and foot soldiers nearest the river turn and head up S'Mayler's hill, we'll take the reserves and come up from behind. The three of us will have to hit S'Mayler's defensive circle at close range to break it."

Windrifter and Stormrider crisscrossed above the hills north of the Lounsbury River, and through their eyes Hawk watched S'Stratford's troops slowly advance toward his position. Although the Sylvan had turned most of their attention to this attack, their powers were not great enough to stop it completely.

However, by the time S'Stratford's troops reached S'Mayler's headquarters, the Sylvan had wiped out the enemy's advantage of numbers by reducing expert archers and cavalry to frightened foot soldiers with only swords, knives, and fists to use as weapons against S'Mayler's unaffected troops and against trees that strangled, bushes that clawed, and grasses that clutched.

Still, as the eagles dived closer to Derek's defensive circle, Hawk saw a wave of Empire soldiers break through S'Mayler's men and head up the promontory. He called a warning, and a handful of Derek's men in the rocks immediately adjacent to the ring of blood ran forward to engage them.

Then three figures emerged from the melee—two men and a woman with the faint, glowing auras of sorcery shields. Automatically Hawk drew his sword as he recognized Jaxton Sinclair, at the same time expectantly shielding his mind, but the enemy bird-path made no move to contact the eagles and thus engage Hawk in another duel.

Instead the three linked hands and minds and attacked the warded circle with their strongest spells.

At the same time Taral and the other members of the Council of Seven bombarded the area with their magic.

For a moment the protective field flared red, then orange, then yellow. It held. The Sylvan, having no means to combat this type of sorcery, simply ignored it and continued their own offensive, though perhaps a trifle more aggressively than before.

Hawk saw Ro run through the protective curtain as though it did not exist and head toward the enemy sorcerers.

Then the domed field flared again, turned brilliant white, and exploded in sheets of flame. A blast of burning air knocked Hawk to the ground, searing his skin and blinding him for a few seconds. When his sight returned, he found himself lying across part of the scorched and now powerless perimeter of the circle. A screen of yellowish-brown fog obliterated everything, and when he contacted the mueagles, he saw that the cloud stretched across the whole top of the hill.

Hawk pulled himself up, picked up the sword he'd dropped, and headed in the direction he thought Ro had gone. Suddenly an Empire soldier lurched out of the fog in front of Hawk and engaged him in a duel. Although his opponent was much taller and heavier, as Hawk danced in and out with a series of swift thrusts and parries, he realized that his smaller size gave him advantages in speed and maneuverability. Giving ground to the soldier's blows, he fought with calculated ease, buoyed with unexpected confidence in his own ability to defeat the man. Then Hawk spotted the opening he'd waited for, sprang forward, and thrust beneath the other's guard.

As the soldier fell, Hawk noticed that the fog was lifting. He again contacted his eagles and, through rising streamers of smoke, saw a group of tall figures—the Sylvan. They appeared to be unharmed, still linked in their efforts against the Imperial Army, and seemed totally oblivious to the action around them.

The birds flew over their heads toward the top of the promontory where the fog had cleared. There stood Derek S'Mayler and, about twenty feet in front of him, Douglas S'Stratford and the Red Witch. The slightly shimmering halo extending from Derek back to the forest people was evidence that he still shielded them.

While S'Stratford blasted Derek with a spear of blue light from the tip of his staff, Jessica S'Logan's outstretched hand aimed bursts of energy at him through the spellstone in her ring. Almost at her feet lay Vadim Strelkov's half-charred body.

Still viewing the scene through his eagles, Hawk turned and headed in that direction.

"Derek, give it up," called the Red Witch. As she began to speak, Derek's shield faded for an instant. "You are weak, your shield is failing . . . " His face was strained with tension and fatigue, but her voice acted like a stimulant to the hatred he felt toward her, and from that hatred sprang a reserve of strength. His shield grew brighter and stabilized.

Seeing the anger in his face, she frowned and then stepped forward with a smile to try a new ploy. Beneath her sun-flamed hair, her face was as cold, beautiful, and perfect as a diamond.

