The Outcast
Book 2 of the Time Master Trilogy
by Louise Cooper
Version 1.0

Chapter 1

'I'm telling you, you won't find better foodstuffs any-
where in Shu, or Prospect or Han for that matter!' The
market trader thrust a handful of dark pinkish-purple
roots under his customer's nose and brandished them
almost threateningly. 'And I've better things to do on a
market day than waste my time with an outland slut who
probably hasn't even got a coin to her name - so make
your mind up now, before I set my dog on you!'

The mangy cross-breed hound that was sprawled inel-
egantly under the rickety stall glowered jaundicedly at
his master, and the girl the trader had addressed stared
back coldly, unimpressed. She was too experienced a
haggler these days to pay any attention to threats or
insults; she had judged the quality of the fruit and veg-
etables on offer and made her own decision as to their
worth. She thrust a dirty hand into her belt-pouch and
pulled out a tarnished brass coin.

'I said a quarter-gravine and I meant a quarter. Take it
or leave it.'

For a moment the man glared at her, resenting her
manner, the fact that she refused to be intimidated, the
ignominy of having to barter with a woman - and a low-
class of woman - in the first place. But it was obvious she
didn't intend to give way, and a sale was a sale . . .
Winter business was slack at the best of times.

He snatched the money ungraciously and dumped the
roots into the hemp bag she held out.

'And the fruit,' she said.

Resentfully he threw six shrivelled pears in after the
vegetables, then spat on the ground at her feet. 'There!
And may cats eat your carcass!'

Quickly, reflexively, the girl made a gesture before
her own face intended to ward off curses and negate the
evil eye, and for a moment the look in her peculiar
amber eyes made the trader feel distinctly uncomfort-
able. Something about her had raised his hackles; she
was a coastal Easterner to judge by her accent, and they
weren't noted for feyness . . . but as she made that sign
he'd felt as if the venom in his own words was being
palpably turned back on him.

Ah, damn the woman. Nothing but a peasant girl in
handed-down men's clothes ... he had her money in
his pocket, and that was what counted. Nonetheless, he
watched her surreptitiously as she walked away, and the
unease only left him when she had finally merged with
the crowd and vanished from sight.

Cyllan Anassan swallowed her anger as she headed back
through the market square towards her uncle's pitch on
the outskirts of the clusters of stalls. She should be
accustomed, by now, to the attitude of such men,
especially here in the more affluent South - they
expected a girl of her age and lowly status to be at best a
simpleton; and when they failed to palm her off with the
dregs of their produce at extortionate prices, they
resorted to abuse. Admittedly Shu-Nhadek - province
capital of Shu - was an improvement on many towns she
had visited, but the cavalier treatment still rankled. And
when all was said and done, she had come away with
substandard foodstuffs that would take twice the cook-
ing to make them palatable.

She would have liked to linger at the better end of the
market and choose from the succulent vegetables on sale
there - and, she admitted to herself, have had the secret
pleasure of mingling with the high-clan folk who graced
those stalls with their custom - but the thought of her
uncle's rage at such profligacy had deterred her. If he
was sober she'd feel the buckle of his belt across her
back; if he was drunk he would probably kick her from
one end of the square to the other.

Unconsciously goaded by that thought, she quickened

her steps, muttering an apology as she bumped against a
group of well-dressed women who were gossiping beside
a stand selling sweetmeats and wine, and tried to make
haste through the crowd. But now that she had left the
cheaper and less well-patronised section of the market
behind, haste was impossible; the press of people had
simply become too great. And the temptation to dawdle
was irresistible; this was her first visit to Shu-Nhadek,
and there was so much to see and take in. All around her
the huge market square was filled with colour and move-
ment; in the distance the jumbled rooftops and pastel-
washed walls of the tall old buildings rose to frame the
picture, and further away still, if she craned her neck to
look, the slender masts of ships riding at anchor in the
harbour were just visible. Shu-Nhadek was the largest
and oldest sea-port in the entire land; sheltered in the
South-facing Bay of Illusions and served by the kindly
currents of the Summerisle Straits, it was a perfect year-
round haven for traders and travellers alike. Most of the
major drove-roads terminated at the town, and its prox-
imity to the Summer Isle, home of the High Margrave
himself, lent it a status no other province capital could
hope to match. People from every walk of life imagin-
able could be found here; wealthy merchants, crafts-
men, farmers, drovers like her uncle's band, white-
robed Sisters of Aeoris, even men and women from the
Summer Isle taking a respite from the formalities of
court life. And on the two days of the monthly market,
the town's population increased fivefold. Cyllan could
have simply stood by and watched the bustle from dawn
to dusk without ever growing bored.

At last though, she was forced to stop altogether to
allow a groom with several Southern blood-horses to
lead his charges across her path. Waiting, Cyllan stared
enviously at the tall, elegant animals - a far cry from the
stocky and evil-tempered little pony she herself rode
when she travelled with Kand Brialen and his drovers -
and abruptly, unbidden, the colour and bustle and sheer
exuberant life of the market brought back a memory
that she had been trying for months to quell. A memory

of another place, another festive occasion . . . and one
beside which the grand market of Shu-Nhadek suddenly
shrank to a pale echo. A spectacle that probably
wouldn't be repeated in her lifetime - the inaugural
celebrations for the new High Initiate, at the Castle of
the Star Peninsula on its remote stack far away in the
North. It had been late Summer then, even the Northern
climate kindly, and images of the ceremony and pan-
oply, the unimaginably ancient Castle decorated with
streamers and pennants, the long processions of
nobility, the bonfires, the music, the dancing flashed
through her inner vision as clearly as though she were
seeing them again with her physical senses. She had even
glimpsed the new High Initiate himself, Keridil Toln,
young, assured and resplendent in his ceremonial robes,
when his procession emerged through the Castle gates to
give Aeoris's blessing to the vast crowd.

It had been an unforgettable experience . . . but the
memory which had caused her both joy and pain over
the last months stood apart from the glory of the celebra-
tions. A man; tall, black-haired, pale-skinned, with a
haunted disquiet in his green eyes; a sorcerer and high
Adept of the Circle. They had met once before, by
chance, and against all likelihood he had remembered
her. She had been drinking some vile brew which she
had bought with her last coin from a wine stall; he had
tipped the cup's contents on to the grass, given the stall-
holder a tongue-lashing and replaced the wine with a high
quality vintage. And Cyllan, overcome by shyness and
by an acute sense of her own lowliness, had made a
feeble excuse and run away as soon as she prudently
could. Since then she had regretted her cowardice a
thousand times; yearned for another chance . . . but the
chance hadn't come her way. And later that same night,
her psychic senses had told her that her dreams could
have borne no fruit when she had conjured a vision of
him in his private rooms, with a graceful, patrician girl,
and had known that she was already forgotten . . .

The horses had cleared the square now and the crowd
moved forward again. Passing a stall that sold ornaments

of fashioned metal and enamel, Cyllan paused suddenly as
something, half hidden among the piled wares, caught
her eye. She moved closer, peering, then looked guiltily
towards the stallholder, expecting to be driven away.
This trader, however, knew from experience that good
customers often appeared in the most unlikely guises,
and courteously nodded for her to continue. Encour-
aged, Cyllan took out the object which had intrigued her
and held it up. It was a necklace; a finely wrought chain
of copper from which depended three beaten copper
discs. On the centremost and largest, a skilled craftsman
had worked a filigree design in silver and blue enamel - a
lightning-flash bisected by a single eye.

The lightning-flash . . . symbol of an Adept . . .
Cyllan bit her lip as memory surged again, and won-
dered how much the necklace might cost. She wouldn't
dare to haggle at a stall of this nature; and besides, she
knew nothing of metal values. But she had a little money
- a very little; one or two gravines she had managed to
scrimp for herself over the months. And it would be so
gratifying to own just one beautiful thing; one artefact to
remind her . . .

'Derret Morsyth's one of the finest craftsmen in the
province,' the stallholder said suddenly. Cyllan started,
then looked up at the man's face. He had moved to stand
opposite her, and there was no hostility in his eyes.

'It's . . . beautiful,' she said.

'Certainly. Mind you, he tends only to work with the
lesser metals, and there's some who'll dismiss him
because he doesn't bedeck his pieces with gold and
gems. But to my way of thinking, there can be as much
beauty in a piece of copper or pewter as in any number of
emeralds. It's the hand and the eye that count, not the
materials.'

Cyllan nodded emphatically, and the man gestured to
the necklace. 'Try it on.'

'No, I - I couldn't . . . '

He laughed. 'You don't know the price yet, girl!
Derret Morsyth doesn't overcharge, and neither do I.
Try it - the copper almost matches your pretty eyes!'

Cheeks reddened by the unaccustomed compliment,
Cyllan hesitantly held the necklace up to her throat. The
metal felt cool and heavy against her skin; it had a
substantial feel to it... Half turning, she was about to
let the stallholder fasten it for her when she glimpsed her
own reflection in a polished bronze mirror, and what she
saw destroyed her eagerness instantly.

Pretty eyes, the stallholder had said . . . gods, she
wasn't pretty! Face plain, too tight and pinched, mouth
too wide, and her amber eyes weren't beautiful, merely
peculiar. Her hair - so pale that it was almost white -
hung in tatty strands round her shoulders; she'd made an
effort this morning, for practicality's sake, to tie it into a
bunch at the nape of her neck, but now half of it had
worked free and she looked like a scarecrow. Dirty old
shirt, jerkin and trousers, handed on from a man in her
uncle's droving crew. And there on her breast hung the
necklace she had coveted. It had been fashioned for a
lady, not a down-at-heel urchin, and on her it became a
grotesque parody.

Quickly she looked away from the awful revelation,
and put up a hand to stop the trader who was about to
fasten the necklace's clasp.

'No. I - I'm sorry, but I can't. Thank you, but I don't
want to buy it.'

He was nonplussed. 'It's not expensive, girl. And any
young woman surely deserves -'

The attempt at kind persuasion was like a knife-thrust
to Cyllan, and she shook her head violently. 'No, please!
I - haven't got any money anyway. Not even a half-
gravine. I'm sorry to have wasted your time . . . thank
you.' And before he could say another word she almost
ran from the stall.

The baffled trader stared after her until a new voice
drew his attention back to his business. 'Trader Rishak?'

Collecting himself, Rishak looked at his customer, and
recognised the eldest son of Shu's Provincial Margrave.

'Oh-forgive me, sir! I didn't see you-I had my mind
on that young woman there. An odd one if you please!'

Drachea Rannak raised his eyebrows enquiringly. 'Odd!'

Rishak snorted, wryly amused. 'First she shows great
interest in one of Morsyth's pieces - on the verge of
buying it, mind you - then suddenly she's changed her
mind and bolted before I can say a word!'

The young man smiled. They say it's a woman's
privilege to be contrary.'

'So they do ... ah well, if I was a married man maybe
I'd understand 'em better. Now, sir; what can I show you
today?'

'I'm looking for a gift for my mother. It's her birth-
anniversary in three days, and I'd like something special
. . . and a little personal.'

 'For the Lady Margravine? Well, please give her my
most respectful congratulations for the day! And I think
I have just the thing for her good taste right here . . . '

Only when she was well clear of the trinkets stall did
Cyllan finally stop and get her breath. She was furious
with herself, both for her initial vanity and for her
foolish behaviour when she realised her mistake. What
use would a necklace have been to her? Something to
wear at her next social occasion, perhaps on her next
visit to the Castle of the Star Peninsula? She almost
laughed aloud. Something to get in her way when she
was trying to stew her third-rate vegetables into edi-
bility, more like! Or for her uncle to find and sell, and
pocket the proceeds . . .

Her heart was still thumping painfully with the igno-
miny of the experience, and she had an illogical convic-
tion that everyone around her knew of her humiliation
and was secretly laughing at her. She had finally halted
near the door of a tavern at the square's edge, and in a
desultory attempt to cheer herself she pushed through
the crowd and bought a mug of herb beer and a chunk of
bread spread with milk-cheese. The tavern room was
stiflingly overcrowded, so she found a quiet bench out-
side and watched the market shoppers go by while she
slowly ate and drank.

After a little while, a steadily droning voice from a
booth next to the tavern caught her attention. The

boothman was a fortune-teller, and was regaling his
current customer with a long tale of great fortune and
fame. Intrigued despite her mood, Cyllan edged closer
until she could peer across and observe the proceedings
- and her pulse quickened.

The fortune-teller had cast six stones on to his table,
and was apparently reading his client's future from the
pattern they formed. Geomancy was one of the most
ancient techniques known in Cyllan's Eastern home-
land, and quickly she looked at the clairvoyant's face,
searching for the pale skin and distinctive features of a
Flatlands native. But whatever else the man might be,
he was no Easterner. And the stones . . . there should
have been many of them, not merely six. And sand on
which to cast them. And the pattern they formed was
nothing but meaningless gibberish . , .

Inwardly, Cyllan seethed. The fortune-teller was a
charlatan, trading on superstition and on a psychic skill
that was long dead but for a few secret practitioners. In
the Great Eastern Flatlands, anyone with the fey touch
was little better than a pariah now; she herself had
learned at an early age to keep her innate and develop-
ing skills a secret from all but the old woman who had
quietly tutored her in reading the stones, and even her
uncle knew nothing of the precious collection of
pebbles, worn smooth by the sea, which lodged in her
belt-pouch. An apprentice drover, lowliest of the low,
would never broadcast such a talent if she knew what
was good for her . . . But Cyllan's talent was real, unlike
the trumpery lies of this trickster, playing on his client's
mixture of fear and gullible fascination.

She should have been in a Sisterhood Cot. Suddenly
she heard the words in her head as clearly as if the tall,
dark Adept had been standing before her and speaking
them aloud once more. He had recognised her skill, and
he had paid her that compliment. She should have been
admitted to that august body of women, servants of the
gods, and her talents fostered and nurtured . . . But the
Sisterhood had no time for the likes of a peasant drover.
She had no money, no sponsor . . . and so, instead of

wearing the white robe, she sat on a tavern bench and
listened to a charlatan prostituting a seer's skills, and
had no authority to intervene.

The fortune-teller's monologue finished and his client
rose to leave, flushed and thanking him profusely.
Cyllan saw a five-gravine piece change hands, and was
disgusted, but if the fake seer felt anything of her fury he
didn't show it. He was counting his afternoon's takings
when a slight, brown-haired young man paused by his
booth. The newcomer's gaze flicked from the fortune-
teller to Cyllan and lingered a moment as though in
recognition; then, glancing surreptitiously over his
shoulder, he slid into the empty chair opposite the
boothman.

The charlatan made a great show of welcoming his
visitor; so much so that Cyllan realised he must be the
favoured son of an out-of-the-ordinary - and wealthy -
local clan. But whatever his status, the young man was
clearly no less gullible or superstitious than any peasant.
His manner, the way he sat attentively forward, his
whispered questions, all betrayed a naive eagerness
which the fortune-teller was quick to exploit. Cyllan
watched as the six stones were produced and meaning-
less signs and passes made over them, before the fake
seer began his monologue.

'I see great good fortune for you, young sir. Good
fortune indeed; for within the year you will wed. A love
match, if I may venture to say so - a lady whose beauty
will be unequalled among her peers - and many fine
children. And I see, too . . . ' Here he paused dramati-
cally, as though waiting for divine inspiration to touch
his tongue, while the young man stared fixedly at the
stones, ' . . . yes! High office, young sir; great power
and renown. I see you standing in a great hall, a resplen-
dent hall, dispensing justice and judgement. A long life,
sir; a good life and a happy one.'

The young man's eyes were alight. Breathless, and
completely enamoured of the charlatan's pronouncement,
he murmured a question which Cyllan didn't catch, and
suddenly, watching him, she found herself

unconsciously adjusting her vision so that the two figures
at the cloth-covered table faded out of focus. On rare
occasions, she had discovered, she could make predic-
tions in a small way, or divine a stranger's character or
background, without the need for her stones. It was a
sporadic talent, unpredictable at the best of times; but
now she felt that her psychic touch was sure . . . Closing
her eyes she concentrated harder and a vague mental
impression began to form, growing clearer until at last,
satisfied, she opened her eyes again.

The fortune-teller had done, and the young man was
getting up to leave. Coins changed hands, thanks were
given and obsequious bows received in exchange; then
the boothman dodged behind his curtain and out of sight.

The young man was about to pass by Cyllan's bench,
and she knew suddenly that she couldn't keep silent.
Little good it might do her, but her sense of justice
rebelled at the thought of letting such chicanery go
unremarked. As the young man reached her she stood
up.

'Excuse me, sir . . . '

He started, turned, then frowned, clearly unused to
being so directly addressed by a low-class stranger.
Anxious that he shouldn't think she was importuning
him, Cyllan spoke quickly and softly.

'The fortune-teller is a charlatan, sir. I thought you
should know.'

He was surprised. A fresh, smooth face, she thought;
he'd never known hardship, never wanted for anything -
and probably that explained his naivety in the face of the
seer's blandishments. Now, collecting himself, he
strolled closer to where she sat.

'A charlatan?' His smile was faintly patronising.
'What makes you so sure?'

Obviously he suspected her of harbouring some personal
motive for attempting to discredit the man. Cyllan met
his gaze steadily. 'I was born and brought up in the Great
Eastern Flatlands. Reading the stones is an ancient skill
there . . . and therefore I know a faker when I see one.'

The young man clasped his hands together and stared

thoughtfully at an expensive ring on one finger. 'He is a
stranger to Shu-Nhadek - as, it seems, are you - and yet
he divined a good deal about my position. Doesn't that
speak in his favour?'

Cyllan decided to gamble that her flash of clair-
voyance had been accurate, and smiled. 'It takes small
seer's skills, sir, to recognise and acknowledge the son
and heir to the Margrave of Shu Province.'

She had been right ... he raised his eyebrows and
stared at her with a newly dawning interest. 'You are a
seer?'

'A stone-reader, and of small talent,' Cyllan said,
ignoring the insult - no doubt unintentional - that his
surprise implied. 'I don't ply my skill, nor do I seek to
profit from it; I'm not trying to steal the boothman's
trade. But it offends me to see tricksters preying on
innocent victims.'

The idea that he was one such innocent victim clearly
didn't appeal to the Margrave's son and for a moment
she wondered if she had been too blunt, and affronted
him. But after a brief hesitation he nodded curtly.

'Then I'm indebted to you. I'll have the charlatan run
out of the province before the day's over!' His eyes
narrowed suddenly and he studied her face more
closely. 'And if you are what you say you are, I shall be
interested to see if you can succeed where the charlatan
failed!'

He wanted her to read the stones for him, and Cyllan
was alarmed. Her uncle, who like most of his peers was
deeply superstitious and regarded psychic talents as the
rightful province only of the privileged - and officially
sanctioned - few, would kill her if he ever found out that
she had been using her skills. And to read for the son of
the Province Margrave . . . she couldn't do it - she
didn't dare.

'I'm sorry,' she said indistinctly, 'I can't.'

'Can't?' He was suddenly angry. 'What d'you mean,
can't? You say you're a seer - I ask you to prove
it!'

'I mean, sir, that I daren't.' She could do nothing

other than be honest. 'I'm apprenticed to my uncle, and
he disapproves strongly of such things. If he were ever to
find out - '

'What is your uncle's name?'

'He is - ' She looked at the young man's face, swal-
lowed. 'Kand Brialen. A drover.'

'A drover who doesn't exploit a profitable enterprise
right under his nose? I find that hard to believe!'

'Please!' Cyllan entreated him anxiously. 'If he were
ever to know -'

'Oh, by the gods I've got better things to do with my
time than run tattling tales to peasants!' the young man
retorted petulantly. 'And if you won't read for me, you
won't But I'll remember the name. Kand Brialen - I'll
remember it!' And before Cyllan could say anything
more, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Slowly, she sat down again. Her heart was thumping
and she wished that she hadn't been so foolhardy as to
interfere. Now, if the whim took him, the Margrave's
son might find some excuse to seek out her uncle and, if
he was sufficiently offended by her refusal, let slip
enough about their encounter to ensure that she'd suffer
for it. He wasn't used to having his wishes thwarted; he
was obviously spoilt and might choose to be spiteful.
And if-

She checked the train of thought suddenly, and
sighed. Whatever the Margrave's son did or did not do,
she couldn't change matters. She had survived Kand
Brialen's rage before now, and could survive it again.
Best to finish her beer, return and face whatever had to
be faced.

The tavern potboy emerged to take her mug and ask if
she'd like more. Cyllan shook her head and reluctantly
rose from the bench, heading away towards the side of
the market place where the crowds began to thin out.
Here, stalls and booths gave way to the thatch-roofed
livestock pens, where herds of dull-eyed animals milled
and complained and awaited their fate. Kand Brialen
and his drovers had pitched their tents to one side of the
largest pen, and throughout the day trade had been

brisk; they had a hundred cattle, driven in from Han, to
sell, together with four good work-horses which Kand
had bought for a disgracefully low sum after a good deal
of barter in Prospect. And with Spring and the breeding
season almost m sight they were fetching good prices.

Cyllan had long ago learned not to think too often
about her own future with Kand Brialen and his drovers.
Four years ago, when her mother - Kand's sister - and
father had been lost with their fishing boat in the treach-
erous Whiteshoals Sound, her uncle had taken on
responsibility for her, but from the beginning he'd made
no effort to disguise his resentment of the duty. As far as
he was concerned Cyllan was an unwanted liability; he
had no use for women other than the occasional whore
when the mood took him, and had made it clear that if
his orphaned niece expected him to provide for her, she
must repay him by working as hard as any of the men in
his band. And so for four years Cyllan had dressed like a
drover, worked like a drover and coped, too, with all the
'women's work' demanded of her. Admittedly, she had
also travelled widely and seen a good deal of the world;
something unheard offer any girl in the Eastern Flatlands.
But it was a life that gave her little to look forward to.

Back at home - although it was becoming harder
every season to think of anywhere as home - she would
doubtless by now have been matched with the second or
third son of another local fishing family in a pragmatic
clan alliance. Hardly a great achievement, but it would
have been better, surely, than this harsh nomadic exist-
ence. As it was, her future stretched endlessly ahead;
work, travel, sleep when she could snatch it, until the
Northern winds and Southern Sun withered her before
her time . . .

She shook the unhappy thought off as she glimpsed
her uncle's burly figure moving among the lines of horses
tethered near the pens. He was accompanied by a tall
and slightly stooping middle-aged man who, to judge
from his fur-trimmed coat and Kand's obsequiousness,
was a wealthy potential customer. Cyllan tried to make
herself as inconspicuous as possible as she headed

towards their pitch, anxious not to disturb her uncle
while he was trading. She had almost reached the tents
when a voice spoke softly but with satisfaction behind
her.

'Ah - so there you are!'

Startled, she turned to find herself facing the Mar-
grave's son. He was grinning conspiratorially, and ges-
tured in the direction of the two men.

'Kand Brialen -I remembered. And when I saw that
he had good livestock for sale, I insisted that my father
should see for himself!'

So that was the Margrave of Shu . . . Cyllan realised
suddenly that she was staring like a Moonstruck yokel,
and hastily looked away.

'You and I,' the Margrave's son said, 'have some
unfinished business. And I think my father and your
uncle will be quite a time in making their bargain, so
your secret's safe enough. Come with me!'

He was obviously not about to be argued with, so
Cyllan made no attempt to protest as he took her arm
and hurried her away from the pens. They entered a
narrow street which led off the market square to the
harbour, and the young man indicated an ill-kept build-
ing with a sign over the door depicting a crudely painted
white ship on an unnaturally blue sea.

'The White Barque Tavern, he said as he led the way
through into the dark interior. 'It's used by sailors and
traders, mostly - we're unlikely to be seen by anyone
who might know me.'

Cyllan wryly shrugged aside the implied insult - after
all, he was in his terms lowering himself by appearing
publicly in her company - and tried to assess her first
impressions of her companion. She had noted an almost
feverish look in his eyes when he demanded that she
should read her stones for him, and his determination to
get his own way said far more about his personality than
any words. She had met such people before; those who,
preoccupied with the occult, defied the conventions
which barred the subject to all but the Circle and the
Sisterhood of Aeoris, and all too often their fascination

bordered on obsession. Cyllan had recognised the trait
immediately in the Margrave's son, and was wary of it; it
was a tendency that could, if she wasn't careful, lead her
into trouble.

But otherwise, the young man seemed unremarkable
enough. He had the typical good looks of a Shu Province
native; abundant warm brown hair which curled about
his head in the short style currently fashionable in the
South, fine skin with an olive tinge that disguised a
tendency to floridity, and expressive dark eyes with
unusually long lashes. He was quite tall for a South-
erner, and although in later years he would probably run
to fat, there was no sign of it as yet.

Now he pulled out a stool at an empty table in the
corner of the tavern, and snapped his fingers to attract a
potboy. Cyllan slid silently into the seat opposite and
waited while he ordered wine for them both, and a slice
of beef on black bread for himself. He didn't ask if
Cyllan was hungry. The wine and food were brought and
unceremoniously dumped on the table; the potboy gave
the well-to-do customer a withering look as he stalked
away.

'Now,' said the Margrave's son, 'let's deal with first
things first. Tell me your name.'

'Cyllan Anassan. Apprentice drover, from Kennet
Head on the Great Eastern Flatlands.' She introduced
herself in the customary formal way by placing her hand
palm down on the table.

He laid his over it, but very briefly. 'Drachea Rannak.
Heir Margrave of Shu Province, from Shu-Nhadek.'
And leaning back, he added. 'So tell me, Cyllan
Anassan, what brings you to be a drover, of all the
unlikely occupations for a female?'

Her story was brief and dreary; she told it in as few words
as possible, and he regarded her with curious interest.

'And yet you're a seer? I'd have thought the Sister-
hood would have been of more interest to you than
droving.'

She smiled thinly. In his world, a girl who wanted to
join the Sisterhood of Aeoris merely said so and it was

done, and she doubted if he could envisage matters any
other way.

'Let's just say that the - opportunity - eluded me,' she
replied. 'Besides, I doubt if I'm what the Sisters would
call a seer.'

Drachea pushed the slab of black bread around his plate
with distaste. 'Maybe so - but you should have pursued
it.' He looked up. 'As a matter of fact, were it not for my
position here in Shu I might well have thought along similar
lines and presented myself as a candidate for the Circle.'

'The Circle . . . ?' Her response was immediate and
her eyes narrowed. Drachea shrugged carelessly. 'As it
is, of course, such a thing isn't possible unless I were to
stand down in favour of my younger brother, and
there'd be all manner of complications.' He paused,
then: 'You've obviously travelled a great deal. Have you
ever seen the Star Peninsula?'

Cyllan was beginning to understand what lay behind
his fascination with arcane matters. 'Yes,' she told him.
'We were there last Summer, when the new High Initi-
ate was inaugurated.'

'You were?' Drachea leaned forward, his condescen-
sion abruptly forgotten. 'And did you see Keridil Toln in
person?'

'From a distance only. He came out of the Castle to
speak and give Aeoris's blessing to the crowd.'

'Gods!' Drachea took a mouthful of wine, hardly
noticing what he was doing. 'And to think that I missed
such an event! My parents made the journey, of course,
but I was ill with a fever and had to remain at home.' He
licked his lips. 'So you saw it all ... and did you cross
the causeway to the Castle itself?'

'Yes ... for a short while.'

'Aeoris!' Drachea made a sign before his heart to
show that he meant no disrespect to the highest of the
gods. 'It must have been the experience of a lifetime!
And what of the Initiates themselves? Doubtless you
saw some of them - but I don't imagine you actually met
any one of their number, did you?'

Cyllan's suspicions were at last confirmed. Drachea's

one burning ambition was to join the ranks of the Circle,
so that he could satisfy his craving and learn the truth
behind the secrets which obsessed him. And she knew,
too, why he was so determined that she should read his
future. He wanted to believe that his ambition would be
fulfilled, and her word as a seer would be enough to fuel
the fire inside him.

'Cyllan!' She was startled as he grasped her arm and
shook it. 'Listen to me! I said, did you meet any of the
Initiates?'

A discomforting juxtaposition of images flickered
through Cyllan's mind as she stared back. Drachea's
face, young, untrammelled, filled with a sense of his own
importance; and another face, gaunt, self-contained,
the eyes betraying knowledge and emotions far beyond
physical years ...

She said huskily, 'I met one man ... a high Adept.'

Then the Adepts don't keep themselves to them-
selves? I'd heard - ah, but rumours grow like weeds! I
must go there and see for myself. I would have done long
since, but it needs so much time!' He clenched his fists
together in frustration, then abruptly his expression
changed. 'Have you been back to the Peninsula since
those celebrations?'

'No. We spent a month in Empty Province and since
then have been making our way South.'

'Then you won't know the truth or otherwise of these
newest rumours that are being whispered.'

'New rumours?' Cyllan was alert. 'I've heard nothing.'

'No ... I doubt you would have. They began in West
High Land and Chaun, and now they're spreading here
as well. No one seems to know the facts, but they say,'
and Drachea paused for emphasis, 'that there's some-
thing wrong at the Castle. No word has been received
from anyone there for some while now, and no one
knows anyone who has visited the Castle from outside
since last Moon-conjunction.'

A peculiar sensation clutched at the pit of Cyllan's
stomach. She couldn't explain the feeling or put a name
to it; it was as if deep down within her some dormant,

animal sense was stirring. Keeping a tight rein on herself
she said again, 'I've heard nothing. What do people say
might be amiss?'

'That's just it - no one knows. There was a tale from
West High Land recently about some dangerous wrong-
doer apprehended at the Sisterhood Cot there, and
there's talk of a connection with events at the Castle, but
beyond that everything's speculation. It seems that the
Initiates have decided to shut themselves off altogether
from the rest of the world, but no one knows why.' He
clasped his hands together and frowned at them. 'I've
been looking for clues and omens, but can see nothing
that makes any sense. The only strange thing to have
happened here is an unusual number of Warps.'

Cyllan shivered involuntarily at his mention of the
word Warp. Every man, woman and child in the entire
land was justly terrified of the weird supernatural storms
that came wailing out of the North at unpredictable
intervals. No one had ever dared to face the pulsating
skies and demonic, shrieking voices of a Warp out in the
open - the brave or crazed few who had ever done so had
vanished without trace. Not even the wisest scholars
knew where the Warps came from or what drove them;
legend had it they were the last legacy of the forces of
Chaos, left behind when the followers of Aeoris swept
the Old Ones to destruction and restored the rule of
Order.

But whatever the power behind the Warps might be -
and it was something that sensible folk preferred not to
dwell on - Drachea was right when he said that the
incidence of Warps had been increasing of late. Only
five days ago, crossing the fertile plains that divided Shu
Province from Prospect, Kand Brialen's band had heard
the most dreaded sound in the entire world - the thin,
high wailing far away Northward that heralded the
approach of the storm. Cyllan had had nightmares since
then of the full-pelt ride to the nearest storm-haven -
one of the long, narrow sheds that had been built for the
safety of travellers along all the main drove roads, and of
the seemingly endless torment inside that precarious

shelter, lying with her face buried in her coat, blocking
her ears against the howling chaos outside while the
terrified livestock milled and bawled around her. It had
been the third such experience since they left Empty
Province . . .

Even Drachea's easy composure had been shaken by
the topic, and, aware that the atmosphere was growing
uncomfortable, he gestured to the flagon that stood
between them on the table.

'You haven't touched your wine.'

'Oh ... oh, yes; thank you.' Cyllan wasn't con-
centrating; she had shaken off the ugly recollection, but
a disturbance still remained. The animal instinct was
nagging at her again . . .

'As for this mystery at the Castle,' Drachea continued,
'it's my belief that the Initiates have their own reasons
which others might do well not to question. Although if,
when you read your stones, you should see an omen there
that might tell us something . . . ?' He looked at her
hopefully, and she shook her head with some vehemence.

'No! I wouldn't dare -I wouldn't presume to try to see
into such things. I'll read for you, Drachea - but I'll go
no further.'

He shrugged his careless shrug. 'Very well, then. Let's
not waste any more time - show me what the charlatan
could not!'

Cyllan felt in her belt-pouch and pulled out a handful
of small, smooth stones of varying shapes. Ideally, she
needed sand as a base on which to cast the pebbles, but
she had worked without it before and doubtless could do
so again.

Drachea leaned forward, staring intently at the stones
as though trying to divine something from them without
her help. And suddenly, as she gathered them in her
palm ready for the first cast, Cyllan stopped. Something
was tugging insistently at her mind, a warning, as clear as
if it had been spoken aloud in her ear.

Whatever happened, she must not read the stones for
Drachea Rannak!

'What is it?' Drachea's voice broke querulously in on

her, and she started violently, staring at him as though
she had never seen him before. 'Come now, Cyllan -
either you're a fortune-reader, or you're not! If you've
been wasting my time - '

'I haven't!' She rose unsteadily to her feet. 'But I can't
read for you, Drachea - I can't!'

He rose too, suddenly angry. 'Why not, in the name of
seven hells?'

'Because I dare not! Oh, gods, I can't explain; it's
a feeling, a fear - ' and suddenly the words were
out before she could stop them. 'Because I know in
my bones that something terrible is about to happen to
you!'

He was stunned. Very slowly, he sat down again, and
his face was ashen. ' You - know . . . ?'

She nodded. 'Please, don't ask me anything more. I
shouldn't have spoken - doubtless I'm wrong; I have no
real talent, and - '

'No.' She had been moving away from the table and
suddenly his hand shot out and gripped her arm pain-
fully. 'Sit down! If there's something afoot then by all
the gods you're going to tell me what it is!'

One or two of the tavern's other customers were
watching them by now, grinning with amusement and no
doubt putting their own interpretation on the argument.
Anxious not to draw further attention to herself, Cyllan
reluctantly sat.

'Now, tell me!' Drachea commanded.

The stones felt like hot coals in her hand. Reflexively,
she let them fall, and they scattered on the table in a
disturbingly explicit pattern. Drachea stared at them
and frowned. 'What does it mean?'

Cyllan, too, was looking at the stones and her heart
thumped. She didn't know this pattern, and yet it
seemed to speak to her, call to her. A faint tingling
sensation assailed the nape of her neck and she shivered.
'I - don't know -' she began to say, then gasped as an
image flashed across her mental vision, so quickly that
she could barely grasp it. A star with seven points,
radiating indescribable colours -

'No!' she heard herself hiss vehemently. 'I can't do it!
I won't!'

'Damn you, you will!' Drachea countered furiously.
'I'm not about to be made a fool of by some outland
peasant! Tell me what you see in those stones, or I'll
have you before my father for trying to hex me!'

The threat was real enough. Cyllan looked at the
stones once more, and suddenly their pattern crys-
tallised in her mind. She knew, with an unerring instinct,
what they meant - and Drachea's arguments had no
power to sway her.

Abruptly, she swept up the stones and deposited them
back in her pouch, rising to her feet again.

'You must do as you think fit,' she said quietly, and
turned to leave.

'Cyllan!' Drachea shouted after her, and when she
didn't hesitate she heard the scrape of wood on stone
and his footsteps coming after her. He caught up with
her just before she reached the door. 'Cyllan, what do
you think you're doing? I won't have this! You promised
to read for me, and - '

'Let me go!' She twisted free as he tried to catch her
arm and pull her back, but as she made for the tavern
entrance she collided with a tall, burly merchant-sailor
who was hastening in with his three companions.

'Look what you're doing!' the man snapped, pushing
her aside. She mumbled an apology and hurried on,
Drachea following, but the sailor called out again. 'Hey
- you two! Where in the name of all the devils of
darkness d'you think you're going?'

They stared uncomprehendingly at him, and he
jerked a thumb towards the door, where more people
were hurrying in. 'Haven't you got a quarter-gravine of
sense between you? There's a Warp coming! Whole
place is in an uproar - market day, and a whore-
spawned Warp decides to descend on us! As if storms in
Summerisle Straits weren't enough -' He stamped
irritably towards the counter, shouting for a drink.

Cyllan's face had drained to a grey pallor. At the
sailor's mention of the Warp she felt as if her stomach

had turned to ice inside her. A terrible fear had taken
hold of her reason and was growing with every moment
- she was safe in the tavern, but she didn't feel safe. And
if she had interpreted the stones' portent rightly -

Drachea, meanwhile, had moved to the door and was
looking out. Everywhere people were running for shel-
ter; somewhere a child wailed in fright. Beyond the
crowding roofs of the houses in this narrow street the sky
was no more than a thin band of brilliance, but already
the brilliance was clouding, tarnished with sickly
shadows that marched across the blue. And over the
noise of rushing feet and shouting voices came an eerie,
thin wailing, like a chorus of hellhound souls in torment.

'Gods!' Drachea stared at the fast-changing sky with a
morbid fascination. 'Cyllan, look! Look at it!'

Their quarrel was forgotten, and Cyllan was suddenly
afraid for his safety. 'Drachea, don't! she pleaded.
'Come in! It's dangerous!'

'Not yet, it isn't. We've a few minutes more before it'll
be on us. Look - ' and then in an instant his expression
changed and his voice with it, rising in incredulous hor-
ror. 'Oh, by Aeoris, look at that!'

He had caught hold of her, and dragged her forward
so that she faced the door. Outside the street was des-
erted and shutters were being slammed at all the win-
dows. Drachea was pointing down the length of the alley
to where it ran out into Shu-Nhadek harbour, and his
hand shook violently.

'Look!'

Cyllan looked, and blind terror overcame all reason.
At the end of the street a solitary figure stood like a
statue. Some shroud-like garment hid its frame, but the
cruel, fine-boned face was clear enough, and the halo of
gold hair, shot through with coruscating light. A dark,
misty aura shimmered around it, and even as she
watched it raised one long-fingered hand, and
beckoned.

She had seen that nightmare image before . . . Cyllan
tried to step back, away from the hypnotic figure and its
commanding hand, but couldn't move. Her will was

weakening; she was overcome by an insane desire to
step through the tavern door, out into the street, to obey
the summons. Beside her she heard Drachea whisper
'what is it?' in the voice of a terrified child, and she shook
her head, unable even to grope for an answer.

The figure beckoned again, and it was as if invisible
strings pulled at Cyllan's limbs. She fought the compul-
sion with all her strength, but her left foot slid forward,
propelling her . . .

'Cyllan, what are you doing?' Drachea cried out.
'Come back!'

She couldn't go back. The call was too strong, swamp-
ing fear and self-preservation. And from the grim appa-
rition's heart a ghastly light flickered to life and grew,
flowering into a harshly brilliant star that blotted out all
but the slowly beckoning hand.

'Cyllan!' Drachea's voice was a scream of protest as
she suddenly broke free and plunged forward, out of the
tavern. Not stopping to think, he raced after her - and
the shimmering apparition vanished.

Cyllan gave an animal shriek that echoed the length of
the alley, and skidded to a halt so that Drachea can-
noned into her. He shook her as though she was a rag
doll, yelling to make her understand.

'Cyllan, the Warp! It's coming! In the name of all
that's holy, move!' As he shouted the final words he spun
her round, meaning to drag her if necessary back to the
safety of the tavern before it was too late. He turned -

The wall of darkness hit them full on as it swept the
length of the street with the speed and ferocity of a tidal
wave. Drachea heard the voice of the Warp rise to a
howling crescendo of triumph, and glimpsed a
maelstrom of twisted forms and shapes that hurtled at
him out of nowhere. For an instant he felt Cyllan's hand
gripped in his own; then a hammer blow of agony
seemed to smash every bone in his body - and with it
came searing, white-hot oblivion.

Chapter 2

The shock of swallowing something that burned her
throat and lungs brought Cyllan violently back to con-
sciousness. She tried to scream, but choked as her
mouth and nose filled again with the burning stuff. For a
nightmarish moment she thought she was dead, plunged
into some green and black hell that roared in her ears
and through which her body twisted and turned help-
lessly - but then realisation struck her returning senses.
She was drowning!

With a savage self-preservation instinct she jack-
knifed her body and struck in the one direction from
which a faint light glimmered. If she had chosen
wrongly, she would be dead within minutes - but sec-
onds later her head broke clear of the water and she was
lifted on the swell of a black wave, spluttering and
gasping as she dragged air into her lungs.

She was in the sea - and it was night! The insanity of
the fact numbed her momentarily as she trod water,
struggling to stay afloat. Overhead the sky was a vast
bowl of darkness tinged with nacreous green, and around
her restless waves humped threateningly, monstrous sil-
houettes that tossed and carried her willy-nilly on their
swell. There was no land, no Moons - and no Warp.

Shocked and confused, she didn't see the breaker
until it bore down on her, plunging her underwater
again. Kicking out, she fought back to the surface. She
must rally her mind to survival, or she'd drown like a rat
in a bucket! But how could she survive? There was no
shore, no direction - she had been hurled somehow
through the Warp, thrown into this unimaginable night-
mare -

And then she heard a cry. It was faint, but not far
away, as though someone were calling from an invisible
safe haven. Cyllan turned, striking out in the direction
from which the sound had come and thankful for the salt
water which gave her buoyancy - and a moment later
she saw him.

He was clinging to a spar of wood and almost sub-
merged by the waves that battered him relentlessly.
Drachea! Memory of the last seconds before the Warp
struck surged back - he had been trying to pull her
towards the tavern; they had been hit together -

'Drachea!' Her voice was weak as she tried to cry out
to him, and he didn't hear. Saving her breath for swim-
ming she propelled herself towards him, aided by a wave
that rose on a cross-current and swept her almost to his
side. She caught him under the arms, holding him
against the pull of the sea, and instantly he panicked and
began to struggle.

'Drachea!' she screamed in his ear. 'It's Cyllan! We're
alive, we're alive!'

He took no notice, but continued to writhe in her grip,
hitting out at her with flailing hands. She had to stop
him, or he'd drown them both - reaching out, she
snatched the spar to which he'd been clinging. It was
waterlogged, but small enough for her to heft, and clum-
sily she brought it down on his skull. He slumped, and
Cyllan hauled with all her remaining strength as his body
began to slip beneath the waves.

Turning on to her back, she dragged Drachea's inert
form behind her and began to kick out. The water held
her up - but she couldn't sustain this struggle for long.
Like all Eastern coast-dwellers Cyllan had learned in
childhood to swim like a fish, but her strength was
ebbing fast; the water was ice cold, already numbing her
hands and feet, and with the added burden she could
make only painfully slow headway.

And if she found no landfall? a small voice whispered
in her head. What then?

Then she and Drachea would drown, as surely as the
Sun would rise tomorrow. She might increase her own

chances if she let him go and preserved all her energy for
herself - but she couldn't. It would be tantamount to
murder; she couldn't abandon him now.

She took a firmer grip on her limp burden and strug-
gled on, battling against the tide which, capriciously,
seemed to change the direction of its pull every few
moments, as though a dozen different currents battled
for supremacy. The roar of the sea was a ceaseless
dinning in her ears, wearing her down; the icy drag of the
water seemed to grow greater with every kick and her
limbs were slowly losing all sensation as the cold pene-
trated to her marrow. And soon the constant surge and
fade of the swell, as she tried to keep a rhythm to her
swimming, became dangerously hypnotic. Strange,
dreamlike images flowed across her inner vision, until
she thought she saw the prow of a boat looming out of
the darkness towards her; she raised one arm and
shouted, then her mouth and nostrils filled with stinging
salt water as, losing way, she slipped under. Instantly the
shock snatched her out of the dream, but it was all she
could do to drag Drachea's dead weight back to the
surface. She gulped air, sobbing with terror and relief in
equal measure, and when her streaming eyes cleared she
realised that there had been no boat, no salvation; only
the delusion of an exhausted mind.

She was weakening. The mirage had almost killed
her, and one more such mistake could be her last. And
still there were no white crests on the waves to tell her
she was nearing land; the vast, implacable ocean
stretched endlessly around her and she visualised a sud-
den, terrible image of herself and Drachea bobbing like
tiny, insignificant flotsam on a gigantic expanse of
nothing. She forced the thought away, knowing that if it
took hold it would sap the last of her will to survive. But
that will couldn't sustain her for much longer.

Without warning, a heavy black swell borne on a
vicious cross-current slapped her sideways, and this time
she couldn't regain her momentum. Drachea's body was
pulling her down, and her limbs were almost completely
numb. In an instant of hideous clarity Cyllan faced the

knowledge that she was defeated. She had tried but she
had no more resources of strength, and even without her
burden she'd no longer be capable of saving herself. The
hungry sea had won, as part of her had known it must.
She was going to die ...

And then, in a dazed corner of her mind, she remem-
bered the fanaani . . .