"You can join us, become one of the Council of Seven. You are a great sorcerer, and we can use you. You loved me once, I can be yours again. You can have it all—wealth, power, land, and a return of the love that we once shared. Join us . . . "

Derek laughed with contempt, "I'll see you in N'Omb's fires first."

Jessica only smiled. "Join us . . . "

Suddenly figures darted through the smoke behind her—Ro and Coleman S'Wessex. Coleman veered left and slashed at S'Stratford with his sword, while Ro ran toward Jessica. Although Coleman's sword bounced off S'Stratford's protective field with a dull clang, Ro's immunity to magic enabled her blade to pass through Jessica's shield. It plunged into her side.

With a look of surprise the Red Witch twisted toward Ro, casting a spell that should have killed Ro instantly but had no effect.

Meanwhile, Jaxton Sinclair had appeared through the dissipating smoke. Seeing Ro and Coleman he quickly cast a paralyzing spell against them, but only Coleman fell. As Ro raised her sword to strike at Jessica again, Jaxton realized that she was somehow immune to his sorcery, so he drew his own sword and ran toward her.

Hawk had just reached the clustered Sylvan, so he shouted a warning, but Ro was still too far away to hear. Her sword slammed into Jessica, and the Red Witch died.

As if in slow motion, Hawk saw Jaxton Sinclair's blade slice toward Ro, knew he could not reach her in time, and automatically called his eagles down toward the falcon-telepath, even though he realized that they would not be able to penetrate the man's sorcery.

The sound of wings caused Ro to pull upright and begin to turn, altering the path of Jaxton's sword as it cut into her back.

The eagles shrieked as they dived at Jaxton with talons extended like knives, and instinctively he reached for their minds as he reacted from his lifetime of bird-telepathy instead of from his few weeks as a sorcerer.

Feeling Hawk's mind smash into him like a fist, Jaxton realized his mistake, but it was too late—he was not strong enough to break from the telepathic duel to use the powers of the Thantos Pendant. So he slashed back with mental daggers that cut into Hawk's shields. Suddenly he sensed that this time there would be no interruption to their battle—it would be a duel to the death.

As each man attacked, parried, and counterattacked, their minds became entwined in a struggle that threatened to destroy them both.

At first Hawk pounded at Jaxton's mind wildly in the heat of rage, for he'd seen Ro fall at the other's hand and had been unable to prevent it. But as Jaxton countered each blow with ease and struck back with telling intensity, Hawk quickly realized that his anger and frustration were hindering his attack.

He struggled to relax, and gradually his anger cooled and sharpened into the bright, focused flame of a glassblower's torch instead of the uncontrolled raging of a fire. The flame became a weapon, the blazing intensity behind his assault. Cautiously he cut through Jaxton's shields, slowly burning his way through the other's mind.

As Hawk's torch touched Jaxton's nerve centers, Jaxton felt as though his body were being slowly incinerated. He thrust back repeatedly, but his growing realization of Hawk's power ate away at his strength. Intellectually he knew that fear could do as much to defeat him as his brother could, but he could not rid himself of it. As Jaxton's fear grew, he weakened, until he found himself using all of his power to shield himself, and he was unable to return Hawk's blows.

Feeling Hawk's mind close around his in a vise grip that could crush his last shields, Jaxton gathered together his remaining reserves of strength for one final blow. There was only one thing left he could use against Hawk that might free him from the death grip—the knowledge of Hawk's true identity.

He opened a small gate in his shield and released a flood of memories and thoughts that held that knowledge.

Images flashed through Hawk's mind. He probed them for deception, but they were real, and he was too deep within Jaxton's mind to be fooled by lies. Sifting through Jaxton Sinclair's memories, he learned of his mother, his family, his heritage; he relived his capture in Kellerton through Jaxton's eyes, feeling Jaxton's pain and surprise at the revelation of their relationship.

With the instantaneous and undeniable transfer of knowledge came Jaxton's thought: Spare me, for we are brothers.

Brothers! The word echoed through Hawk's mind like thunder from lightning that strikes too close. Stunned, he jerked away from the memories, loosening his hold on Jaxton.