The chance was so slender that she almost abandoned
it. It would be better, surely it would be better, to give
herself up to the inevitable and let the cold, surging
depths take her now, rather than prolong the agony with
a hope that couldn't be fulfilled. But an echo of her
desire to survive still remained, enough to make her
failing senses fight back in a final, desperate attempt to
live. She struggled to focus her mind, rally her will,
feeble though it was.

Help me . . . The silent telepathic plea flowed from
deep within her. In the name of all the gods, please help
me ...

The sea surged around her, its booming voice mock-
ing her desperation. If her call went unheard, she'd be
dead within minutes . . .

Help me . . . please help me . . .

Suddenly she felt it - the first faint stirring of another
presence in her mind, a detached curiosity as to the
nature of this strange creature that struggled through the
water with its unconscious burden. Cyllan redoubled her
efforts to call, and the presence grew stronger, closing
in.

When she heard the first bittersweet harmony of the
fanaani's song she almost cried aloud with joy. The
silver notes echoed against the sea's roar, rising and
falling, calling to her, and a moment later she felt some-
thing sleek and alive brush by her legs.

The first one rose beside her, its blunt-nosed, catlike
face only inches away from her own. The limpid brown
eyes gazed sorrowfully into hers, and the fanaan- bigger
than she was, brindle-furred and almost phosphorescent
in the darkness - twitched its short whiskers and
whiffled, blowing fishy breath into her face. Then

another joined it, and from below she felt a third rising,
taking Drachea's weight on its back and supporting him.

Cyllan twisted in the water and clutched at the heavily
muscled shoulder of the sea-mammal beside her. The
fanaan lifted its head and called in a sweet, plaintive
voice, and the second creature moved in so that between
them they held her, bearing her up against the swelling
waves. She glimpsed Drachea being carried likewise
between two more, and her exhausted mind gave silent
and fervent thanks. Her last desperate plea had been
answered - these strange, rare, telepathic beings had
answered her call and, in their enigmatic way, had
chosen to help her. They had come from the gods alone
knew where, to aid an alien being in distress, and the
debt she owed was one that could never be adequately
repaid.

The first fanaan called again, and its companions
joined in the chillingly beautiful song. Exhaustion
washed over Cyllan as the creatures surged forward, and
the eldritch singing of her saviours tumbled into a
miasma of bizarre sea-dreams as she slid thankfully into
unconsciousness.

She woke, to find herself lying face-down on shingle.
The world was still again - in the background the sea still
beat and boomed relentlessly, but the rocking of the
cold tide had ceased. She had been brought to shore -
and the fanaani were gone.

Slowly, Cyllan pulled herself up until she was kneeling
on the hard shale. Water streamed from her hair and
clothes, and her limbs shivered involuntarily with the
saturating cold. It was still night - a white sea-mist
permeated the darkness and made phantoms out of the
jagged rocks that surrounded her. At her back, the
shingle sloped away to a dully roaring tideline, strewn
with jetsam that the sea had rejected. Before her -

Before her, a black granite wall rose sheer into the
sky, reflecting no light. The shore stretched dismally
away to either side, offering no sanctuary, and when she
struggled to focus her eyes upward she saw only the cliff,

towering beyond the boundaries of vision. The fanaani
had brought her to land - but a cruel, harsh land that
bore no resemblance to anything she knew.

Something moved nearby, rattling the shingle, and
Cyllan turned in shock. Five paces away, Drachea Ran-
nak sat with his back propped against the rock face. He
was staring at her, but his eyes were glazed and she was
sure he didn't recognise her. Shock . . . the ordeal had
proved too much for him . . . but at least he, too, lived.

Fighting the frozen aching in her marrow, Cyllan
crawled towards him. 'Drachea . . . Drachea, we're
alive . . . '

He continued to stare at her, looking like a puppet
whose strings had been abruptly cut. 'Alive . . . ' he
repeated.

'Yes, alive! The fanaani saved us - I called, and they
came, and . . . ' She shook her head, coughing. 'We're
alive.'

There was silence for a moment but for the ceaseless
noise of the sea. Then Drachea said dully, 'Where?'

'I don't know . . . ' His reason had warped, she was
certain. He was unable to face the reality of their peril
and something within him had snapped, and she only
hoped that he'd recover his wits before the cold over-
came them both. Rallying herself, she added more vehe-
mently, 'But wherever we are, Drachea, we're safe!
We've survived - isn't that what matters?'

'Who knows?' He smiled an oddly twisted smile with
no humour. 'Maybe we're dead, and this is the afterlife.
A shingle shore, an unending night, a cliff we can't
climb. Hell, Cyllan. Isn't that what you saw in your
stones? Isn't it?' Suddenly he lunged forward and
grasped her shoulders, shaking her violently. For a
moment she thought he would try to strangle her; then
abruptly his grip loosened and he turned away, pressing
his face against the cliff wall and curling up like a fright-
ened and defiant child.

'Go away,' he said indistinctly. 'If it wasn't for you, I'd
be safe at home in Shu-Nhadek! Go away, and leave me
alone!'

If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead! Cyllan thought
savagely, then quelled the thought as uncharitable and
unworthy. Perhaps he was right - but for her, this night-
mare would never have happened.

She remembered then, for the first time, the appari-
tion which had appeared as the Warp bore down on
them in Shu-Nhadek. The hand, beckoning - a shudder
racked her. That had been far more than a portent. And
the stones . . . instinctively she put a hand to her belt-
pouch and felt the familiar bulge of the pebbles there. So
she hadn't lost them . . . although she was beginning to
wonder if they were more of a curse than a blessing.

Drachea was still hiding his face, and Cyllan realised
that, if they were ever to escape from this hellish shore,
she would have to take charge. Danger and privation
were alien concepts to the son of the Margrave of Shu;
she was better equipped to save them, if there was
salvation to be found. Turning, she gazed out to sea. The
mist had deepened, it seemed, in the few minutes since
her rude awakening; beyond the first few lapping waves
at the shingle's edge she could see nothing. She shivered
with something besides cold. What lay beyond that
mist? Familiar, known land, or ... nothing? There
could be nowhere in the world so bleak, so barren, so
devoid of hope . . .

Nowhere, said a silent inner voice, but for one place

It surely wasn't possible . . . Cyllan struggled to her
feet as speculation threatened to flower into certainty,
and craned to look up at the towering cliff. Vertigo made
her feel sick; she quashed it determinedly and tried to
see to the top of the rock face, backing away down the
shingle slope until she was wading knee-deep in the sea.

There was an end to the monstrous granite. She could
glimpse a point where the rock abruptly cut off, and
from here the perspective of the shore had changed
enough for her to realise that the cliff was in fact a stack,
rising out of the surrounding ocean.

Her pulse quickened. If her suspicions were right,
then she should be able to see the narrow arch of the

causeway that connected this solitary stone pinnacle to
the mainland. Straining her eyes through the mist-
shrouded gloom, Cyllan stared . . .

Nothing. The fog was too dense, or she was wrong and
the nagging sense of familiarity which assailed her was a
delusion.

But whatever the truth of it, there had to be a way to
scale that daunting face. To stay on this shore would be
to give up, and, having survived this far, giving up was
something Cyllan couldn't bear to consider. There must
be a way - and perhaps with daylight to aid her, she
could find it.

Still unsure of herself, but a little heartened, she
trudged back to where Drachea lay. He seemed to have
fallen asleep - or lapsed back into unconsciousness -
and his skin was disturbingly cold to the touch. Cyllan
turned and began to look about her for something that
would provide warmth until dawn. Seaweed - it stank
abominably and was as wet as they were, but at least it
might protect them from the worst of the Winter night's
cold. Aware that her limbs were stiffening with fatigue
and chill, she started to gather great armfuls of the stuff
from where the sea had washed it, and soon had a pile of
green-brown strands which she heaped over Drachea's
still form. Then she lay down at his back, pressing close
against him so that their remaining body heat might not
be wasted, and, pulling some of the weed over herself,
closed her eyes.

Cyllan woke from a sleep racked with hideous night-
mares, aware that something was wrong. The blanket of
seaweed had done its work well enough, and some of the
cold had eased from her bones; but when she tried to
move, her body was so agonisingly stiff that it would
barely obey her. And something was wrong . . .

She raised her head, staring into the grey-green dark-
ness. Mist still hung like an impenetrable curtain only a
few paces away, and the sound of the sea seemed further
off than before, muffled by the dense fog. The tide had
gone out, leaving a newly washed expanse of shingle

gleaming dully at the edge of the mist, which meant that
she must have slept for some hours. Even in the
extremes of Winter, nights weren't eternal. The Sun
should have risen by now . . . but there was no trace of
the dawn.

An uneasy foreboding assailed Cyllan. There was no
place in the world where the Sun didn't rise; and yet the
night still held this shore fast. Everything felt too quiet,
too still - as if beyond the mist there was nothing but a
void . . .

Shivering, she turned back to where Drachea lay
beside her, and shook him. 'Drachea! Wake up!'

He stirred reluctantly, and from the way he swore at
her she realised that he believed himself in his bed at
Shu-Nhadek and berating a servant for disturbing him.
She shook him again.

'Drachea!'

Comprehension slowly dawned as Drachea opened
his eyes. 'Cyllan?' he mumbled, then became aware of
the damp shingle beneath him. 'Where are we?'

'I wish I knew!'

'What?'

'Never mind.' She hadn't the energy to spare for an
argument. 'Listen to me. I've explored as best I can, and
it seems that we're on an island. There's no link with the
mainland that I can find, so we have to seek a way of
climbing the cliff.'

Drachea struggled into a sitting position as clearer
thought took over from his weariness, and pushed at the
stinking heaps of seaweed that covered him. When he
answered, his voice was petulant.

'It's still the middle of the night! We're not going to
die in the time between now and dawn! And when the
Sun comes up, we'll be found! There must be people out
looking for me now - my parents will have raised the
alarm. So why should I waste my strength scaling a
thrice-damned cliff to no good purpose?'

Cyllan's mouth tightened angrily. Drachea, it
seemed, had no true concept of the predicament they
were in - accustomed to having his every wish granted,

he blithely assumed that rescue was imminent. And so it
might have been, were they still in the vicinity of Shu.
But Cyllan knew better . . .

She tried to make him understand. 'Drachea, listen to
me! The tide has gone out - that means we've been here
long enough for dawn to have broken, and yet it hasn't.'

He frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'I don't know - only that something's terribly wrong
here. And another thing - we're not in Shu Province, or
anywhere near it.'

He tried to protest at that. 'But - '

'Listen to me! Don't ask how I know - I do! I can feel
it, Drachea, as surely as I've ever felt anything!' She
paused, swallowing to catch her breath. 'If we're not to
rot and die here on this shore, we must find a way to the
top!'

Drachea stared at her, unwilling to acknowledge the
truth of her words. Then he said resentfully, 'I'm
hungry.'

Cyllan could have strangled him. He was wilfully
refusing to face harsh reality, and although part of her
pitied him — he had, after all, never known such straits in
his life before - another part felt only frustrated disgust.

Knowing that they could afford no more wasted time
she rose and paced to the foot of the sheer cliff, laying
her palms against the unyielding granite as though seek-
ing to divine a path upwards. Luck and determination
had brought them this far - unless the gods chose
capriciously to abandon them now, there must be an
answer. From behind her Drachea complained of stiff-
ness and pain, and Cyllan lost her temper.

Then move, damn you! Help me! I can't do every-
thing alone, and you expect me to carry you as though I
were your servant!'

Drachea stared back at her in angry consternation,
and Cyllan felt tears prick her eyes as the pent-up fear
within her threatened to break through to the surface.
She forced them back ferociously and took a grip on
herself. She couldn't afford to lose self-control - to
weaken now would bring disaster.

'Wherever we are,' she said, clenching her teeth to
stop them chattering, 'Shu Province is a world away.
And we've no food and no shelter. If we stay here we'll
die from cold or hunger or both.' She stared spec-
ulatively up at the forbidding mass of the cliff wall. 'We
have to find a way up.'

Drachea hugged himself, shivering. 'If you don't
know where we are, how can you be so sure that we
won't be rescued?' he argued sullenly.

'I can't be sure. But I'm not about to sit here and wait
until I'm too weak to look for an alternative.' Cyllan had
begun to trudge away from him; now she stopped and
looked back. 'I'm going to look for a path. What you
choose to do is your concern.'

He gave her a withering, venomous glare and turned
his back. She had walked two more paces when she
heard him sigh and mutter an imprecation under his
breath. Then, thrusting his pinched hands into the
pockets of his jacket, he moved stiffly across the crunch-
ing shingle to join her.

It was Drachea who finally found the worn steps, carved
unimaginable generations ago into the sheer rock, and
winding up into the night. Centuries of erosion had worn
them to a treacherous glass-like smoothness and their
steepness was daunting, but Cyllan believed that, with
good fortune on their side, they could make the climb
without mishap.

'It should be easier the higher we go,' she told
Drachea, privately praying that she was right. 'Beyond
where the sea can reach there should be less erosion and
our passage will be safer.'

He looked at the carved stairs dubiously. 'I can't
imagine who could have carved them, or why. And they
can't have been used in generations.'

'But they have been used - that's what counts. If
others have scaled them, so can we! And it means . . .'
She looked up at the vast stack toppling out of the night
towards them. 'It means that there must be something at
the top. Sanctuary, Drachea . . . '

He nodded, afraid but trying not to show it. They had
subsided into a slightly uneasy truce, submerging their
differences in the mutual need for survival, and now
Drachea gestured at the worn steps. 'You go first. I'm
more likely to catch you if you fall than you'd be to catch
me.'

The attempt at gallantry, gratifying though it was, was
misplaced as Cyllan soon discovered. Drachea's head
for heights was sound enough, but as they climbed the
treacherous steps it became evident that his strength was
rapidly deserting him. Shock, fatigue and hunger had
taken their toll, and Cyllan- who was a good deal fitter -
frequently had to pause to avoid leaving him far behind.
To her, the climb was difficult but not impossibly so; she
had taken equal risks in the past, scaling the giddying
cliffs of the West High Land coast in the hope of glimps-
ing the elusive fanaani, but with Drachea toiling pain-
fully behind her she forced herself to hold back an
instinct to climb faster, to reach the top of these terrible
stairs before her will or her energy gave out.

That, she thought, was the most daunting part of the
climb. By now they must be at least six hundred feet
above the sea, yet there was no sign of the vast cliff
coming to an end. When she once dared to look up, she
saw only the endless wall of granite rising beyond the
limits of vision, offering no hope of reprieve.

And when — if— they finally reached the summit, what
then? As the ascent continued, Cyllan had been acutely
aware of an unpleasant core of fear growing within her.
That same animal instinct which had assailed her in the
tavern at Shu, but greatly increased. Something awaited
them at the top of the cliff . . . and she was afraid to
discover what that something was.

But there was no other choice. Hundreds of feet
below lay a barren shore that offered no hope of rescue,
and even a dreaded unknown held a better prospect than
that. They must go on, and face whatever awaited them.

A fit of coughing from below halted her then, and she
looked cautiously back to see Drachea doubled over,
clutching at a precarious handhold. Cyllan slid carefully

back a pace or two and reached down to take his hand,
helping him over a place where the granite steps had
crumbled away. He bit his lip, holding his breath until he
was up with her, and slowly, painfully, they continued
on.

Eventually, the climb dissolved into a mesmeric, wak-
ing nightmare for Cyllan. Each upward step became a
torment of fierily aching muscles, each inch of progress a
small triumph in itself. She might have been climbing for
the whole of her life, Drachea struggling in her wake,
ever onward and up with no end in view. Sometimes she
almost laughed aloud at the bizarre nature of it all - the
unchanging rock, the unchanging sky, the unchanging,
mourning note of the wind that froze her hands and
threatened to prise her stiff fingers and toes away from
their insecure holds. How long had they been climbing?
Minutes? Hours? Days? The sky gave her no clue; still
the night hung over them with neither Moon tracking
across its arc to mark the passing of time. If this was
insanity, it was like nothing she had ever imagined
before ...

'Aeoris!'

The oath was out before she could stop it as, with no
warning, the cliff-face ended and she sprawled on to
soft, yielding turf. She had time for the shocking image
of what confronted her to register in her brain before,
remembering Drachea, she had turned and was reaching
down to help him scramble the last few steps to safety.
They lay gasping on the ground, the world seeming to
swing giddily around them as both struggled for breath,
and Cyllan thought she heard Drachea murmuring what
sounded like a fervent prayer of thanksgiving through
dry lips. At last, when she had strength enough, she
roused him by taking his arm, and pointed, unable to
speak.

No more than a hundred paces away, the castle rose
out of the ground as though it had grown from the living
rock. Blacker than anything Cyllan could imagine, it
towered into the night, dominated by four titanic spires
which reached skyward like accusing fingers, and it

seemed to absorb what little light fell on it, swallowing
and crushing it. Above the sharply defined battlements,
a crimson glow tinged the air as though within the
castle's precincts some vast fire burned sullenly but
steadily. And although the monstrous structure seemed
changed beyond recognition, Cyllan knew it ...

Drachea's hands clawed reflexively at the turf. 'What
... is that place?' he whispered.

Cyllan felt her pulse pounding suffocatingly in her
throat, so that speaking was a great effort.

'You said that you wanted to visit the stronghold of
the Circle,' she whispered harshly. 'Your wish has been
granted, Drachea. That is the Castle of the Star
Peninsula!'

Drachea didn't reply. He was staring at the Castle,
seemingly unable to credit the sight that confronted him.
At last he managed to form words.

'I didn't imagine . . . none of the stories said . . .
that it would be like this!'

A shiver racked Cyllan, and the fear redoubled. 'It
isn't,' she murmured. 'Or at least ... it wasn't when I
saw it. Something's wrong . . . '

'The rumours - ' Drachea began.

'Yes ... if the Initiates have shut themselves away -
then how is it that we've broken through the barrier?'

Unsteadily, Drachea rose to his feet. He still watched
the distant Castle, as though fearing that if he dared to
look away for a moment it would vanish. 'We must find
out,' he said.

She didn't want to go near it ... she was suddenly
desperately afraid. But Drachea's reasoning couldn't be
argued with. If they crossed the causeway, there was
nothing but the Northern mountains for leagues. Two
exhausted and hungry souls couldn't hope to survive the
road through the pass in Winter. And even when she
looked to where the causeway should have been, Cyllan
could see nothing. Only the mist, hanging like a curtain,
as though to mark an impassable barrier between
the real world and this world of nightmare and
illusion.

She got to her feet, disturbed by the thought, and
moved closer to Drachea. He glanced at her and
attempted to smile. 'We go forward., or we stay here,' he
said. 'Which is it to be?'

'Forward . . . ' The word formed on her lips almost
without her realising it.

Slowly they began to walk towards the Castle that
towered to meet them. Here even the wind was stilled,
and the silence was eerie. As they approached the mas-
sive entrance, Cyllan realised that there was no sign of
life in the Castle. The great gates were shut, and the dull
crimson radiance from within remained unchanging.
The place seemed deserted . . .

And how, she asked herself again, had they penetrated
the barrier that held the Castle aloof? How had they
broken through the Maze?

'Drachea - ' She clutched his arm and pulled, abruptly
attacked by an unhealthy doubt. 'Drachea, something's
terribly amiss . . . '

It was a feeble repetition of her old fear, but she could
find no clearer way to give voice to her misgivings.
Drachea, however, was not to be daunted. He shook her
off irritably and began to walk faster, almost running
down the final slope of the sward that brought him to the
Castle entrance. Cyllan followed, and caught up with
him as he pushed vainly at the huge gates.

'Locked!' Drachea swung breathlessly round, leaning
his back against the gates and pushing, but to no avail.
'Damn them! I've not come through so much to be
thwarted now!'

'Drachea, no!' Cyllan protested, but it was too late.
He had turned to face the entrance once more, and
hammered ferociously with clenched fists on the wood of
the gates, shouting in near-hysterical fury.

'Open! Open, damn you all! Let us in!'

For a moment nothing happened. Then - as much to
Drachea's astonishment as Cyllan's - the massive gates
creaked. Something clicked with a hollow, echoing
sound . . . and slowly, slowly, the huge wooden
structures swung slowly inward, silently and smoothly,

spilling out a gloomy blood-red radiance that stained the
sward.

'Gods!' Drachea stepped back, staring with a mixture
of awe and chagrin at the sight which the slowly swinging
gates had revealed. Before them, framed by a dense
black arch, lay the Castle courtyard, and they both took
in the scene with disturbed amazement.

The great courtyard was empty, and as silent as the
grave. In the centre, reflecting the desolation, stood a
derelict and dry fountain, its carved statues leering
frozenly at them. The nightmarish crimson light which
had shone above the black walls was greatly magnified
here, but seemed to have no source; it simply existed,
with no visible origin, and when Cyllan glanced uneasily
at Drachea she saw that his skin was tinged a bloody hue
by the glow.

Softly, he whistled between his teeth, and Cyllan
shivered. 'It feels - dead. Empty. As if there was no
living soul here . . . '

'Yes . . . ' Cautiously, Drachea stepped forward,
moving under the silent black arch until he emerged into
the courtyard with Cyllan at his heels. He breathed
in deeply. 'There can be no doubt? This is the
Castle . . . ?'

'Oh, yes. There can be no doubt of it.'

He nodded. 'Then the Initiates must be here. And
whatever their purpose in sealing themselves off from
the rest of the world, they surely can't deny us sanctuary
now!' Eagerly he started across the deserted courtyard,
but not before Cyllan had seen the flash of almost fever-
ish anticipation in his eyes. Drachea had forgotten the
Warp, the sea, the grim shore at the foot of the Castle
stack- all that mattered to him now was the fact that fate
had brought him to the stronghold of the Circle. Why
and how he had come meant nothing- the old, obsessive
ambition to be a part of that revered and select few had
eclipsed all other considerations.

He had already outpaced Cyllan, heading towards a
flight of wide, shallow steps that led to an open set of
double doors. She hastened after him, afraid of being

left alone in this grim and disturbing place, and came up
with him as he began to climb the flight.

'Drachea, please wait!' she pleaded. 'We can't simply
walk in; there may be reasons - '

He interrupted her, dismissing her doubts impa-
tiently. 'What would you prefer- that we should stay out
here in the courtyard until someone finds us? Don't be a
fool - there's nothing to be afraid of!'

But there is, an inner voice protested. Still she couldn't
shake off the foreboding - it was growing by the minute
and she had to fight down a desire to turn and run back
towards the gates and the seeming safety of the cliff-top.
Quickly she looked over her shoulder - and with a
sinking sensation realised that any attempt at flight
would avail her nothing.

Whatever silent, secret force had opened the gates to
admit them to the Castle had now closed them again.
They were trapped, like flies in a spider's web . .

Cyllan felt sick. She didn't want to venture through
the doorway into the Castle, but Drachea wouldn't lis-
ten to her. He meant to investigate further whether she
willed it or no - she could follow him, or remain here
with only the dead, grinning gargoyles of the stilled
fountain for company . . .

Turning back, she saw that Drachea had already
crossed the threshold of the doorway, and was standing
in a corridor. The crimson light permeated even here,
like a distant hellfire, and its glow made him look un-
human. He glanced back, and snapped, 'Are you
coming? Or must I seek out the Initiates alone?'

Cyllan didn't answer, but with a pounding heart
hastened to join him, feeling as though she were choos-
ing the lesser of two tangible evils. Slowly they advanced
into the Castle, their footfalls echoing eerily in the pro-
found silence. Still nothing moved, no one emerged to
welcome or castigate them . . . and then Drachea
stopped at another heavy door which stood partly open.

'A hall, or some such . . .' He touched the door and it
swung back easily to admit them to a huge and lofty hall.
Long, scrubbed tables stretched the length of the great

room, and at the far end a vast, empty hearth gaped,
polished copper fire-irons gleaming bloodily in the
strange light. Above the massive mantel was a
balustraded gallery, all but invisible in shadow, with
heavy curtains hanging motionless to either side. The
place was as empty and lifeless as the courtyard had
been.

This must be where the Adepts dine . . . ' Drachea
said softly, and Cyllan echoed his following, unspoken
thought.

'But there's no one here ...'

A sound, so faint it might have been imagination,
flickered at the borders of awareness and was gone. A
woman's distant laughter . . . Drachea paled. 'Did you
hear - '

'Yes, I heard. But there's no one here!'

'There must be - the Castle of the Star Peninsula,
abandoned and empty? It isn't possible!'

Cyllan shook her head, trying to quell the nagging
little inner voice which still assailed her, and which
now asked, do you believe in ghosts . . . ? Drachea's
steps seemed obscenely loud as he approached the near-
est of the tables and laid his hands on it. This is real
enough,' he said quietly. 'Unless I'm dreaming, or dead,
I-'

And he stopped as they both heard the unmistakable
sound of a footfall in the gallery.

For a moment they stared transfixed at the shadowed
platform above the empty hearth. The curtains didn't
move, and as the small sound died there was no further
sign of life. But Drachea's face was suddenly
triumphant.

'You see!' he hissed. 'We're not alone - and I'm not
dreaming! The Initiates are here, and they're aware of
our presence!' He drew himself up, placing one palm to
the opposite shoulder in a formal gesture, and called out
loudly, 'Greetings to you! I am Drachea Rannak, Heir
Margrave of Shu Province! Kindly show yourself!'

Silence answered him. No further footfall, no move-
ment. Cyllan's skin began to crawl and she moved to

Drachea's side. The young man was frowning, non-
plussed, and cleared his throat.

'I said, kindly reveal yourself! We are wet and
exhausted, and we demand the hospitality due to any
tired traveller! Damn it, is this the Castle of the Star
Peninsula, or - '

'Drachea!' Cyllan cut in, clutching at him.

He saw it a moment after her quicker senses had
discerned the first movement. A shadow, which
detached itself from the deeper darkness in the
gallery, moved swiftly to the head of the staircase that
spiralled down into the dining-hall, and began to
descend.

Drachea stepped back, bravado deserting him in the
face of such a manifestation. The figure - for now it was
discernible as human - reached the hall floor and stop-
ped. Cyllan was horribly aware of its cold, impassive
scrutiny, but it was still too deeply immersed in shadow
for any feature to be visible. But whoever- whatever- it
was, its appearance conjured an uneasy sense of
recognition.

A hand, white and thin, flicked impatiently at the
darkness surrounding the apparition, and something
black shifted and rippled. Cyllan realised that the figure
was wearing a dark, high-collared cloak which swept the
ground at its feet. Then a voice, with an edge to it that
made her shiver, snapped harshly,

'How in the name of the Seven Hells did you break
through the barrier?'

Drachea backed away, shocked by the venom in the
figure's tone. But Cyllan stood rooted by a memory that
crowded back into her mind, a memory which she had
been striving to blot out. Her eyes widened as the tall,
dark man moved and for the first time the crimson glow
fell on him, illuminating his features.

He had changed - gods, how he had changed! The
flesh of his face was cadaverous, the bone-structure
jagged and skeletal. But the unruly black hair that cas-
caded over his shoulders was the same, and the dark-
lashed green eyes still held their haunted intensity -

though now they glittered with a cruel understanding
that was far beyond her comprehension. He seemed
more of a demon incarnate than a living man . . . but
she knew him. And the momentary spark of recognition
that flared in his look confirmed her certainty.
Cyllan said unsteadily, 'Tarod ...'

Chapter 3

Tarod stared at the two bedraggled creatures who stood
before him, the first human beings he had seen in - he
mentally checked himself, distantly amused by the fact
that a part of his mind still insisted on thinking in terms
of time. That girl - memory stirred at the sight of her
pale hair and the odd amber eyes, and a name came to
his mind. He had forgotten her - but against all pos-
sibility she was here in the Castle, where no foot save his
own had walked since Keridil Toln's attempt to destroy
him.

The shock had caught him off guard, but now he was
rallying his composure - although it took considerable
effort in the face of what had happened. No human
being should be capable of breaking through the barrier
which held this Castle frozen in a Timeless limbo. His
own power, great as it was, couldn't penetrate the form-
less, dimensionless yet appallingly real warp of time and
space that had trapped him here in his last, desperate
effort to save his life and his soul; and whatever her
psychic talents, Cyllan was no true sorceress. Yet she
was here, as real as he was . . .

He stepped forward, the movement implying a threat
that made Drachea back away, and his cold stare flicked
from one to the other. 'How did you break the barrier?'
he demanded again. 'How did you reach the Castle?'

Drachea, his confidence sapped, swallowed and made
an attempt at a formal bow. 'Sir, I am Drachea Rannak,
Heir Margrave of Shu Province,' he said, trying to wield
the rank as a defensive weapon. 'We have been the
victims of a bizarre accident which - '

'I'm not interested in your name, your title or your

circumstances!' Tarod snapped. 'Answer my question -
how did you get here?'

Stunned by the fact that any man, whatever his rank,
should dare to treat a Margrave's son with such open
contempt, Drachea opened his mouth to make a furious
retort. But before he could speak, Cyllan said quickly,
'We came from the sea.'

Tarod turned to stare at her and she looked back, not
flinching. She was afraid of him, bewildered by the
shocking changes which he seemed to have undergone,
and aware that to anger him could be dangerous; but she
wouldn't give ground. And abruptly some of the pecu-
liar light faded from Tarod's eyes.

'From the sea?' he repeated with a gentler curiosity.

Cyllan nodded. 'It was the Warp - we were in Shu-
Nhadek . . . ' She faltered, realising how impossible the
story must sound even to an Initiate, and before she
could stumble on Tarod forestalled her by reaching out
and taking a strand of her hair. He squeezed it between
his fingers; it felt stiff and sticky with salt, and the strands
refused to separate.

'You're barely dried.' A small spark of charity was
fighting its way through the mixture of shock, suspicion
and the glimmerings of an uneasy understanding in his
mind. A Warp . . . his own horrific experience as a
child, which had brought him into the Castle's embrace
in the first place, came sharply to memory. He, too, had
survived a Warp, only to find that it had transported him
halfway across the world. It was possible, surely it was
possible, that if the Warps could transcend space they
could also transcend time?

Suddenly, he demanded, 'What season is it?'

'Season . . . ?' Cyllan was nonplussed. 'Why- almost
Spring. The Quarter-Day is in fifteen days from now.'

Winter had yet to take full hold when the changes had
taken place here . . . had years passed beyond the time-
barrier, or merely weeks? Tarod had no chance to spec-
ulate, for Drachea abruptly spoke up.

'Sir, I must protest! We've arrived here through no
fault of our own; we are exhausted; damn it, we're lucky

to be alive! We ask the simple courtesies due to anyone
in distress, and you seem to consider it more important
to establish the season! Surely the weather beyond these
walls is quite sufficient to -

He stopped as Tarod looked at him with con-
temptuous hostility. Whatever he might be - Initiate or
no - the man was insane; there could be no other expla-
nation. And the thought of what an insane Adept might
be capable of was daunting. Drachea swallowed and
went on, trying to sound calm but uncomfortably aware
of the tremor in his voice. 'I mean no offence - but if I
might be granted an interview with the High Initiate - '

Tarod's answering smile was faintly ironic. 'I'm afraid
that's impossible. The High Initiate isn't here.'

Then whoever is in charge in his stead - ' Drachea
persisted.

Tarod had taken an immediate dislike to the self-
important youth, and the prospect of trying to explain
the truth to him was one he didn't relish. Even Cyllan,
with her broader perceptions, would find the facts hard
to accept.

'There is no one "in charge", as you put it,' he told
Drachea. 'And this isn't the moment for explanations.
You've both suffered an ordeal, and your needs have
been neglected - as you took pains to point out. Before
anything else is considered, you should bath and rest.'

'Well. . .' Drachea was mollified. 'I'd be grateful for
that! If there are servants to spare - '

Tarod shook his head. 'There are no servants, not
now. I'm afraid you must make do with what I can offer.'
And, seeing that the young man still didn't comprehend,
he added, 'There is no one else in the Castle.'

Drachea was stunned. 'But - '

'You'll have the answers you want soon enough,'
Tarod said in a voice that brooked no argument. He
waited until Drachea subsided, then gestured towards
the far end of the hall. 'The Castle's facilities are this
way. Follow me.'

Cyllan tried to catch his eye as he led them across the
room, but failed. She fell into step beside Drachea, her

thoughts whirling. From two brief meetings she could
hardly say that she knew the black-haired Adept well,
but an unerring intuition told her that he had changed in
far more ways than mere physical appearance indicated
- and that was to say nothing of the changes which had
apparently taken place at the Castle itself.

Where were the Circle Initiates? What had happened to
this community? Questions crowded her brain, and even
her wildest flights of imagination provided no answers
that made any sense. She glanced at Drachea, saw his
tense, troubled expression, and surreptitiously tucked
her hand into his. It was something she would never
have had the temerity to do under normal circum-
stances, but these circumstances were very far from
normal. Drachea, rather than being offended, seemed
to take comfort from the small contact, and squeezed
her fingers in an attempt at reassurance.

Tarod led them through silent corridors that echoed
hollowly to the sound of their feet. The Castle's North
wing was largely devoted to both private and communal
living accommodation, but there wasn't the smallest sign
of life in any of the passages or rooms. No voices carried
on the still air, no one emerged from a doorway to hurry
by on some errand. The entire Castle was eerily, fright-
eningly dead.

At last their route took them down a flight of steep
stairs that descended into the Castle's foundations. A
pale glimmer showed from below, and they emerged
suddenly on to a broad shelf overlooking a network of
artificial pools. Cubicles had been constructed to
provide privacy, and the entire chamber was faintly lit
by softly shimmering reflections from the water.

Tarod turned to them and smiled slightly. 'Not as
sophisticated as the baths of Shu Province, I'll grant, but
you'll find the water warm and refreshing. When you've
done, I will be in the dining-hall.'

Drachea glanced swiftly at Cyllan, then gave Tarod a
curt nod and hastened away along the shelf towards one of
the further cubicles, as though anxious to put as great a
distance between himself and his host as possible.

Cyllan gazed at the glass-smooth surface of the water,
only now fully aware of how exhausted she was in the
wake of her ordeal. The thought of being clean, of being
able to sleep on something other than shingle or granite,
made her want to pinch herself to be sure she wasn't
dreaming. She made to strip off her wet and dirty
clothes, then stopped as she realised that Tarod hadn't
moved, but was still standing behind her.

Slowly she turned to face him. Drachea was by now
out of earshot, and there were a hundred questions she
wanted to ask. But her nerve failed her, for although the
tall Adept was watching her she had the discomfiting
feeling that his thoughts were an unimaginable distance
away. She shivered, and the movement caught his atten-
tion, seeming to bring him back to reality. He said:

'I'm sorry, Cyllan - I delay you.'

'You remember my name . . . ' She was surprised,
and irrationally gratified; it was the first time he had
addressed her personally.

He smiled. 'My memory hasn't failed me yet. And you
- you recognised me. I was flattered.'

She flushed, sensing irony and not wanting to guess at
the reason for it. 'I'm sorry.'

'Sorry? For what?'

'For intervening in something that isn't our concern. I
realise we're not welcome here; that our arrival has been
. . . inopportune. We won't impose on you longer than
necessary.'

'Your friend Drachea might not be so obliging.'

She looked up quickly, almost angrily. 'He's not my
friend.'

'A Margrave's son doesn't associate with a drover-girl
from choice, is that it?' He saw her face cloud, and
realised with faint surprise that she was stung by his
words. The slight had been intended against Drachea,
and to take the edge from the remark he added, 'Then
he must be even more of a fool than he seems.'

Some of the hurt faded, but Cyllan was still defensive.
'We'll go as soon as we can,' she said. 'When we've
rested.'

'Ah. As to that ...' Tarod sighed. 'I can't explain
fully, Cyllan; not here and now.' His mouth twisted
briefly as if his own words had reminded him of some
private and none too pleasant joke. 'But there's one fact
that in all conscience I can't keep from you.' In all
conscience? He had almost forgotten what conscience
meant . . . 'Now that you have come here,' he con-
tinued, 'you can't leave.'

She stared at him, not comprehending. 'Can't? But -'

'I mean that it isn't possible. You are, effectively,
trapped here, and even I haven't the power to change
matters. I'm sorry.' The last words were chilly, and
Cyllan felt herself turn cold inside as the animal forebod-
ing she had felt before awoke yet again. Something
wrong ... so hideously wrong that it was beyond her
understanding . . .

Mustering all her courage, she spoke with slow delib-
eration. 'Tarod - if what you're saying is true, then
something terrible must have happened here.' Intuition
made the nape of her neck tingle, and she knew that, as
happened on rare occasions, it was guiding her surely.
'Something has happened to you,' she stated.

Tarod knew that she implied far more than she was
saying. For an instant his gaze filled with such venom
that she recoiled. Then he took a grip on himself, and
shook his head. 'You're too perceptive for your own
good, girl. But if you're wise, you'll make no more
presumptions. Whatever answers you think you've
found, they're less than the truth!' Abruptly he turned
away, and with that movement an invisible but tangible
barrier seemed to descend between them.

'You'll find robes on a rack at the end of the shelf,' he
said coldly. 'Make use of anything you please.'

She tried to call after him as he walked away, but the
words died on her tongue. His footsteps echoed from the
cavern roof, and the last she saw of him was a black
shadow that moments later was swallowed by the dark-
ness on the stairs.

She didn't understand. For a few brief moments
the impassive mask had relaxed a little; then he had

deliberately and almost contemptuously withdrawn,
shutting her off as though she were beneath his
notice.

Which perhaps she was . . . slowly, Cyllan peeled off
her salt-stiffened shirt and trousers, and sat down on the
edge of the shelf to let her legs dangle in the water. It was
surprisingly warm, bringing a stinging, fiery ache to her
bruised and lacerated feet, and she let herself gently
down into the quiet depths until she was immersed to her
shoulders. Her own face, pinched and pale, stared sol-
emnly back from the mirror-like surface of the pool, and
not so much as a single ripple spread out to break the
calm.

She had to forget, as best she could, the confusion and
fear that were trying to eat at her. She was too tired for
coherent thought; Tarod's strangeness and the mystery
surrounding the Castle were too much for her exhausted
mind. She craved sleep, craved the relative sanity of a
new day. Then, and only then, could she begin to take
stock of the predicament she was in, and try as best she
could to find the answers to her questions.

The water was a soothing balm to aching muscles.
Cyllan took a breath, then ducked under the smooth
surface, letting the warmth of the pool suffuse through
flesh and bone to bring its own form of comfort.

She was lying not on familiar hard ground, but in a bed.
Her head was cradled by pillows, softer than anything
she'd ever experienced . . . Cyllan emerged from a
chasm of sleep, and at first thought she must be dream-
ing one of the hurtful and unfulfillable dreams of
another, better life which often plagued her in her tent.
Then, gradually, memory returned . . .

She had found the rack of bathing-robes when she
emerged from the pool, and had found Drachea, who
was waiting for her, wrapped in a similar garment sev-
eral sizes too large for him. His eyes were haunted and
he had tried to launch into a flood of questions, protests,
arguments; but sheer fatigue had the better of them
both, and they lapsed into silence.

Ascending the stairs seemed more arduous than the
long toil up the face of the stack. Twice Drachea faltered
and might have slumped and slept where he stood, but
for Cyllan's hand which gripped his and urged him on.
She herself felt sick and feverish with exhaustion, and
her perceptions sank into a nightmarish miasma, cloud-
ing awareness. She vaguely remembered seeing Tarod
again - in her confusion he seemed to have taken on the
air of some dusty and foreboding spirit rather than a
living man - and she recalled pleading to be allowed to
sleep. A hand had touched her forehead - Tarod's or
Drachea's, she didn't know - then there were blurred
recollections of more stairs, a long corridor, a door
which seemed to open without a hand to touch it, and a
high-ceilinged room furnished with dark draperies. She
felt a surface that yielded beneath her, then sweet obliv-
ion claimed her consciousness.

Now though, the tiredness had washed away, and as
she opened her amber eyes she was instantly alert. The
bed in which she lay occupied one corner of the room,
and the gory light from the courtyard, filtering
through the one window, cast a dim, blood-red sheen
over the shadowed furnishings. The room's grim un-
familiarity put Cyllan on guard in spite of her physical
comfort - that, and an instinct which told her she wasn't
alone . . .

Very cautiously she turned her head - then uttered a
sigh of relief as she saw Drachea, half hidden by shadow,
sitting on the window-ledge.

'Cyllan . . . ?' He rose and came hesitantly towards
her, and she saw that he had exchanged the robe for a
shirt, jacket and trousers which weren't his own. 'I've
been waiting for you to wake.'

She sat up, shaking off the last remnants of sleep, and
looked quickly around, fearing that other presences
stood silent and invisible in the bedchamber. Her senses
discerned nothing untoward . . .

'Here,' Drachea said, dropping a shapeless bundle on
the bed. 'I found a chest with all manner of garments in
it. I brought these for you.'

'Thank you . . .' Wondering at his disregard for what
was, after all, a theft of someone else's property, she
none the less shook the clothes out and fingered the
material. Wool - and fine wool at that; a world away
from the rough fabrics she was used to. But they had still
been designed for a man . . .

Cyllan pushed down a small and foolish sense of
insult, and looked at Drachea again. 'How long have I
slept?' she asked, not quite knowing why she felt the
need to whisper.

Drachea scowled. 'As well ask the High Margrave as
ask me - I can barely remember anything since I emer-
ged from those damned baths! I woke some while ago
and came to find you. I couldn't make you stir, so I
waited.' He glanced over his shoulder towards the heav-
ily curtained window, and shivered. 'And the gods alone
know how long I've been sitting here. We must have
slept for hours, but - I looked outside just now. There's
still not the smallest glimmer of light in the sky. Just as
before; no sign of the dawn. It's as though the whole
world has stopped.'

Cyllan looked in the direction of the window again.
The peculiar crimson hellfire still hung beyond the glass,
but there was no paler hint of daylight to redeem it.

Drachea shivered, and helped himself to one of the
blankets from Cyllan's bed. The room wasn't cold, but
he felt the need of it to stave off an inner chill. 'And as
for our host, or whatever he chooses to style himself - '
Suddenly his voice sharpened. 'You recognised him,
didn't you? And he knew your name. Who is he?'

His tone verged on the accusing, and Cyllan won-
dered if, in a dark recess of his imagination, Drachea
suspected her of being involved in some complex plot of
which he was the victim.

'His name is Tarod,' she said. 'He's the Initiate I met
. . . when I was here before.'

'An Initiate . . . What's his status?'

'I don't know. I hardly know him, Drachea! All I
remember is that he's a high Adept; seventh rank, I
believe.'

Drachea was taken aback. 'That's the highest of all!'
Chagrined, he remembered his own attempt to treat the
Adept with disdain, and the memory made him break
out into a cold sweat. If the half of what he had heard
about the Circle was true, the man could have destroyed
him with little more than a look. 'But - where are the
rest of the Circle?' he demanded. 'All the other Castle
inhabitants?'

'I don't know, any more than you! Gods, Drachea, all
I do know - sense - is that something's terribly wrong! I
felt it when we arrived, I tried to tell you then, but you
were so intent on gaining entrance to the Castle - '

'And what would you have preferred to do? Sit out-
side on the stack like some importunate beggar, and wait
for the wind to strip the skin from your bones? Damn
you, if- ' And Drachea abruptly took a grip on himself,
realising that he had been leaning over her as though
about to strike out in angry frustration. His face
coloured. 'I'm sorry,' he said with an effort. 'We shoul-
dn't quarrel. It only makes matters worse.' He sat down
on the end of the bed. 'Besides, our circumstances
hardly give us cause for alarm. We're safe from the sea,
sheltered, rested. There's sure to be an explanation for
the Castle's desertion - and it can be no great distance to
the nearest village. From there I can despatch a mes-
senger to Shu-Nhadek - ' The smile that had spread
across his face abruptly died as he saw Cyllan's stricken
expression. 'What is it?' he demanded. 'What's wrong?'

Tarod told me - ' She couldn't finish.

Suspicion filled Drachea's eyes, and behind it lay a
dawning premonition. 'What did he tell you?'

She couldn't hide it from him. If she didn't tell him
now, Tarod soon would. 'We can't leave the Castle,' she
said quietly.

'What?'

Afraid that this time he would be unable to control his
temper, she went on hastily. 'Drachea, please don't ask
me to explain, because I can't. I know only what Tarod
told me - that it's impossible for us to leave. He said . . .
we are trapped.'

Silence hung as sharp as a knife blade in the room,
until Drachea explosively broke it.