The image of his mother's jade pin whirled through his mind—a wheel of seven leaves; but now be knew it for what it was—the sign of the S'Akron family; and he knew himself for what he was—the son of a S'Akron and a Sinclair.

In that moment Jaxton struck with the last of his strength.

The unexpected blow snapped Hawk's main shields. His mind reeled under the force of Jaxton's assault and the shock of his new knowledge. As Hawk struggled to regain his equilibrium, Jaxton took advantage of every opening and hesitation, stabbing down into Hawk's consciousness.

Fleeing through dark corridors of his mind, Hawk searched for a weapon, a shield, an escape from the wheel of knives that seemed to pursue him. He was being driven toward a void he'd touched once before, but from which he could not hope to escape again.

He dodged and reached for something that glittered with strength. He clung to it and thrust it before him.

It was a shield. It was a weapon. It was the image of Ro falling beneath Jaxton's blade. It was the image of his hawk being torn apart by Jaxton's falcons. It was hatred and vengeance. It was strength.

As Hawk merged with it, it blocked all thoughts of his relationship to Jaxton. He only knew that he must fight and survive. Slowly, inexorably, he fought his way back into Jaxton's mind.

Jaxton's strength was gone. He had no weapons left, nothing to use except his memories. One by one, good and bad, he threw them at Hawk, but they rolled off Hawk's shield like raindrops against a rock.

We are brothers, his mind whispered through the haze of pain that wrapped around him in a smothering cocoon.

But Hawk had no room for any emotions or thoughts other than the fury that drove him to smash again and again at Jaxton, until suddenly he felt all that had been Jaxton Sinclair dissolve into a vast emptiness that left him alone with a word that reverberated through his mind like wind whistling over an eagle's wings—Brother.

Then the darkness closed in.

19

A liquid that tasted like walnuts and honey touched his lips and tongue. Hawk choked on it and coughed, but managed to gulp some down. Then he became fully conscious and recognized it: tomaad.

Although his whole body ached with numbing weariness, he forced his eyes open. Then he blinked and reached out with hesitant fingertips, not quite sure he was really awake and alive, but the sea-green eyes staring down at him with concern were real.

"Ro!" he whispered. "But I saw you fall . . . "

"The sorcerer only wounded me. I may not be able to use this arm for a while, but I'll live." Then she forced him to drink the rest of the Sylvan tonic. As she bent, Hawk saw that the left sleeve of her tunic was ripped and bloody and that her shoulder and back were roughly bandaged with torn strips of material.

"You killed him, didn't you?" she asked. "Jaxton Sinclair . . . "

Hawk nodded. Fighting against the weakness and pain, he propped himself up on one arm and asked urgently. "What happened then?"

"We've won. I think we've won." She sat back on her heels and stared past him with a wan smile and a sudden expression of deep sadness in her eyes. Hawk followed her gaze beyond the ring of Sylvan to the tall, lonely figure of Derek S'Mayler.

"With the Red Witch and Sinclair dead, Derek was able to shift some of his energy from defense of the Sylvan to an attack on the third sorcerer; I think he was Lord S'Stratford. Evidently our sorcerers at the castle had recovered enough by then to block Taral and the other Empire sorcerers from attacking Derek. So S'Stratford found himself fighting alone. Realizing that he could not overcome Derek without help, S'Stratford fled, taking what was left of his troops with him.

"Through it all, the Sylvan just continued their assault, until Taral's army was simply forced to retreat. Their war machines and bows were useless, and many of their horses had stampeded. With the siege broken, a great company of York's troops left the castle and began attacking the retreating army. That's where we are now."

"Then Taral's army is retreating?"

"Yes."

"And what about Coleman?" Hawk asked.

A tear slowly crept down her cheek. "I don't know. He was paralyzed, just hanging on to life by a thread. I gave him tomaad, but it may have been too late, there didn't seem to be any effect. We took him down to the camp, or what's left of it, with the other wounded. Then when I came back I saw you lying here."

Although he was only just beginning to feel the effects of the tomaad, Hawk struggled to his feet.

He staggered as a wave of dizziness hit him, and Ro grabbed him with her good arm. Leaning against her, he felt the vertigo pass.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, just very, very tired," he answered. Then he noticed that the Sylvan had broken from their huddle and were heading back toward the camp. Feeling stronger, he loosened his hold on Ro's arm and walked slowly over to Elihen.