'Damn him!' He hurled himself off the bed, paced the
floor like a caged cat. This is insane! The Castle of the Star
Peninsula - the Circle's own stronghold - empty; one
Adept who claims that we're prisoners here - it's insane!'

Cyllan was on the verge of tears; a state that had been
rare throughout her harsh life. She could understand
Drachea's fury, but the instinct which had guided her
with such alarming clarity thus far told her that no
amount of ranting and raving would alter their predica-
ment. And although she couldn't begin to comprehend
the truth behind Tarod's cold revelation, she didn't
doubt for a moment that it was true.

Drachea came to rest at last with his hands pressed flat
against the door. He was breathing heavily, trying to
control his anger.

'Where is he?' he said through clenched teeth. 'Adept
or no, I'll have this out, and now! He can't treat an Heir
Margrave in this careless fashion - there must be
searchers looking for me, my parents will be wild with
distress! He can't do it!' He thumped his fists impotently
against the unyielding wood, then a little of the rage
drained from him and he turned to look searingly at
Cyllan.

'Come with me or stay as you please - I'm going to
find your Initiate friend and remind him of his
responsibilities!'

Despair flooded Cyllan. Drachea was reacting like a
thwarted child, and in his current mood she shuddered
at the thought of the conflict that might ensue. But,
remembering Tarod's distant coldness, she reminded
herself that, petulant or no, the Margrave's son was her
only sure ally.

She slid from the bed, reached for the clothes Drachea
had brought her, and hastily began to dress.

Finding Tarod proved to be less easy than they had
anticipated. Drachea strode through the empty, echoing
corridors of the Castle, stopping to fling open doors,

twice shouting furiously in his frustration, but there was
no answering footstep, no sign of movement. Cyllan
caught up and followed him, trying to ignore the leaden
weight that seemed to have settled in her stomach. Her
unease was increasing with each moment, and she was
torn between hoping that Tarod would choose to show
himself before Drachea's frail hold on his temper finally
snapped, and dreading what might happen once the two
met face to face.

And last they found themselves at the double doors
which led down the wide, sweeping steps into the court-
yard. Cyllan stared at the dead scene before them, the
relentless black walls tinged with a gory crimson cast
from the unnatural glow that permeated everywhere -
then a flicker of motion at the edge of vision alerted her.

Tarod's tall figure emerged from a doorway set into
the foot of the Castle's Northernmost spire. Instinctively
Cyllan looked up to where the gargantuan tower loomed
into the night sky, and immediately had to fight back an
attack of vertigo. Far, far above, at the spire's summit, a
faint glow burned in a tiny window . . .

'Adept Tarod!' Drachea's voice brought her back to
earth and she turned her head to see him swaggering
down the steps to intercept Tarod's path. 'I've been
looking for you!'

Tarod stopped and regarded the younger man dispas-
sionately. 'Indeed,' he said.

This time, Drachea's anger was enough to overcome
awe. He halted three steps from the bottom, so that their
eyes met on an equal level, and said angrily, 'Yes,
indeed! And I think that an explanation is long overdue!
I have just been told that I am, effectively, a prisoner
here - and I demand to know what you mean by such an
impertinence!'

Tarod glanced briefly at Cyllan, who flushed. Then he
folded his arms and regarded Drachea as though he were
some unknown species.

'I told Cyllan nothing but the truth,' he said with cool
disinterest. 'And as your uninvited presence here is
none of my doing, so the fact that you must stay is

something I can't influence. Believe me, you don't
regret it any more than I do!'

Drachea was far from satisfied. 'This is outrageous!
I'd remind you that I'm not some peasant whose absence
counts for nothing! My clan will be searching for me, the
militia will have been alerted - if I'm not found, then I
warn you, there will be severe consequences!'

Tarod pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb
and forefinger, and sighed with irritation. 'Very well. If
you wish to leave - if you believe you can do so - then
go. I'm not your jailer, and the gates aren't locked.'

Drachea had been on the verge of a fresh tirade, but
now he stopped, nonplussed. He looked at Cyllan and
frowned.

'Well?' he said, gesturing towards the Castle gates.

'No, Drachea. It's pointless.' She shook her head,
knowing in her bones what would happen; knowing,
too, that there was nothing to gain from trying to con-
vince Drachea. He had to find out for himself.

He gave her a scathing glare, and strode across the
courtyard. Cyllan hoped that Tarod might turn to her,
say something to dismantle the icy wall that he seemed
to have built around himself, but he didn't move.
Drachea reached the gates and began to wrestle with
them; they swung easily enough on vast, well-kept
hinges, and he started out -

And stopped. Even at this distance Cyllan could share
the appalled fear that swamped him as he stared out
beyond the Castle, at nothing.

She could see it for herself as the great gate swung
noiselessly back. Not fog, not even darkness, but a void,
so unutterably empty that it made her feel sick just to
look at it. Drachea uttered a single, inarticulate cry and
stumbled back. As he released his hold on the gate it
closed once more, of its own volition, and slammed into
place with a dull boom that made Cyllan jump.

The Heir Margrave returned slowly to where they
stood waiting. His face was the colour of putty, and his
hands shook as though he had a fever. At last he stop-
ped, at a safe distance from Tarod.

'What is it?' he grated through grey lips.

Tarod smiled with more than a trace of malice. 'Didn't
you feel the inclination to step through and find out?'

'Damn you, there's nothing out there! It's like - it's
like the darkness of all the Seven Hells! Not even the
stack to be seen! Cyllan -' he appealed to her. 'When we
came here - there was a world beyond! The beach, the
rock - it wasn't illusion?'

'No . . . ' Yet there had been the mist; and the terrible
feeling that the real world lay somewhere out of reach. . .

Drachea turned again to Tarod and almost pleaded.
'What does this mean?'

Unmoved, Tarod regarded him coldly. 'I've told you
that you can't leave the Castle. Do you now believe me?'

'Yes

'And will you, then, believe that I can't change
matters?'

'I - ' Drachea hesitated, then burst out, 'But you're a
High Adept of the Circle!'

Tarod's eyes narrowed. 'I was.'

'Was? Then have you lost your power?' The words
were a fear-driven challenge. Tarod didn't answer, but
instead his left hand moved slightly. Cyllan was just able
to glimpse something on his index finger before his form
was blurred by a dark aura that seemed to flow out from
within him, swallowing even the grim red light. The air
turned bitterly cold as Tarod raised his hand higher,
holding it, palm upward, towards Drachea.

What Drachea saw, Cyllan would never know and
preferred not to speculate. But his eyes stared, starting
almost from their sockets, and his jaw dropped in a
rictus of sick terror. He tried to speak, but could only
utter a tormented moan - then he sank to his knees on
the steps, doubled over and retching with blind, helpless
fear.

'Stand up.' Tarod's voice rang harshly, and the dark
aura winked out of existence. Cyllan stared at the tall
Adept, horrified by the sheer inhumanity of what he had
done - and by the magnitude of the power he had
commanded with such careless ease. Now, the only hint

of what had gone before was an echo of something
unholy in Tarod's green eyes . . . but she wouldn't
forget it easily.

Drachea staggered to his feet and turned his head
away. 'Damn you - '

Tarod interrupted him, speaking very softly. 'You
see, I have power, Drachea. But even my skills aren't
sufficient to break down the barrier and allow you your
freedom. Now do you begin to understand?'

Drachea could only nod, and Tarod inclined his head
in acknowledgement. 'Very well. Then you shall have
your explanation.' He turned to look at Cyllan. 'He'll
need help to reach the dining-hall. And perhaps you can
make him understand that I had no desire to harm him.
He simply had to be shown.'

Was he trying to justify himself, Cyllan wondered? If
he regretted his behaviour towards Drachea, his voice
showed no sign of it. She licked dry lips, nodded, then
tried to take Drachea's arm. He shook her off angrily
and turned his back, walking with rigid dignity ahead of
them towards the double doors.

The remote, dusty shadows of the Castle's great dining-
hall were beginning to grow unpleasantly familiar to
Cyllan. Entering, she had to suppress an instinctive
shiver at the sight of the long, empty tables, the gaping
fireplace, the heavy curtains that hung without a trace of
a draught to stir them. The Castle seemed to mock the
life which had once filled it.

Tarod moved to the fireplace, while Drachea stopped
at one of the tables, staring down at the wood and
seeming to find something in the grain to absorb his
interest. His face was still an unhealthy grey in the wake
of Tarod's unpleasant demonstration in the courtyard,
and his eyes smouldered with hatred. Cyllan realised
that the shock of that experience had gone deep, and she
wondered how much more he could withstand. With so
much damage already done, any further strain could
send him over the thin dividing line between sanity and
madness.

Tarod's voice cut across her thoughts. 'Sit down,
Drachea. Your pride is commendable, but it seems
pointless now.' Their eyes met, clashed, then Tarod
added, 'Perhaps my demonstration was precipitate . . .
if so, I'm sorry.'

Drachea stared back with wordless fury before
abruptly subsiding on to a bench. It was on the tip of
Cyllan's tongue to ask Tarod point-blank why he had
chosen to demonstrate his powers with such callous
disregard for the consequences; but she couldn't sum-
mon the courage. The respect and admiration which he
had originally inspired in her were badly shaken by the
incident in the courtyard; she was being forced to reas-
sess the impressions of those two previous meetings, and
they seemed a world away. Silently, she moved to sit
beside Drachea. Under Tarod's steady, impassive gaze
she had the discomfiting feeling that he and they were
adversaries facing each other across a battle-line.

Tarod regarded them, reluctant as yet to speak. He
needed to learn the details of whatever inexplicable
twist of Fate had brought them through the barrier
between Time and no-Time, in the hope that it might
provide him with a desperately needed clue to his own
dilemma; but in return he was bound to explain the truth
of that dilemma to them. Or at least, as much of the truth
as would suit his own purposes . . .

It all hinged on a question of trust. Tarod had learned,
through bitter experience, that to trust even those who
professed to be closest to him was a dangerous and self-
destructive game. And if Cyllan and Drachea were to
discover the full facts behind his story, he could rely on
their enmity but on little else. Already the seeds were
sown - his angry reaction to Drachea's challenge in the
courtyard had been no more than a catalyst that trig-
gered the young man's already unstable emotions, but it
had spawned a fear that was fast growing into deep
hatred. Drachea's good opinion was of no interest
to Tarod; but it would be as well to alienate him no
further.

Cyllan was another matter. Her thoughts were a

closed book to him, yet his feelings towards her were
kinder. She had a rare inner strength that he could
acknowledge and appreciate . . . but even she, if faced
with the full truth, was unlikely to prove a willing ally.
And impinging on the detached disinterest with which
he viewed her opinion or her eventual fate was a worm
of reluctance to take any steps which might do her harm.
The old debt, which he had never repaid, seemed to call
to a sense of honour and conscience that he had all but
forgotten, and the sensation was uncomfortably alien.

The safest course, he felt, was to compromise - to tell
them as much of the truth as they needed to know in
order to be of use to him, whilst side-stepping the full
story. It would be easy enough - even the arrogant
young Heir Margrave would be unlikely to dare ques-
tion the Circle's ways.

He spoke, so abruptly that Drachea jumped. 'I prom-
ised you an explanation, and I don't break my word. But
first, I must know how you came to the Castle.'

'Must?' Drachea echoed. 'I think you're in no position
to make demands of us! When I consider the cavalier
treatment I have received since - ' And he stopped as
Cyllan, who had seen the flash of irritation in Tarod's
eyes, ground her heel hard against his instep.

'Drachea, I believe we owe it to Tarod to tell our story
first,' she said, praying that he wouldn't be so foolish as
to lose his temper. 'After all, we are the intruders here.'

Tarod glanced at her, apparently amused. 'I appreci-
ate your consideration, Cyllan, but it's not a question of
courtesy,' he said. 'Some accident brought you to the
Castle, and you want to leave. I believe, as I've told you,
that that's impossible - but it may be that something in
your story will prove me wrong.' He looked at Drachea
again. 'Does that satisfy the Heir Margrave?'

Drachea shrugged irritably. 'Very well; it's reason
enough. And as Cyllan is so anxious to please you, she
might as well speak for us both!'

Cyllan glanced at Tarod, who nodded encourage-
ment. And so she began to tell of the Warp and its
aftermath in as much detail as she could recall. But

trying to describe the apparition that had appeared in
the street outside the White Barque Tavern, she fal-
tered, and Tarod frowned.

'A human figure? Did you recognise it?'

'I . . . ' She looked up at him, her eyes troubled. 'I
thought I did, but . . . now I don't know, and I can't
visualise it. It's as if the memory has been - blotted out,
somehow.' She looked to Drachea for help, but he only
shook his head.

Frustrated, Tarod gestured for her to continue, listen-
ing carefully as she explained how they had survived the
Warp only to find themselves in the middle of the North-
ern sea, with the day turned shockingly to night.

'I thought we'd both drown before we could reach
land,' Cyllan said, 'and so I called to the fanaani for
help.' She swallowed. 'If they hadn't answered, we
would have died then.' She looked up again, and Tarod
knew that she was remembering a Summer day in West
High Land, when she had led him down a treacherous
cliff-face to show him where the Spindrift Root could be
found. They had seen the fanaani then, heard their
bittersweet singing ... he pushed the memory aside; it
no longer interested him.

'Go on with your story,' he said.

She bit her lip, and without any further show of emotion
recounted the rest of the tale, to the moment when she and
Drachea had finally reached the top of the stack and found
themselves facing the Castle of the Star Peninsula.

There's no more to tell,' she said finally. 'We entered
the Castle, and we thought it deserted . . . until we met
you.'

Tarod said nothing. He seemed to be lost in thought,
and finally Drachea couldn't stand the ensuing silence.
He twisted around on the bench and brought one fist
down on the table-top.

The Castle of the Star Peninsula, deserted!' he said
savagely. 'No Circle, no High Initiate - only one Adept
who tells us that the outside world is beyond our reach,
and gives no answers to our questions that make any
sense! A seemingly endless night, with no sign of the

dawn - it's insanity? He stood up. Now that the first
words were out, they had opened a floodgate. 'I'm not
dreaming,' he went on, his voice growing harsher, 'and
I'm not dead - my heart still beats, and even the Seven
Hells can't be like this place! Besides,' he pointed at
Cyllan, 'she knew you - she recognised you. You live -
therefore we must be alive also.'

'Oh, yes; I live.' Tarod stared at his own left hand.
'After a fashion.'

Drachea tensed. 'What d'you mean, after a fashion?'

'I mean that I'm as alive as anything can be, in a world
where Time doesn't exist.'

Drachea had been pacing alongside the table, but
stopped in his tracks. 'What?'

Tarod gestured towards one of the tall windows. 'As
you so astutely remarked, dawn hasn't broken. Nor will
it break. Tell me; are you hungry?'

Nonplussed by the apparently irrelevant remark,
Drachea shook his head angrily. 'No, damn it! I've got
more important matters on my mind than - '

'When did you last eat?' Tarod interrupted.

Drachea suddenly understood the implication, and
his face paled. 'In Shu-Nhadek . . . '

'Yet you feel no hunger. Hunger needs Time to
develop, and there is no Time here. No hours, no change
from day to night; nothing.'

Very slowly, as though doubting his ability to co-ordi-
nate his movements, Drachea sat down. Now his com-
plexion was ashen and he found his voice only with great
difficulty.

'You're telling me . . . seriously telling me . . . that
Time itself has ceased to exist?'

'In this Castle, yes. We are in limbo. The world out-
side continues, but here . . . ' He shrugged. 'You've
seen it for yourself.'

'But . . . how did it happen?' Drachea was torn
between disbelief and a terrible fascination with a mys-
tery beyond his understanding. After the initial outburst
he had himself under control, only a faint tremor in his
voice betraying any emotion.

Tarod studied his left hand again. 'Time was
banished.'

'Banished? You mean that someone - but who, in the
name of the gods? Who could have done such a thing?'

'I did.'

There was silence. Drachea, wide-eyed, was trying to
assimilate the idea of a power so titanic that it could halt
Time - and the concept that a single man, however
skilled, could wield it. Tarod watched him, outwardly
impassive but inwardly apprehensive, waiting to see
how he would finally respond - until the tension was
broken by Cyllan.

She said, simply, 'Why, Tarod?'

He turned to look at her, and had the discomfiting
feeling that, against his private predictions, she was
prepared to believe him. Suddenly he laughed, coldly.

'You accept the word of an Initiate for something
that, to any right-minded citizen, should surely seem
impossible,' he said. 'Does the Circle really have so
much influence?' Cyllan flushed, and the laughter faded
to a humourless smile. 'I meant no slight. But I hadn't
anticipated such unquestioning belief.'

A bench grated against the floor as Drachea moved to
sit beside Cyllan once more. His gaze didn't leave
Tarod's face, and his expression was an odd mixture of
uncertainty, wariness and curiosity. When he spoke, his
voice was steadier than it had been.

'Let us say, Adept Tarod, that we do accept the truth
of your story - so far as it goes. I don't claim knowledge
of the Circle's capabilities, and maybe an Initiate can
wield a power that's capable of stopping Time. But
you've not answered Cyllan's question. And besides - if
you could banish Time, for whatever purpose, why can
you not recall it again?'

Tarod sighed. 'There is a stone; a gem,' he said
quietly. 'I used it as a focus to summon the necessary
power for my work. When Time ceased to exist, I lost
the stone . . . and without it I can't alter this
predicament.'

'Where is the stone now?' Cyllan asked.

'In another part of the Castle - a chamber that,
because of certain anomalies brought about by the
changes here, I can no longer enter.'

Drachea had been fidgeting with his hands, twisting
the fingers together. Without looking up, he said, 'This -
work you speak of. It was a Circle matter?'

Tarod hesitated briefly, then: 'Yes.'

'Then where are your fellow Initiates now?'

'To my knowledge, they're neither in your world nor
in whatever dead dimension this Castle inhabits,' Tarod
told him. If Drachea chose to misinterpret what he
heard, he wasn't about to correct him.

The young man nodded. Then this- circumstance- is
the result of a Circle working which went wrong?'

Tarod resisted the temptation to smile at Drachea's
further unwitting irony. 'It is.'

Then it seems that, like it or not, we now share your
predicament. And unless you can retrieve this gem you
spoke of, we have no hope of reprieve.'

Tarod inclined his head, but his eyes gave away
nothing.

'Yet if we have somehow managed to break through
this barrier - albeit unintentionally - it surely follows that
it's possible to reverse the process?' Drachea persisted.

'I wouldn't deny that. But my own efforts have thus
far achieved nothing.' Tarod smiled a small, chilly smile.
'Of course, it may be that your skills can succeed where
mine have failed.'

Tarod's sarcasm bit home, and Drachea gave him an
angry glance. 'I wouldn't presume to suggest it, Adept.
But it strikes me that we'd be better occupied in at least
trying to solve this conundrum, if the only alternative is
to wait apathetically for eternity!'

Tarod saw the motive behind Drachea's words, and it
confirmed his belief that the young man would prove
troublesome. Hiding his annoyance, he said indif-
ferently, 'Perhaps.'

'Certainly it's worth further investigation.'

'Indeed it is.' Tarod rose. Then maybe you'd care to
consider the problem at your leisure.' He smiled thinly.

'After all, we don't have the constraints of Time to
hinder us.'

'No . . . ' Drachea's confident mask slipped and he
glanced uneasily around him at the empty hall.

'And now, if you'll forgive me . . . ' Tarod looked at
Cyllan, then away. 'I think there's little more we can say
to each other at this stage.'

Drachea might have argued, but Cyllan gave him a
warning glance and he subsided, making the best of the
dismissal. 'Come, Cyllan. We've taken up too much of
the Adept's time - ' he checked himself. 'A slip of the
tongue - old concepts still linger.' He bowed, not
entirely courteously. 'We'll take our leave of you.'

Tarod watched them go, and when they were out of sight
he made a small, impatient gesture. The hall doors swung
noiselessly shut, and he subsided on to the nearest bench.

Drachea's efforts to dissemble had been clumsy and
amateurish; but his attitude was clear enough. The
young man's suspicions were aroused, and that could
prove irritating. There was little he could do to upset
Tarod's plans, embryonic as they yet were, but his intru-
sion was an annoying complication none the less.

Tarod sighed, aware that it wasn't worth the trouble
of taking any action at this stage. If Drachea proved too
tiresome, dealing with him could be an enjoyable if brief
diversion . . .

He rose, crossed the hall. The doors opened once
more to allow him through, and he walked to the main
entrance. Cyllan and Drachea were nowhere in sight,
doubtless making their way to one of the Castle's empty
rooms, to confer. Tarod laughed shortly and softly, and
the sound gave back a peculiar echo that might almost
have been another, alien voice. Then he turned out of
the door and down the courtyard steps towards the
Northern spire.

Chapter 4

Drachea stalked into Cyllan's chamber, leaving her to
close the door behind them both. As she followed him
into the room, he said, 'Well?'

Cyllan recognised the challenge in his eyes and in his
voice, and turned away, torn between conflicting feel-
ings. Every instinct warned her against trusting Tarod
without question; yet she and Drachea were uneasy
allies at best, and, irrationally, his attitude now put her
on the defensive.

'I don't know,' she said.

'You don't know?' Drachea's voice was laced with
incredulous contempt. 'You're not telling me that
you're prepared to take the word of that - that
tyrant?'

Cyllan's eyes flashed angrily. 'I said no such thing! But
neither am I willing to condemn out of hand without
more knowledge!'

'Then you're more of a fool than I thought you.' He
raked her with a searing glance in which she saw the
echoes of the wide gulf between them. The fact that she
was unwilling to accept his judgement as superior to her
own infuriated him; and he paced across the room,
tension radiating from every muscle.

'First, he launches an unjustified and unprovoked
attack on me - is that the behaviour of an Adept? And
then he tells us a story of some Circle ritual that went
wrong; as unlikely a tale as ever I've heard! He's lying to
us; I'm certain of it!'

Cyllan moved to the window and stared out across the
gloomy, silent courtyard. 'There's one fact we can't
escape, Drachea,' she said with an edge to her voice.

'We're trapped here. Whatever your view of Tarod, you
can't deny that he spoke the truth in that regard.'

'Can't I?' Drachea retorted savagely. 'For all we
know, he could have his own reasons for holding us
prisoner. The son of a Province Margrave would do well
as a hostage, if his captor had sufficient motive - '

Cyllan swung round. 'A hostage?' she echoed,
astonished by the conceit of the idea. 'What need would
a high Adept have of a hostage?'

'Damn it, how should I know?' Drachea shouted. 'It
makes as much sense as anything else here! And besides

- ' His expression worked into a sneer, 'I have only his
word - and yours - that he's an Adept at all.'

That's ridiculous - '

'Is it? Or arc you so jealous of your claim to comrade-
ship with such an exalted figure that you'll hear no word
against him?'

Cyllan bit back the furious retort that came to her lips
as she realised, with chagrin, that Drachea had made a
fair point. She was prejudiced—old memories had a hold
on her still. And that could set a dangerous precedent

Think about it,' Drachea said obsessively, starting to
pace again. The Castle of the Star Peninsula trapped in
some unimaginable dimension, beyond the reach of
Time. Very well, I grant the point you made; that much
we can perhaps believe. The Circle gone - dead, fled, in
limbo; we don't know. One man remaining, who implies

- implies, mark you; he was careful to admit nothing
directly, but allowed me to draw my own conclusions -
that it's all the result of some hideous accident, and that
he has no power to right matters. And we are expected
to believe him?' He snorted. 'I'd as soon trust a snake!'

Cyllan's sense of justice protested at the sweeping
condemnation, but she bit her tongue. 'What, then, do
you think is the truth?' she asked.

Drachea shook his head. 'Aeoris alone knows the
answer to that!' Reflexively he made the White God's
sign as a mark of respect, then continued, 'You remember
my telling you of the rumours rife in Shu? No word from

the Castle, and a garbled tale of some trouble or danger
in West High Land. This is the root of those rumours; it
must be! There's something evil afoot - I feel it - and I
feel, too, that it's of Tarod's making.'

Although deep down a part of her rebelled, Cyllan
couldn't in all conscience argue with him. Too much of
what he said rang uncomfortably true - and she, too,
sensed the pervading threat of something dark and
unholy that haunted the Castle. But if some black pur-
pose lay behind Tarod's actions, she couldn't begin to
imagine what that purpose might be.

Involuntarily, her gaze roamed to where old, dis-
carded clothes lay on the window-ledge. The pouch
containing her precious pebbles was among them; and it
was possible, even here, that the old skills might work
and allow her to uncover some clue to the mystery. But
immediately, an inner voice said vehemently, no! She
couldn't do it - a primal and irresistible fear stood in her
path. She didn't have the courage, for fear of what she
might see . . .

Drachea, unaware of her dilemma, was staring mood-
ily out of the window, and suddenly he said, 'He spoke
of a jewel . . . '

Cyllan looked up. 'A jewel? Yes, I recall it.'

'A focus for the power that halted Time, he said. And
it's lost - or at least, wherever it is, he can't reach it. And
he needs it.'

She laughed mirthlessly. 'We need it too, Drachea, if
we're ever to leave this place!'

'Do we?' He hunched his shoulders like some bird of
ill omen. 'Or is that, too, a lie? We don't know what that
stone is or what it can do. If he retrieves it, with or
without our aid, who's to say what the consequences
might be? The return of Time, and with it freedom - or
something else; something too hideous to imagine?' He
faced her, eyes ablaze. 'Are you willing to take that risk?
Because I, for one, am not!'

She didn't answer him, and he crossed the room,
brushing her out of his path. 'Damn him!' he said
explosively. 'If he thinks that I'll sit meekly by, awaiting

my fate at his hands, he's wrong! The Castle might be
abandoned, but its occupants haven't disappeared
entirely without trace.' He indicated his own borrowed
clothing. 'There must be clues- documents, records, the
gods alone know what else. And I'll find them - Aeoris
help me, I'll find the answers to this mystery, and I'll
thwart him!' He whirled. 'Well? Are you coming with
me, or d'you prefer to skulk here?'

His stare reflected the half-pitying, half-con-
temptuous attitude of a high-ranking citizen towards the
gutter-born, and Cyllan's pride rebelled against his
arrogance. 'No,' she replied with an icy edge to her
voice. 'I'd prefer to skulk here, as you term it!'

'Do as you please.' Drachea strode to the door and
pulled it open. On the threshold he looked back, but she
had turned her head away, and he went out into the
corridor, leaving the door to slam ferociously behind
him.

When Drachea had gone, Cyllan shut her eyes tightly
against the wave of bitter resentment that threatened to
overtake every other thought. Drachea's manner
towards her was an insult - and she had to admit that it
also hurt. The comradeship, the sense of fighting on the
same side, that she might have hoped for in these straits
was absent - instead, they seemed to be constantly at
loggerheads. Drachea's attitude had stung her pride to
the core, and the same pride made her want to retaliate
in some way; show him that she was more than an
ignorant and worthless nonentity.

She opened her eyes, and looked at the pouch of
stones. The clues Drachea was so confident of finding
were more likely to be found through a seer's craft than
through any haphazard physical exploration ... if she
could summon the courage to try.

Obscure fears crowded her brain, arguing violently
against the idea; this time, Cyllan forced them firmly
into submission. She had never been a coward; she
wasn't hampered by the superstitious terrors of ordinary
folk. What had she to be afraid of? Clenching her hands

into determined fists, she moved towards the window-
ledge.

Her old clothes were sticky with dried salt, the leather
pouch stiff and cracking. Cyllan shook the stones out
into her palm and sat cross-legged on the floor. A
familiar tingling sensation assailed the nape of her
neck, a sure sign that her psychic senses were awaken-
ing; and the suddenness of it took her aback. It was
almost as though some outside power were pulling at
her, like a strung marionette. She closed her eyes, and
instantly a darkness clouded her inner vision, a dense
blackness which told her that her consciousness was
giving way to something far deeper. The pebbles burned
like ice crystals in her cupped hands; she focused the
darkness, concentrated, pushing back the wave of sick
fear . . .

A tattoo of small, harsh sounds broke the silence as
the stones scattered from her hands on to the floor, and
Cyllan rocked back with a gasp. The psychic surge had
come quickly, and its sheer strength astounded her. The
room seemed to dip and recede momentarily as she
opened her eyes, then her vision righted, and she looked
down at the pattern the stones had formed.

The largest pebble of all lay in the pattern's exact
centre. Around it, the others spiralled outwards to form
seven uneven arms. The design was familiar - horribly
familiar— and yet she couldn't place it, couldn't remem-ber

'Cyllan.'

She cried out with shock and almost bit through her
tongue as the strange, silver-edged voice spoke her
name from empty air. And at the same instant she felt a
terrible premonition; the grim certainty that something
stood behind her, in the room, watching . . .

Her throat was so constricted that she could barely
breathe. And the room's contours were changing, losing
their solidity, growing alien and fearsome . . . Odd
colours flickered at the borders of her perception, and
she felt a chill which pervaded the air, sank into her
bones . . . Savagely, struggling against the threat of

blind terror, Cyllan forced her muscles to obey her and
turned her head.

The room was empty. Too empty ... as though the
real world had winked out of existence, stranding her in
a half dimension of trickery and phantasm. And despite
what her eyes told her, she could still sense the presence
of another intelligence in the chamber. It watched her;
she felt that it laughed at her inability to see . . . and she
sensed a cold, sharp knife-edge of evil . . .

A single clap of sound, so loud that it went beyond the
threshold of hearing, smashed into her head. Through a
daze of pain she saw the door to her room begin to
undulate, warping into impossible shapes. An aura
appeared around it like some nightmarish halo, wild
colours agitating furiously and all but blinding her.
Something was approaching; she felt it - something that
could crush her out of existence as a careless child might
crush an insect underfoot.

With no warning the door disintegrated, and in its
place was black light. Cyllan fought desperately against
the terror of what she knew must be an appallingly
powerful hallucination, but no amount of reason could
combat the image of the not-quite-human figure which
was slowly forming in the heart of the light, or the long,
thin hand which reached out slowly, compellingly
towards her.

Cyllan screamed, and knew that no sound escaped her
lips. Every muscle in her body locked into a rictus, and a
single, vast spasm racked her from head to foot before
she fell helplessly, unconscious, to sprawl among her
scattered stones on the floor.

Drachea's heart was beating uncomfortably fast as he
made his way down the wide sweep of the Castle's main
staircase. He was excited at the prospect before him,
pleased with his decision to take positive action rather
than passively awaiting developments; and yet the plea-
sure was heavily laced with apprehension which grew as
he ventured further from the sanctuary of Cyllan's
room.

Reaching the foot of the stairs he hesitated, looking
carefully about to make sure there was no sign of Tarod.
Beyond the half-open doors the courtyard showed dim
and uninviting, the blood-red glow intensified by the
contrasting blackness of walls and flagstones, and
Drachea's courage began to slip. He wished - though
nothing would have induced him to admit it to her - that
Cyllan had accompanied him. He had dismissed her
refusal carelessly, telling himself he had no need of help,
but here alone in the gloomy silence the Castle felt
threatening, an enemy only waiting for the right
moment to strike at him.

He was also anxious above all to avoid another
encounter with Tarod. No amount of bravado could
eclipse his fundamental fear of the Adept, and he imag-
ined that Tarod wouldn't look kindly on his attempt to
unravel the Castle's secrets. Memory of what had hap-
pened in the courtyard turned his stomach momentarily
to water; with it came a resurgence of hatred, and when
the sweating terror passed Drachea felt better, buoyed
up by the anger which was beginning to germinate into a
desire for revenge. Damn Cyllan - if she chose to skulk
in that musty room, so be it! He'd find the answers he
needed, and show her that a Margrave's son had no need
of a peasant-drover to champion him.

He stepped outside, and glanced up at the Northern
spire, jagged against the featureless pewter sky. The
light in the topmost slit of a window was no longer
visible, but Drachea suspected that Tarod was up in that
room. All well and good - his own destination lay
elsewhere, and the thought that he was unlikely to cross
the Adept's path bolstered his confidence.

To the right of the steps which led down into the
courtyard was a colonnaded walk, with a door at the far
end. Odd, Drachea thought, that another way in to the
Castle should exist so close to the main entry ... it
suggested some ulterior purpose.

With a further, quick glance towards the spire he ran
down the steps and along the walkway to the door. It
opened easily when he lifted the latch, and he felt

disappointed - surely, if it led somewhere significant,
greater care would have been taken to protect it?
Expecting perhaps nothing more than a storeroom,
Drachea peered through - and saw a long, narrow cor-
ridor that led away, on a downward slope, seemingly
into the bowels of the Castle. For the first twenty paces
or so the crimson glow permeated, illuminating ancient
stains of damp . . . then the passage was swallowed by
darkness.

The thought of venturing into the black unknown
beyond the door was enough, at first, to sap Drachea's
resolve. If Cyllan had been with him -

No, he told himself. He had no need of her. His eyes
would grow accustomed to the darkness soon enough,
and if, as he suspected, this passage led him closer to
some of the Castle's secrets, he might soon have a story
to tell her that would open her eyes to the truth!

Taking a deep breath - and disliking the old, musty
smell that hung in the air- he stepped through the door,
being careful to leave it wide open at his back. The floor
of the passage was even enough, and as he advanced, his
vision began gradually to adjust to the dark until he
could just make out the dim contours of the walls ahead.
They seemed to go on forever, and always downward
... he hesitated, then pressed on, fighting down his
unease.

The soft sound of his padding footsteps became
almost mesmeric as he made his way further along the
corridor. Now and again some trick of acoustics almost
convinced him that he heard another footfall at his back,
fractionally out of synchronisation with his own. Once
he stopped, quickly; thought he heard the illusory steps
shuffle to a halt behind him, and sweat broke out on his
forehead and neck. But when he turned, there was
nothing to be seen . . .

Imagination. The mind played all manner of tricks
under such circumstances as these. There could be no
ghosts here . . . Drachea continued on, resisting the
temptation to whistle aloud as a boost to his courage -
and suddenly the passage ended at the top of a flight of

steps. He paused, feeling his way cautiously on to the
first tread, and again looked over his shoulder. Nothing
untoward . . .

The stairs wound steeply down, and Drachea sensed
that he was nearing his goal. Then he felt a surge of
excitement as he saw that, ahead of him, the stairs
terminated at another door.

It stood open, as though someone had walked care-
lessly through it only moments before, and beyond it a
trace of light faintly illuminated a large, vaulted room.
Eagerly Drachea hastened through, and as he entered
the vault he tripped over something lying on the floor,
and went sprawling. He swore aloud - his voice echoed
loudly, compounding the shock, and as he sat dazedly on
the hard stone he realised what had brought him down.

Books. Hundreds of them, scattered all over the
flagstones. Wherever he looked, wherever he put his
hands, there were tomes and manuscripts and rolled
parchments, some whole, others split and separated.
And in the faint glow that pervaded the room he could
see shelves lining the walls, many of them broken, but a
few still containing precariously balanced volumes
which looked as though they might slip and crash down
at the slightest provocation. It was as though some mad
scholar had run riot in his own library . . .

Of course - this was the Castle's library! As the rev-
elation struck him, Drachea immediately forgot his orig-
inal intention, stunned by the awesome fact that, by
sheer fortuitous accident, he had literally stumbled on
the greatest storehouse of arcane knowledge in the
world. He reached out and picked up the nearest of the
fallen books, wincing as several damaged leaves came
loose and fluttered to the floor. All the Circle's secrets,
its lore, its practices, revealed to his gaze with no one to
forbid him ... It was more than he could ever have
dared to dream of!

Drachea opened the book at random and pored over
it. The script was closely written and hard to make out in
the poor light, but he deciphered enough to set his pulse
racing. Initiation rites - the formulae were all here; the

prayers, the incantations - he snatched up another vol-
ume at random, turned the pages feverishly. This one
was older, harder still to read ... he put it aside,
reached for one of the scrolls. Parchment, this: the ink so
faded that he judged it had been written centuries ago,
before the process of pulping wood to make a finer
medium had been invented and had replaced the use of
animal skin . . . almost reverently, Drachea placed it with
the first tome, then stood up, looking wildly about him.

He could spend a lifetime here. He could study year
after year, until he was grey with age, and still never
slake his thirst for occult knowledge. Envy of the Initi-
ates who had free run of this unbelievable place filled
him - and then he checked himself, almost laughing at
his own absurdity. He had the run of the library now -
there was no Circle to stand in his way! Only one man,
and however high an Adept he might be, there were
ways and means to outwit him. Even if Tarod used the
library for his own purposes, he wouldn't miss a few
volumes from among the chaos. And in the sanctuary of
one of the Castle's upper rooms, Drachea could absorb
this fabulous knowledge at his leisure.

Cyllan was forgotten; their predicament was forgot-
ten. Drachea began to search through the books, gather-
ing up those which seemed to hold the most promise,
until he had as many as he could carry. He straightened,
face flushed with exertion and excitement - and froze as
he heard the sound of footsteps from beyond the vault.

Several books fell from his arms to the floor, and the
noise they made brought him out in a cold sweat. The
footfalls were coming from the stairway beyond, slow,
measured, echoing faintly. Tarod - it had to be!
Drachea's triumph crumbled before the thought of what
the Adept might do to him if he discovered his presence
here, and frantically he looked around for a hiding
place. At first the library seemed to hold no hope - then
he saw a door, low and insignificant, half hidden in an
alcove between two rows of shelves. The books forgotten,
he ran towards it... and as he reached it the footsteps
faded away into silence.

Drachea stopped, feeling the icy crawl of gooseflesh
on his skin. Human footfalls didn't simply die away like
that. Someone had been approaching, had almost
reached the bottom of the stairs - they couldn't just
vanish!

Eyes wide, he looked towards the stairs, dimly visible
beyond the vault entrance. No shadow moved, and the
silence was absolute. Fear began to flower into panic,
and he found himself involuntarily backing away, until
he collided with the small door. It sprang open, making
him yell with shock, and he stumbled through.

He was in a long, narrow passage which sloped steeply
down before him. The faint light that filtered throughout
the vault was stronger, as if its source lay somewhere in
that corridor, and a violent shudder racked Drachea, a
twisting terror that he couldn't name, but which eclipsed
all other sensation.

Something lurked at the invisible end of the passage.
He felt it, a palpable presence . . . and it was slowly
moving towards him. A soft sound, like an echo of not
quite human laughter, seemed to reverberate in his head
and he backed away, aware of bile rising in his throat
and striving to force it back. He could see nothing, but
he knew it was there ... a presence, a monstrously evil
presence . . .

The faintest of breaths brushed past his face, and
Drachea's self-control snapped. Whatever might await
him on the stairs, it was as nothing compared to the
unknown horror beyond this door - and he ran like a
hunted animal, hurling himself across the vault and
through the arched doorway. On the stairs he fell,
scrambled to his feet, raced on and upward, while blind
panic overcame all else. Nothing stood in his way, no
one appeared suddenly from the shadows to confront
him, and at last he burst out into the comparative bril-
liance of the courtyard, collapsing with a bone-jarring
momentum that scraped the skin from his knees and
hands.

Drachea rolled over and staggered to his feet, leaning
against one of the pillars of the colonnade for support

while he fought to get his breath back. The empty court-
yard felt bleaker and more menacing than ever; shadows
beyond the reach of the blood-red glow seemed to his
overworked imagination to form lurking, threatening
shapes. He shuddered, shutting his eyes against
unwanted images, and forced himself to gulp stale air
into his lungs. His pulse began to slow, and eventually he
opened his eyes again, feeling in better control.

He'd made a fool of himself. There had been no one
on the vault stairs, and nothing in the corridor beyond
the small door. He had allowed imagination to run away
with him, and had panicked at an illusion . . . Drachea
looked over his shoulder to the entrance through which
he had come. The thought of returning didn't appeal,
despite the lure of the books; and with an angry gesture
in the door's direction he started back to the Castle's
main entrance. Inside, and halfway to the stairs, he
stopped. To return to Cyllan with nothing to report
would be to admit failure, and therefore demean himself
- something against which he rebelled violently. He
wouldn't return to the library, as yet (and he dismissed
the small inner voice which suggested he was afraid to
return there alone). The Castle must hold many more
revelations - there were other, and doubtless better,
places to search for the answers he wanted.

With a swift, furtive glance around to ensure he was
alone, Drachea hastened away along one of the Castle's
seemingly endless corridors.

It was sheer fortuitous coincidence which brought
Drachea at length to the suite of rooms on the ground
floor of the North and centremost wing. He had reached
them by a circuitous route, doubling back time and again
through the warren of passages that threaded
throughout the Castle, and he was tired, frustrated and
disheartened when he came upon the studded door with
its highly polished surface. But as soon as he lifted the
latch and looked in, he knew he'd stumbled on more
than merely another empty chamber.
The room was dominated by a large table with a

carved and padded chair set tidily behind it. A pile of
papers had been neatly stacked on the table as though
awaiting imminent attention; an inkstand and several
pens lay beside them. And Drachea's gaze alighted on
something else. A seal, half hidden behind the inkstand

He closed the door softly behind him and crossed to
the table. As his hand reached out towards the seal he
hesitated, assailed suddenly by a feeling that he was
trespassing on strictly forbidden ground. If this room
was what he thought it was, then merely to touch that
seal would be little short of blasphemy. Yet he had to
know . . .

Mouth dry, Drachea steeled himself and snatched up
the seal. The emblem on it reflected bloodily in the
crimson glow, and he saw that it was a lightning-flash,
bisecting a double circle.

The seal of the High Initiate himself . . . Reverently,
and a little fearfully, Drachea laid it back in its place and
stared about him at the room, feeling suddenly awed.
This must be - or have been - Keridil Toln's study . . .
he shivered. He had never seen the High Initiate, but his
half-imagined ghost seemed to hover in the room,
watching from whatever unimaginable limbo he now
inhabited.

Slowly Drachea turned, taking in every detail of the
shadowy chamber. Everything was perfectly in place, as
though Keridil Toln had left his room for the last time
with some premonition of what was to happen. The chill
that hung in the air was more than physical . . .

He turned his back abruptly to the gaping fireplace,
which for some inexplicable reason made him doubly
nervous, and approached the table again. Three shallow
drawers were set beneath the polished surface on one
side, and tentatively Drachea tried each in turn. If rec-
ords of recent events existed, this was surely where they
would be lodged ...

The first two drawers yielded nothing but sheaves of
everyday records - tithe lists in the main, and of little
interest. The third drawer wouldn't yield at first, and

Drachea thought it to be locked - until, abruptly, it
came free with such force that it fell out of its housing,
scattering its contents to the floor.

Drachea snatched up one of the papers at random -
and his heart missed a beat painfully as one word, one
name, caught his eye. Tarod.

He all but ran to the window, holding the paper up
against the glass to make the best of what little light
there was. The paper, he now saw, was a formal docu-
ment, signed and sealed by the High Initiate and wit-
nessed by six elders of the Council of Adepts.

It was an execution order.

Drachea put a hand to his mouth, feeling sick with a
mingling of excitement and horror as the first echoes of
the truth sounded in his head. His suspicions had been
right . . .

He tucked the document inside his jacket and fever-
ishly set about gathering up the other scattered papers.
At last he found what he had hoped and prayed for - a
report, written in the same careful and well-formed
hand as the execution order; and intended solely for the
eyes of senior Councillors. With it was an opened letter,
and he recognised the seal of the Sisterhood of Aeoris,
intertwined with the fish symbol of West High Land
Province.

West High Land, where the rumours of trouble had
begun . . . Drachea lowered himself into the carved
chair, no longer caring whether it belonged to the High
Initiate or Aeoris himself. Reading was difficult in the
gloom, but he no longer trusted his legs to support him.
Silently, avidly, he scanned the letter first. The Lady
Kael Amion . . . she was Senior at West High Land, it
seemed; the dispatch she had sent to Keridil Toln was of
the utmost urgency, and concerned an Initiate and one
of her own novices. Yes, it began to make sense . . . but
he needed more; much more.

Drachea's hand was unsteady as he picked up the
report. He read it in its entirety, only the occasional
rustle of a new page breaking the room's bleak silence.
And when he had finished he stood up and, with a

deliberation that suggested he wasn't quite in control of
his limbs, hid the papers carefully with the first docu-
ment inside his coat. His face was ashen as he turned to
look again at the fireplace and the flagged floor in front
of the hearth. A morbid fascination urged him to go
closer, to study that part of the floor for signs that would
prove what he had read beyond doubt; but he couldn't.
And the High Initiate's words rang too icily true for
there to be any shadow of disbelief.