"What's going on?" he asked the huge half-Sylvan.

"We've finished for the moment. Taral's army is in full retreat, and his sorcerers are no longer bothering to attack us."

"Where are you . . . "

Elihen smiled. "Down to get something to eat." He patted Hawk's shoulder with his enormous hand. "Come along, you look like you need some food and some rest, too."

"In a few minutes," Hawk replied, his eyes on Ro.

As Elihen walked away, Hawk continued to watch Ro. She was half-turned away from him, looking up the hill toward Derek S'Mayler.

Standing alone at the top of the promontory, the sorcerer seemed on the verge of collapse. His face was pale and haggard, his body slumped forward and wavering with fatigue, his eyes vacantly staring out at the retreating enemy.

While the pain and longing in Ro's face echoed through Hawk's mind, his feelings for her resolved themselves with disturbing clarity.

Now that he knew that his blood was as noble as hers, it no longer mattered. It was not their births that divided them, it was their basic natures.

He looked wistfully at Ro, wishing that things could be different. She had been his first love, and he would probably always love her in a way. They had traveled the same path for a little while, but now they had to go their separate ways. And somehow he knew that Ro would not be the last woman he loved.

He stared at Derek's lonely figure, remembering the expression of concern for Ro he'd seen in Derek's eyes. If any woman were capable of restoring Derek's trust and whining his love, it was Ro.

She was still looking sadly up the hill at Derek.

Hawk touched her arm gently. Her deep-green eyes met his. In them he could see her love for his friend.

"Go to him, Ro," he said. "He's the one that needs you."

Her eyes studied his searchingly.

"Go on. You want to, you know."

"Yes," she answered. "I guess I do." Then she determinedly walked up the hill.

Hawk watched her until she reached Derek. He didn't know if things would work out between them. Surprisingly, he found himself hoping that they would.

He turned away and saw Jaxton Sinclair's body.

Something drew him toward his brother. His eyes, as brown as Hawk's own, stared upward in a glaze of death; but his face was the face of a stranger, and Hawk could see little similarity between it and his own.

Then he noticed the twisted chains of the pendant and the jade pin lying against Jaxton's throat. Automatically he knelt and touched the pin—My mother's pin, he thought; then a part of his mind corrected, Our mother's pin.

The jade pin was his again, and he knew that the Pendant of Thantos was his now as well.

Gently he removed the chains from around his brother's neck. He looked at them closely, comparing the design of leaves on each, as he knew his brother had. He pulled the chain bearing the pin over his head and pocketed the Pendant of Thantos.

Soon he would learn to control the spellstone, and then he would wear it, but not until he had time to consider and absorb all that he had learned from Jaxton. When he had come to accept that knowledge fully, he would be able to accept the Thantos as his inheritance.

Hawk glanced up at the dark blue of the afternoon sky and reached for his birds. Then he was one with Windrifter and Stormrider, soaring above the retreating Imperial Army.

Though they had won the battle, he knew that long years of fighting still lay ahead of them before the rest of the Eastern Kingdoms could be freed and the threat of Taral's Empire completely removed. However, for the moment they had won, and York, at least, was free.

He flew the mueagles higher, reaching for the sun. The rays warmed them and gave them strength. They soared, and their feathers turned golden in the sun.

He was still the master of hawks, but now he was something more, for he had become master of himself and his own emotions. And in defeating Jaxton he had found his true identity.

His real name was Gregory Sinclair. He was a noble of the S'Akron family.

From Jaxton's memories he knew that Geoff S'Akron's son still lived, but if the boy were to die, Hawk would become the heir to one of the largest kingdoms in the Empire.

In the meantime he'd inherited the vast Sinclair estates, if he could prove his claim. Perhaps he could find a way to use his new position to speed the Empire's downfall.

In any case, he had the Pendant of Thantos, and that in itself was a powerful weapon.

Suddenly the part of him that was still anchored to the earth laughed as the eagles soared toward the sun. Someday he knew he was going to touch it.

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