He had to show what he had found to Cyllan. He had
to prove to her that he was right - far more right, in fact,
that he had ever dreamed. And above all, he needed to
share the burden of his fear.

Drachea replaced the fallen drawer, straightened the
seal so that it aligned neatly once more with the pens and
the inkstand on the High Initiate's table. He closed the
door of the study quietly behind him and made the sign
of Aeoris before his heart before turning and hurrying
back towards the main stairs.

Chapter 5

Tarod's acute senses were alerted by the first inkling of
something untoward that pervaded his mind. It was as
though a faint breath of wind had disturbed an utterly
still day, presaging some change; and it disturbed him on
a deeper level than he cared to admit.

He rose from the battered, hide-covered chair where
he had been sitting, and moved silently to the window
which looked out from the spire's summit over the sick-
ening drop to the courtyard. Nothing moved there; and
the sky that seemed to loom so chillingly close to the
window was still empty and dead. But, somewhere in the
Castle, something was amiss . . .

A sudden sharp sensation in his left hand surprised
him; a once familiar feeling which he had almost forgot-
ten. He glanced at his fingers, at the ruined base of the
ring which once had held his soul-stone, then flexed the
hand thoughtfully. Fear was beyond him, but whatever
it was that had come to disturb the Castle's deathly quiet
would have struck panic into a mortal man.

Behind him on a small table, amid a clutter of books
and manuscripts which he had idly gleaned from the
library vault, stood a sconce containing a single, partly
burned candle. Tarod moved his left hand over it and a
pale, nacreous green flame sprang into being. Holding
his fingers in the flame he coaxed it, drawing it upward
and outward, watching it respond to his mental com-
mand until it formed a perfect if sickly halo. The light
reflected on his face, highlighting gaunt shadows, and
his eyes narrowed as he looked into the elemental fire
and beyond it, seeking the source of the disturbance.

He found the source, and, again, it troubled him. At a

single sharp gesture the green fire vanished, and as the
small room sank once more into darkness Tarod turned
towards the door. A peculiar compulsion was urging him
to leave the spire, where he spent so much of his exist-
ence, and seek out the root of the strange and unex-
pected shift. He crossed the room, ignoring the jumble
of scattered artefacts that made it chaotic, and which he
never took the trouble to clear. He was as indifferent to
his own comfort as to anything else; but something was
challenging that indifference, and his curiosity was
aroused.

Beyond the door, black stone stairs spiralled down
into crimson-tinged darkness. The door closed softly
behind him, seemingly of its own accord; then Tarod's
dark shape faded and merged with the shadows, leaving
only a brief after-image.

Cyllan hadn't barred her door. Tarod's hand on the latch
met with no resistance, and he let the door swing open
gently and slowly. For a moment he thought the room
empty; then he saw her - and an old, dead memory
lurched deep within him, momentarily breaking through
his guard.

Cyllan lay sprawled on the floor, her head twisted at
an ugly angle and one arm flung crookedly out. She
looked like a broken doll, and the image she presented
was instantly superimposed in Tarod's mind by another
image, another woman. Themila Gan Lin, who since
childhood had been his dear friend and mentor, lying on
the floor of the Council Chamber, her life bleeding away
from the wound inflicted by Rhiman Han's sword . . .

It had been pure accident, a moment of hot-headed
confusion which had ended in tragedy. Themila hadn't
had an enemy in the world; the small, elderly historian
had been like a second mother to many of the younger
Initiates, and especially so to Tarod when he came,
clanless and injured, to the Castle. Yet she had died -
and with her death the whole savage chain of events had
been unleashed. Cyllan's huddled, broken attitude
recalled the dying Themila, and Tarod was shocked to

realise that the memory brought back all the pain of her
loss, as though from a great distance his lost humanity
was striving to reassert itself.

He crossed the room, ignoring the pebbles which
slipped and scattered under his feet, and knelt beside the
girl. She was alive, and there was no outward sign of
injury; but neither was there any clue as to what had
struck her down. Tarod's immediate thought was of
Drachea, but he dismissed the idea, sensing something
afoot that Drachea couldn't even comprehend, let alone
influence. The atmosphere of this room was subtly
changed, charged . . . some power independent of his
own had been at work, and he couldn't begin to guess at
its source.

But the motivating force was a less urgent consider-
ation. Tarod lifted Cyllan, surprised by her lightness,
and carried her to the bed, taking care to lay her down
gently. She stirred, mumbled something unintelligible
then lapsed into stillness once more, and he stood back,
looking at her. Something had stirred briefly within him,
conjured by the juxtaposition of Cyllan and Themila in
his thoughts, and now, though he tried to dismiss it as
meaningless, another, older part of him was fighting
back. Ghosts of the past had never troubled him before;
the past was lost and could never be regained. The
manner in which he had thwarted Keridil and the Circle
had seen to that when it rendered him soulless and
immortal . . . yet something stirred, and he couldn't
banish it.

On impulse, he sat down on the edge of the bed and
smoothed Cyllan's tangled hair away from her face. Her
lip trembled in response, and her eyelids fluttered spas-
modically. One hand reached up blindly and Tarod took
hold of it, offering her a physical link with consciousness
as she began to awake.

'Drachea . . . ?' Her voice was weak and hesitant.

'Not Drachea.'

Her eyes snapped open and she swore aloud in shock,
a drover's oath that Tarod had never heard uttered in
the Castle. She pulled away from him like a cornered

animal, and he released her hand, the expression on his
face hardening into a thin, humourless smile.

'You've suffered no ill effect from your ordeal, I see.'

'I - I'm sorry. I didn't intend . . . ' She shut her eyes
again, overwhelmed by confusion. She had been trying
to read the stones - something had come, something from
outside; and she'd been so afraid - Uneasily she forced
herself to look at Tarod once more, her eyes hunted. She
feared him too, but at least his was a physical presence,
an anchor to hold her back from the edge of the
nightmare.

'I was trying to read the stones. . .' She had to find an
outlet for the unformed terror, but her tongue couldn't
cope with more than a simple statement.

Tarod asked, more gently, 'What did you see?'

'Something came through the door . . . ' she whis-
pered. He waited, but she offered no further explana-
tion; and the few words she had spoken disquieted him.
Something through the door . . . Either Cyllan had
hallucinated, or she had unwittingly tapped a force that
shouldn't have been able to exist in the Castle, unless he
himself had deliberately conjured it. Another, alien
presence? It surely wasn't possible . . .

Cyllan's voice intruded abruptly on his thoughts. 'I
thought,' she said slowly, deliberately, 'that you were
responsible.'

Tarod's eyes lit angrily. 'You think I have nothing
better to do than divert myself by frightening unde-
fended women. I thank you for the compliment!'

She was unsure of her ground, yet now that the night-
marish memory was giving way to reason she could see
no other answer. 'Who was responsible, then?' she
countered. 'Drachea? I doubt it!'

Her determined aggression amused Tarod. She
wasn't afraid of him, and for some inexplicable reason
he found that pleasing. He laughed, and Cyllan turned
away sharply.

'Mock me if it entertains you,' she said, 'but I've seen
no other power here save yours. And you don't seem
overly concerned how you use it!'

Tarod sighed as the momentary amusement gave way
to irritation. 'Believe what you like,' he retorted coldly.
'I'm not interested in your opinion of me, and I assure
you I had no hand in whatever happened to you. If I'd
anything to gain from - ' And he stopped, suddenly
furious as he realised what he was saying. 'Damn you,
why should I justify myself in your eyes? If you choose to
bring suffering on your own head by dabbling out of
your depth, it's no concern of mine!'

Cyllan didn't reply, but rolled over and hid her face in
the pillow, her attitude radiating mute resentment.
Exasperated, Tarod reached out and took hold of her.
'Look at me, Cyllan.' She resisted and he gripped her
chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. 'I said, look at me!'

She stared back, angry and hurt and defiant at once,
and he said softly, venomously, 'Don't pit yourself
against me. I'd take no pleasure in harming you, but
whether you prosper or perish is of no moment to me
whatever.' He raised his free hand, the fingers curling in
a casual, graceful gesture that nonetheless chilled Cyllan
to the core - then abruptly lowered it again. It would be
so simple to inspire in her a terror beside which her
hallucination would pale to nothing; but there seemed
no point. He could sense the fear in her now, although
she did her best to hide it, and suddenly he was disgusted
with himself. She was irrelevant; the idea of wasting
energy on her was too petty to be worth contemplating-
and yet he had been on the brink of striking at her as
though reacting to some personal slight.

He released her, and she drew back quickly, hunching
against the wall. Irritated, Tarod rose- but before either
of them could speak, the door of the bedchamber was
flung open and Drachea burst in.

'Cyllan! Look what-' And he stopped, eyes widening
as he saw Tarod.

Tarod bowed slightly to him, conveying devastating
contempt in the apparently careless gesture. 'Heir Mar-
grave - I trust your explorations have proved fruitful?'
His gaze alit on the heavy book Drachea carried in his
hands, then moved, amused, to the young man's face.

Drachea paled, and Tarod crossed the room to lift the
volume easily from his fingers and study the cover.

'Very diverting.' He flicked a page or two, then
graciously handed the book back. 'If you have
difficulty understanding its content, I'm at your
disposal.'

Two spots of livid colour flamed into life on Drachea's
cheeks and he made as if to retort angrily; but a brief
movement of Tarod's hand triggered a force that sent
him reeling backwards. His spine connected painfully
with the wall; and by the time he regained breath and
balance, the Adept had gone.

Drachea stared speechless at the still-quivering door,
then in a violent movement swung round and hurled the
book ferociously across the room. The ancient binding
split in half and pages scattered across the floor.

'Curse him, what in the name of all the hells did he
want here?' The question was a savage demand; Tarod
had humiliated Drachea in Cyllan's presence, and he
was using her as a scapegoat for his anger. Sensing the
underlying accusation, Cyllan flared back.

'I don't know what he wanted - I didn't have the
chance to ask him! Something happened while you were
away; something that -'

He interrupted her, dismissing what she had been
about to tell him as of no consequence. 'Never mind
that! I've more important matters at hand.' Fumbling
inside his jacket, he brought out the bundled papers
from the High Initiate's study. 'Tarod might well sneer
at a book from the Castle library, but if he knew I was in
possession of these he'd sing to a different tune! Look -
look at them!' He thrust the sheaf towards her chal-
lengingly. 'I've learned the truth about your Adept
friend, Cyllan. Go on - read for yourself!'

Cyllan made no move to take the papers. The after-
math of shock, coupled with Drachea's disinterest in
her experience and the tension of the brush with Tarod,
had put her on a knife-edge, and she only glared at
him.

'By all that's sacred,' Drachea snapped, 'this is no

time to be childish! These documents are vital - for
Aeoris's sake, will you read them!'

Cyllan's lips whitened and she said harshly, 'And
where do you think that I learned to read?'

He stared at her nonplussed. 'You mean . . . you've
had no schooling?'

'No. I can't read, and I can't write. Is that such a
surprise to you? My clan didn't send me to a tutor-I was
too busy learning to gut fish and herd cattle!'

She felt mortified, hating herself for having had to
admit to her own failing. Drachea continued to stare at
her with an expression that might have been disdain or
pity; she couldn't tell which. Then he made a sharp,
dismissive gesture.

'Damn it, what does it matter? If you can't read them
for yourself, I'll read the documents to you - but you
must listen!' He snatched at her arm, pulling her with
him across the room. 'You've got to realise what's truly
happened here - what Tarod has done, and what he is!'

The urgency in his voice made her quell her resent-
ment. If he had discovered something vital, then any
quarrels and tensions between them should be forgot-
ten, and as he subsided on to the bed she sat beside him,
peering over his shoulder at the papers.

'This,' Drachea said, brandishing what she took to be
a letter, 'was written by the Lady Kael Amion, Senior of
the West High Land Sisterhood Cot - and I don't believe
anyone would call her word into doubt. Listen; she says
"My dear Keridil — I have entrusted this letter to the hand
of my colleague, Sister Erminet Rowald. Your report
came as a great shock to me, and I can only thank Aeoris
that in His wisdom He has seen fit to thwart the fugitive
Tarod, who was apprehended at my own Cot last eve-
ning. Novice Sashka Veyyil — whose circumstances you
are, of course, already aware of- was blessed with the
moral courage to realise her duty, and it is because of her
swift action that we are able to deliver this man into your
safe keeping. It is a sad day for Circle and Sisterhood
alike when such evil is uncovered, but with Light and
Law to guide us we shall prevail. Charity commands that

I should pray for a condemned man's soul; I would
therefore be obliged if you will apprise me of the date set
for Tarod's execution -"

Cyllan interrupted, her voice low and incredulous.
'Execution . . . ?'

Drachea laughed sharply. 'Oh, yes! And there's
more; far more.' He set the letter aside, picked up
another document. 'It's here - in Keridil Toln's own
hand! This is the High Initiate's report of the trial and
planned execution of our good friend Tarod!'

Cyllan stared at the papers, stunned. The writing was
meaningless to her, and she railed against her own defi-
ciency. Something within her protested that Drachea
must be wrong; that the Circle could never have cause to
condemn one of their own . . .

'But Tarod's a high Adept,' she said uneasily. 'That
much we know is true.'

'Adept he may be. But what man is it who carries his
soul in a gemstone?'

'What?'

'It's nothing less than the truth. Tarod's no ordinary
mortal; he never has been. The High Initiate discovered
his real identity.' Drachea paused for dramatic effect,
then added: 'Tarod is not human!'

Cyllan felt a deep-rooted shudder rack her, as though
some inexplicable and indecipherable premonition were
at work. 'Then . . . what is he?'

Drachea looked nervously about the room, as though
convinced that some unholy presence was watching
them. The shadows were still and silent, and, before
courage could fail him, he whispered, 'Chaos.'

The word sent knives through Cyllan's nerves, and
instinctively she made the sign of Aeoris before her
face. Every instinct rebelled against the concept - it
was an impossibility. And Tarod, one of Aeoris's own
servants -

'Chaos is dead . . . ' She barely recognised her voice.
'It - it can't be true, Drachea. It can't!'

'When I was a child,' Drachea said, 'I once heard an
Adept speak at a Summer Quarter-Day celebration. He

exhorted us always to keep faith with the cause for which
the gods came to this world and fought the last great
battle against the Old Ones. He warned us always to be
vigilant, lest Chaos should one day return. And now
... it would seem that his exhortation was well
founded.'

'But Aeoris himself banished Chaos!' Cyllan pro-
tested. To suggest that the dark powers might defy the
gods - ' She shuddered. 'It smacks of blasphemy.'

Then you call the High Initiate a liar?' Drachea coun-
tered. As her eyes widened, he went on, 'Keridil Toln
knew. He discovered what Tarod truly is, and set out to
destroy him.' Again he glanced around the room, then
added darkly, 'It seems that he failed.'

Cyllan stood up and went to the window, staring out at
the now disquietingly familiar vista of the hellfire-lit
night. Unwillingly, she found her gaze drawn to the
Northern spire. No light burned there, and she looked
away.

Chaos. She couldn't make herself believe it. All that
time ago on the cliffs of West High Land, she had met a
man, not a demon. And yet she remembered her terror
when she had woken in this room to find Tarod's hand
gripping hers. He had claimed to know nothing of the
nightmare which had assailed her; now though, her
doubts were swelling into a fearful certainty that only he
could have been responsible. An insane part of her
wanted to give Tarod the benefit of the doubt; but she
knew that to do so could put herself and Drachea into
unimaginable danger. She couldn't take the risk.

Turning back towards the bed she said quietly, 'Read
me the papers, Drachea. Please. I want-I want to know
all that they say.'

And so, while she sat silent beside him, Drachea read
the High Initiate's detailed report. The story began to
form a frighteningly cohesive picture; Tarod's near-
death from an overdose of the Spindrift narcotic, the
taking of the old High Initiate, Jehrek Banamen Toln's
life; the encounter with Yandros, Lord of Chaos, and
the revelation that the gemstone of Tarod's ring was the

repository for a life-essence created by the Chaotic
powers . . . and there was far more, as Tarod and the
High Initiate began to clash. But finally the document
posed its own mystery, ending merely with Keridil
Toln's statement, undated, that 'on this night, the being
called Tarod will die'.

There was utter silence when Drachea stopped speak-
ing. Cyllan's finger traced the wax seal at the foot of the
execution order - he had read it to her, and its stark
simplicity was somehow the ugliest condemnation of all.
She felt the contours of the High Initiate's symbol, the
double circle with its bisecting lightning-flash, and at last
said, softly,

'But he didn't die . . . '

Drachea gave her a look that was impossible to inter-
pret. 'No ... he thwarted them. By halting Time itself.
Gods!' The thought made him shiver, then he collected
himself and managed to summon a faint smile. 'But it
was an empty victory, wasn't it? When the trap was
sprung, he too was caught in its jaws, and now he can't
escape.'

Cyllan hugged herself uneasily and said, 'Unless he
should regain the stone he spoke of, and use it to call
back Time.'

'Yes - and now we know the true nature of that gem!
A soul, born of Chaos ... it doesn't bear thinking
about.' He stood up, strode across the room. 'Just imag-
ine what the consequences of his retrieving that stone
could be! Without it, he's powerful enough - as I can
attest. The Circle have already failed to defeat him once
- can you envisage what he might be capable of, if that
stone were in his possession once more?'

Cyllan could, and shied away from the thought. But
she couldn't escape the other consideration that haunted
her, and to which she could find no answer.

She said, hesitantly, 'And yet without the stone, we
are as trapped as Tarod. We can't leave, and even he
hasn't the power to release us.'

'If he should choose to,' Drachea put in darkly.

Cyllan smiled with irony as she recalled Tarod's words

to her. 'Why should he not? He's not interested in us -
and we're of no use to him.'

'Aren't we?'

She frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean that we might be able to succeed in retrieving
that gem where he has failed. There's something - some
power - preventing him from getting his hands on it. But
if we're not bound by that same power, then we're
invaluable to Tarod.' Drachea paused, thinking. 'We
broke through the barrier that separates the Castle from
the rest of the world. We don't know how it happened,
and neither does he - you saw how shocked he was at our
arrival. If we can reach that stone, he'll use us to do so.
And then . . . ' He let the sentence hang unfinished.

Cyllan looked again towards the blood-red light
beyond the window. The thought of what might happen
once the stone was in Tarod's possession was terrifying;
yet without it, there could be no hope of escape. Eter-
nity, spent in a world enclosed by four black walls,
companioned only by Drachea and by a man who was no
mortal man at all, but owed his origins to something
beyond her comprehension . . . never changing, never
ageing, denied even the release of death. Suddenly she
smiled thinly to herself. Was that prospect so much
worse than the life she had known? At least here there
was no hardship, no endless toil. Here, she wanted for
nothing. Except, perhaps -

Drachea broke abruptly into her reverie. There is a
way,' he said, 'just one way to escape this place without
playing into Tarod's hands. We must find the stone for
ourselves, and use it.'

Cyllan turned and stared at him. 'Find and use it?' she
echoed, incredulous. 'Drachea, this is no child's bauble!
If what is in those papers is true, then that gem is a thing
of Chaos! Are you or I such great adepts that we would
dare to use it, even if we could?'

'We can at least try!' Drachea insisted stubbornly.
'Have you a better plan? No, I see you've not! Look - '
He darted to the bed and scooped up the scattered
documents. 'The High Initiate speaks of a chamber

called the Marble Hall. It seems to be the Circle's sanc-
tum; the place where the most sacred rites are per-
formed and the most sacred artefacts kept.' He grinned.
'You'll recall that Tarod chose to be cryptic on the
subject of the gem's whereabouts. It's my belief that if
we can find the Marble Hall, we'll find that stone, too.'

'A place that for some reason Tarod can't enter . . .'
Cyllan mused. Drachea's theory seemed plausible.

'Or won't. It may be that it's the one thing of which
he's afraid - and that can only be to our advantage.'
Drachea was riffling through the papers. 'There must
surely be some hint here, some idea of the Marble Hall's
location . . .no, nothing!' He threw the papers aside in
frustration.

'You found these,' Cyllan said, indicating the scat-
tered pages. 'There must surely be other documents;
something that will help us.'

'Yes . . . either in the High Initiate's study, or better
still, in the library.' Suddenly Drachea's eyes lit up.
'Gods, Cyllan, the library - it's a treasure-house of
knowledge, the arcane wisdom of centuries! I found it by
chance, and the thought that it's there, open to me
whenever and however I choose - ' He stopped as he saw
that her expression hadn't changed. 'No, well - of
course, to you it would mean little.'

'Indeed,' she said with gentle acerbity.

He had the good grace to blush. 'Naturally, I'm far
more concerned with our plight and how to resolve it
. . . but I'll wager anything that the library will provide
what we need to begin our search. There must be histor-
ical records that explain the Castle's layout.' He recalled
his previous visit to the library, and the memory unset-
tled him. Though nothing would induce him to admit to
fear, he was determined not to return there alone.

Cyllan glanced at the broken book on the floor.
'Tarod already knows of your first visit to the library,'
she reminded him. 'We must take care not to arouse his
suspicions any further.'

Drachea smiled condescendingly. 'What he doesn't
know can't trouble him. Don't concern yourself with

Tarod. He's not as invincible as he seems to think - and
before long, I intend to prove that to him!'

The two figures making their way through the courtyard
were all but hidden by the vast shadows of the Castle
wall, but even the smallest movement amid that dark
stillness was enough to attract attention. Tarod stood by
the window in his unlit room at the top of the spire, his
face expressionless as he watched them creep cautiously
along the colonnaded walk towards the vault door,
Drachea leading and stopping every few paces to make a
gesture that cautioned silence. Like as not he meant to
show Cyllan the treasures he had unearthed in the
library; and from there it seemed logical to anticipate
that they would, eventually, discover the entrance to the
Marble Hall. Tarod had refused to allow himself to
speculate on whether or not they would be able to enter
the Hall - the force that held the Castle in limbo had,
somehow, shifted the peculiar chamber a fraction out of
synchronisation, and he himself was barred from it as
surely as if it hadn't existed. But Cyllan and Drachea had
broken through one barrier ... it was possible that
they could reach the Hall where he had failed.

And if they did? Tarod didn't know what they would
find, but of one fact he was certain - the Marble Hall
held the crucial key to his hope of release. It was the sole
gateway back to the disturbing astral planes through
which he had travelled to find and halt the Pendulum of
Time; and, too, it was the place where the Chaos stone -
his own soul - was trapped.

He looked out of the window again, and saw that the
two distant figures had vanished, leaving the vault door-
way ajar behind them. Briefly, an unaccustomed yet
distantly familiar feeling assailed him; a sense of antic-
ipation coupled with a formless pre-echo of fear. A very
human sensation ... he smiled to himself. Imagination
must be getting the better of him; human feelings lay in
the buried past. Or at least, he had believed so ...

Tarod swung suddenly away from the window, dislik-
ing the unexpected turn his thoughts had taken. Since he

had left Cyllan's room, unable to control the temptation
to swat Drachea aside in the way he might swat an
irritating insect as he left, the encounter had been prey-
ing on his mind. He had little else to think of, but
nonetheless he was unused to being troubled by such
thoughts. The old memories awakened by finding Cyllan
lying senseless on the floor refused to be quieted; and
they were complicated by odd, random recollections
that flashed unbidden into his head. The lightness of the
girl when he had lifted her; the roughness of her skin
when he took her hand to help her back to reality; even
the way she had sworn like some hard-bitten merchant-
sailor at the shock of finding him at her side. Though
afraid of him, she had refused to be intimidated, and
her spirit struck a chord somewhere within him. He
had found himself wondering if, in spite of the indif-
ference he professed to feel, he could trust her . . . and
then the thought had been abruptly curtailed as he
remembered another life, another girl in whom he'd
placed trust.

Sashka Veyyil had been everything Cyllan was not;
beautiful, educated, assured of her place in the world.
Theirs had been, he'd thought, an idyllic match - until
she had callously betrayed him to safeguard her own
standing, and advance her own cause. Sashka now lan-
guished in limbo with the Castle inhabitants; Tarod's
love for her had turned to searing contempt, and
thought of her plight gave him a malevolent satisfaction.
But, against all reason, Cyllan's presence in the Castle
had harked back to those old times, stirred up something
which should have been unable to exist.

He was suddenly angry, both with himself and with
the girl. The concern that had moved him when he found
her unconscious was ashes, and that was how it should
remain. She was nothing to him beyond a cipher that he
might, with fortune on his side, use to further his own
aims; and if she suffered in the process it was of no
moment. To put faith in her would be madness - he
would watch and wait, assess her value to him and make
use of her. Beyond that, she was nothing.

Picking up a book he had already read twice, Tarod
sat down, ignoring the faint and distant voice that
accused him of self-delusion. Such human failings were a
thing of the past. And the past was dead.

*****

Cyllan stared in amazement at the thousands of books
and manuscripts that littered the vault floor and lined
the row upon row of shelves. Starting to move forward
she stumbled over a huge, black-bound tome and hastily
sidestepped it, overawed and afraid of damaging any of
the precious volumes.

Drachea had no such compunction. Now that he had a
companion to bolster his courage, he had forgotten his
first unnerving experience here and was rummaging
among the books, picking out those which seemed to
offer promise. Cyllan watched him, acutely aware of her
own shortcomings - save for making some sense of a
map, she had no part to play in the search for clues.
Discomforted, she wandered to the far side of the vault
where the light seemed a little better . . . then stopped,
noticing a small, low door set deep in an alcove and
invisible but from close quarters. Experimentally she
touched it; it moved, a little stiffly at first, then the
hinges unjammed and it swung fully open.

'Drachea . . . '

He answered with a dismissive grunt, but she
persisted.

'Drachea - look! There's another passage . . . '

His head came up and he looked round - then froze.
He recognised the door - it was the same one he had
unwittingly and unwillingly discovered in his moment of
panic here alone, and he didn't like to be reminded of
that incident.

'Doubtless it's unimportant,' he said carelessly.

'I don't think so . . . ' Cyllan frowned. The narrow,
palely illuminated corridor that sloped steeply away
downwards intrigued her; intuition told her there was
more to it than met the eye, and she took a few steps into

the passage. The light increased; faint still, but
unmistakably growing, as though some hidden source
lay at the end of the corridor. She wanted to explore
further.

'Drachea -I think we should investigate. Perhaps I'm
wrong, but - I think we should.'

She heard Drachea curse impatiently under his
breath, then his footsteps sounded across the flagstones
and he came to join her.

'Look,' she said quietly, pointing. The light . . . '

He saw what she meant, and his curiosity was
aroused. There was, after all, nothing to fear here - no
lurking horrors, no demons, no phantoms, except those
his own mind chose to create.

'Very well,' he said, brushing her aside and taking
the lead. 'If you're set on it, we'll find out where it
leads!'

He set off, walking fast and not waiting for her to keep
up. Cyllan hurried after him - then, barely able to stop
herself on the steep gradient, all but collided with him
as, without any warning, he halted abruptly with an oath
of surprise on his lips.

The door that confronted them was made of metal,
but it was no metal that either had ever seen before. It
gleamed sullenly, like old and tarnished silver, yet the
glow it gave off was sufficient to light the corridor and
filter into the vault beyond. A peculiar, sourceless
illumination . . . something about it made Cyllan's
hackles rise, and she arrested her hand midway to the
door, afraid to touch it.

Drachea had forgotten his scepticism and stared at the
door with burgeoning interest. 'The Marble Hall . . . '
he said, half to himself.

Cyllan glanced quickly at him. 'Do you think it could
be?'

'I don't know. But it would seem possible . . . even
likely.' Licking dry lips, he reached out and gave the
door an experimental push. A tingling sensation ran
from his fingers through his hand and arm, and the door
didn't move.

Drachea withdrew his hand and shook it. 'Whatever
lies beyond, it must be significant. This door's either
locked or magically protected.'

There's a keyhole,' Cyllan said, indicating a small slot
in one side of the silver surface.

'Yes . . . ' Drachea crouched, squinting but being
careful not to touch the door again, then shook his head
and stood up. 'It's impossible to see anything.' Resent-
ment and frustration tinged his voice. 'But it is the
Marble Hall - I feel it in my bones!'

She didn't answer, but continued to gaze at the door.
Her spine was prickling in the way she knew so well; as
though something that lay just beyond the borders of
psychic consciousness were awakening and crawling
towards the surface. Her vision distorted momentarily,
so that she saw the silver door as if from a great distance;
the illusion passed quickly, but when her senses righted
themselves she thought - no, imagined, she told herself
- that she felt a presence on the other side. It lived, it was
aware of them; she felt it waiting and watching . . .

Perhaps Drachea, too, glimpsed something of the
same sensation, for he backed away suddenly, and his
face had lost its colour.

'The key,' he said. 'There must be a key.'

'You searched the High Initiate's study,' Cyllan
reminded him. 'Was there nothing there that you might
have overlooked?'

'I don't know . . . it's possible. Though more likely,
I'd suspect, that if this door leads where we think it does,
the key's in Tarod's possession.' He smiled thinly. 'After
all, if you were in his place wouldn't you take that
precaution against your secret being uncovered?'

It made sense, and if Drachea was right Cyllan didn't
relish the thought of attempting to retrieve the key. Yet
she wanted to open that door and see whatever lay
beyond. Something about this mystery caught and
pulled at her, and it had nothing to do with the enigmatic
jewel. Something was calling to her, summoning her;
and the desire to answer the summons was growing out
of all proportion.

Alarmed by the strength of her own feelings she
moved away from the door, and thought that she heard,
so faintly that it might have been illusion, a soft sigh that
emanated from nowhere and drifted away along the
corridor. She looked back, saw nothing, then realised
that Drachea was as uneasy as she.

'We should go,' she said softly.

He nodded, trying to disguise his relief. 'We'll return.
We'll find the key, somehow, and we'll return.'

He took hold of her hand as they turned and made
their way back towards the library, whether to reassure
her or himself Cyllan didn't know. Reaching the vault,
Drachea closed the small door carefully behind them,
then gathered up the books he had collected.

'I don't know if Tarod ever comes here, but I wouldn't
relish the prospect of meeting him face to face.' His
smiled was forced. 'It might be prudent not to linger.'

What he had sensed beyond the silver door Cyllan
didn't know, and doubted if he would tell her. She said
nothing, only looked back once, speculatively, as they
left the vault and started to climb the stairs.

Chapter 6

Gant Ambaril Rannak was trying to control his impa-
tience and irritation, but it was a losing battle. He stood
staring through the long window of his drawing-room,
his mind not registering the sight of the gradually bur-
geoning gardens, unpleasantly aware of the sound of his
wife sobbing quietly in the background. Today was her
birth-anniversary, and should have been an occasion for
celebration. Instead, they were in the midst of a night-
mare from which there seemed to be no awakening - the
mystery of their eldest son's disappearance.

There should have been news by now. The heir to a
Margravate didn't simply vanish without trace. Some-
one must have seen Drachea leave the market square
with that damned drover-girl, and yet although he had
used all his considerable resources to the full, Gant
could find not one single witness to his son's fate. He
had, at first, tried to face the possibility that the Warp
which had struck Shu-Nhadek on that day had taken
them both, but he knew his son, and his son wasn't such
a fool as to let himself be caught out in such a grisly way.

There was, of course, the theory that the drovers'
leader had been behind the whole thing, setting up the
girl to lure Drachea away and hold him to some form of
ransom. Such crimes weren't unknown, and, with the
increase in lawlessness over the past year or so, there
were a good few ruffians who'd consider the prize well
worth the risk. In the first throes of fury and anguish
Gant had had the drover imprisoned and mercilessly
interrogated, but it soon became apparent that Kand
Brialen knew nothing of the affair. His horror at the
occurrence was painfully genuine, and even if it

stemmed solely from his fear of losing a wealthy cus-
tomer rather than any concern for his own niece, Gant
had grudgingly been forced to abandon his suspicions.

And so, frantic for news and frustrated at every turn,
Gant had applied all his considerable resources to what
had been, thus far, an utterly fruitless search. The
province militia under his command had unearthed
nothing; the seers of the Sisterhood had exerted their
skills to no avail . . . and now it seemed that even his
last hope would fail him.

He turned to where the heavily built man with the
Initiate's gold insignia on his shoulder stood conferring
in a lowered voice with the Lady Silve Bradow, Senior of
the province's largest Sisterhood Cot. It was by sheer
good fortune that Hestor Tay Armeth, a fourth-rank
Adept of the Circle, had been staying at the Cot when
Gant's messenger arrived to seek the Sisterhood's aid,
and Lady Silve - who was newly promoted to her office
and had never before had to deal personally with such a
crisis - had looked immediately to Hestor for advice.

But now it appeared that the Circle's representative
was powerless to help. Far from offering the solution
that Gant and his family craved, Hestor had thus far
done little but prevaricate. The Margrave had a suspi-
cion that there was more behind his dissembling than
met the eye, but couldn't draw him, and his patience,
goaded by the worry that ate at every fibre of his being,
was running out.

He turned on his heel, clearing his throat loudly to
draw their attention. The Margravine sniffed and wiped
her eyes, looking to her husband with tearful hope.

'Adept.' Gant spoke politely, but with an edge.
'You'll pardon my speaking bluntly, but this matter
grows more urgent with every minute that passes! My
son, the Heir Margrave, has disappeared, and all efforts
to find him have failed. I turn to the Circle for help, as
anyone might surely be entitled to do in such circum-
stances - and yet it seems you can offer me nothing! I ask
one simple question of you - can you aid me, or can you
not?'

Hestor and Lady Silve exchanged a glance, then the
Sister-Senior clasped her hands and stared down at the
thickly carpeted floor as Hestor replied.

'Margrave, all I have said to you is that I can make no
promises. There are complexities involved which - '

Gant interrupted him. 'As I see it, sir, the only com-
plexity is the mysterious nature of my son's disap-
pearance! Surely, in this case, there's reason enough to
send word to the High Initiate?' He licked his lips. 'I
know Keridil Toln, as I knew his father Jehrek; and I'm
certain that he would wish to be informed and to offer
the Circle's resources.' Gant paused, wondering if
Hestor would react to the gently implied threat; then,
when the man appeared unmoved, he finished, 'Of
course, if you would prefer to take the responsibility on
your own shoulders . . . '

The Adept smiled reservedly and without warmth. 'I
wouldn't presume, Margrave. Naturally, I'll ensure that
a message reaches the Castle; but of course these things
take time, and time may not be on our side.'

Gant hunched his shoulders gloomily. 'Nevertheless,
it seems to be our only hope, as all else has failed.' He
glanced at his wife. 'I've heard tell that experiments are
being made in using hunting birds as messengers in cases
of emergency. If we could use such a method, we could
send word to the High Initiate far faster than any man
could ride.'

'I've heard something of it,' Hestor said cautiously.
'Falconers in Empty Province have been using birds,
and the idea is also being tried in Wishet. But as to its
reliability - '

'Damn it, surely it's worth the attempt?' Gant
exploded, then with an effort brought his temper under
control. 'Forgive me- but surely you can understand my
feelings? The Lady Margravine is distracted with worry
and grief - and if the Circle can't aid us, then there's
nothing left!'

For a moment Hestor looked away, then seemed to
steel himself and met the Margrave's gaze once more.

'You're quite right, of course, Margrave - I ask your

pardon if I've seemed doubtful or reluctant. I can't claim
to know how the Circle can help you . . . but there will
be a way. You have my assurance.'

Gant grunted. 'Then you'll inform the High Initiate?'

'With all possible speed.'

The Margravine sighed softly and her husband moved
across the room to pat her shoulder with stiff affection.
'There, my dear. You heard what the Adept said. We
have the Circle to help us. If any power in the world can
restore Drachea to us, they can.' He glanced at Hestor
again. 'Though the occasion won't be as festive as nor-
mal under the circumstances, we have a small family
gathering at dinner to mark the Margravine's birth-
anniversary. I'd consider it a pleasure if you and the
Lady would join us.'

Hestor bowed slightly. 'Thank you, Margrave, but I
think I'd be neglecting my duty if I didn't set the Circle's
investigation in train without any delay. I've promised to
escort the Lady Silve back to her Cot, and then I must be
on my way North.'

Privately, Gant was relieved by their refusal. The
anniversary meal would be an unhappy enough affair
without the presence of strangers to add further con-
straint. He rang for a servant to bring the visitors' horses
to the front Of the house, and bade them a formal
farewell at the door. As they clattered away in the
direction of the drove-road, he watched them, frowning
against the low-angling Sun and wishing that he could
identify the new sense of unease that moved in him.
Something was wrong. The Adept's assurances had
been too glib, and he had the unshakable impression
that the two of them were concealing something from
him. Whether it directly concerned his son he couldn't
tell; but instinct told him that it boded ill.

The horses and their riders were out of sight, and a
stray cloud moved across the Sun's face, casting a grim
shadow over the grounds. Gant unclenched his hands,
which he had been holding unconsciously rigid, then
turned and, stooping like an old man, went back into the
house.

'I wish I'd not been forced to lie to him.' Hestor reined in
to allow a lumbering wagon to pass on the narrow road.
'It sets a bad precedent.'

Lady Silve shook her head. 'You had no choice,
th-Hestor.' The odd speech impediment that marred her
words was a quirk she had had since childhood. 'We
dared not, after all, th-tell him the truth.'

The Adept sighed through clenched teeth. 'So what
am I to do? Send a message to the Star Peninsula that
can't be delivered? I pity the Margrave, I feel for him -I
have children of my own - but I've far more urgent
matters to worry about than the disappearance of a
feckless youth who's probably living wild with some
whore not half a day's ride from here!'

Silve narrowed her eyes. 'That's not a sentiment that
th-becomes you, Hestor.'

'No ... no; I'm sorry; it was an unworthy thought.
Put it down to the worry ... I can't stop thinking of my
own family at the Castle, and wondering what's become
of them . . . what's become of them all.'

'There's still been no word?' she asked.

The Adept shook his head. 'Nothing. And with each
day that passes I fear more and more that something's
terribly wrong. I've been over it in my mind time and
again and I can't find an answer that makes any sense.
If Keridil had some intention of sealing the Castle
off from the world, we'd have known of it. Even if
he couldn't reveal the purpose, he'd have given
warning! But this . . . ' He shook his head again,
helplessly.

'Rumours are spreading rapidly,' Lady Silve said, her
voice sombre. 'At first the speculation was th-confined
to the Northern provinces, but now there are stories
abroad th-everywhere. It won't be long before they
reach the Margrave's ears.'

'And all the while we sit helplessly by and await word
from those who returned to the Peninsula.' Hestor shiv-
ered. 'Part of me is afraid to hear the news they might
bring, I'll willingly admit it.'

They rode on in silence for a few minutes before Silve

said diffidently, 'Do you have any - personal theories,
Hestor? As to what might have th-occurred at the
Castle?'

The Adept didn't reply at first and she wondered if
he'd heard the question. But as she was about to repeat
it, he suddenly said, 'No, Lady, I haven't. Or at least
. . . none that I dare allow to take root.'

She nodded, and made the Sign of Aeoris over her
breast. 'We must pray for guidance.'

'Guidance?' Hestor echoed. 'I'm not sure, Lady; I'm
not sure. Maybe we'd do better to pray to Aeoris for
deliverance.'

*****

Cyllan lay on the wide bed in her room, fighting the
weariness that was trying to break down her defences. In
this timeless place such concepts as hunger and thirst
and tiredness were, she knew, illusory, but events were
taking their toll of her energy and she wished that she
could have simply closed her eyes and slept a dreamless,
untroubled sleep.

But in truth, she was afraid to rest. Disturbing and
unwanted thoughts were crowding into her mind, and
however hard she tried she couldn't banish them. On
their return from the library vault Drachea had hurried
away to his own chamber with his precious hoard of
books; she'd wished he would stay, but he had either not
understood her hints or chosen to ignore them, and had
left her alone.

Cyllan didn't want to be alone with her thoughts. She
needed a distraction to stop them from overtaking her
and gaining a painful, clawlike hold; she felt defenceless
against them, and reflected unhappily that even Tarod's
company would have been preferable to this solitude.

Tarod . . . she rolled over and sat up, angry and a
little frightened by the fact that her chain of con-
sciousness had led inexorably back to its starting point.
Since she had awoken to find him here beside her she
had had no chance to analyse her thoughts and feelings,

but now they demanded attention. She had accused
Tarod of perpetrating the psychic horror that attacked
her in this room; he had sarcastically denied it, and -
albeit without good reason - Cyllan found herself
believing him.

Or was she a not altogether unwilling victim of self-
delusion? Drachea had accused her of prejudice, and
she was honest enough to admit that it would be an easy
enough trap to fall into. For many months she had
carefully schooled herself to the certainty that her path
and Tarod's would never cross again; their two brief
meetings had been meaningless coincidence, and to
hope for more - as, she admitted, she had done - was
childish and stupid. But now they had crossed, in cir-
cumstances which her wildest nightmares could never
have conjured; and all the old memories were clashing
painfully with the grim reality of the present. Tarod's
coldness, his sometime malevolence, the sheer power he
could command, appalled her . . . and then had come
Drachea's revelation.

She still couldn't believe it. Even with the High Initi-
ate's own testimony before her, the thought that Tarod
was no man but a thing of Chaos was too terrible to face.
Those dark and ancient powers of evil were nothing
more than an ancestral memory to Cyllan; but the mem-
ory was deep-rooted, and somewhere, unimaginably far
back over the generations, were the ghosts of her clan
forefathers who had died fighting the monstrous forces
of the Old Ones. She had learned and believed - as
everyone learned and believed - that Chaos was dead.
Now she was confronted with one who, on the word of
the High Initiate himself, was the embodiment of that
evil, incarnated from the hell of the remote past.

And, worst of all, one whom she had once thought she
could love . . .

The one fact that she had been desperately avoiding,
shying away from at every turn, was suddenly coldly and
harshly clear in her mind, and the thought of it made her
freeze inwardly. If the accusations were true, then she
had fallen under the spell of a demonic power,

something so monstrous as to be almost beyond con-
ception. If the accusations were true . . .

Cyllan told herself that she dared not allow her mind
to follow that path. To weaken now, and to doubt, was
the way to damnation. She had to believe, or she'd be
lost.

Unhappiness and confusion were eating at her like a
disease, and her restlessness was a constant torment.
She rose, paced across the room and then back, not
knowing what she wanted, what she felt, what she could
do. To confide in Drachea would only make matters
worse; his interest in her well-being - as was becoming
abundantly clear - extended only so far as it affected his
own, with a small but patronising measure of common
humanity to mitigate. Wryly, she reflected that were it
not for the predicament which had thrown them forcibly
together, he would have considered her utterly beneath
his notice. Tarod's arrogance had at least some sub-
stance beyond accident of birth . . .

Abruptly furious with herself for making such com-
parisons, she swung round, clenching her fists in sheer
bitter frustration. She couldn't stay in this room, like
some fragile flower awaiting rescue by her paramour -
the idea, when applied to herself, made her want to
laugh aloud. Drachea might choose to study books as an
answer to their plight; she needed more direct and active
means. And immediately she thought of the vault, and
the silver door with its mystery.

That place had chilled her, and yet it had fascinated
her, too. Caution had thus far made her resist the lure of
returning, but the lure was there all the same. As if
something called, something that lay behind the door,
waiting . . .

She shivered. She had been enticed by such feelings
before, and wouldn't care to repeat the experiences
they'd brought. But she had to do something . . . and
her frustration was strong enough to overcome fear.

Suddenly decisive, Cyllan slipped out of her room into
the gloomy passage. Drachea's door was firmly shut,
and as she passed it she paused, listening; but no sound

came from within. Silent as a cat, Cyllan hurried away
towards the stairs.

Strangely, she felt none of the nervousness she had
anticipated as she descended the long flight of stairs to
the library vault. Rather, she had a sense of returning
home; an inexplicable tightness that baffled her. The
vault was dark, the small door in the alcove as they had
left it: cautiously she pushed it open, then stepped into
the sloping passage. Her bare feet made no sound, and
the only thing to break the utter quiet was the soft hush
of her own breathing.

The silver door awaited her, glowing, but the glow
seemed somehow softened. Quite why she had come to
stand before it again Cyllan didn't know; it was locked,
she couldn't enter the chamber beyond . . . yet it had
seemed the right, the only, thing to do. And now her
instinct was at work again, urging her to touch, to try, to
dare . . .

Remembering the shock Drachea had received,
Cyllan was reluctant to touch the peculiar metal surface;
but knew she couldn't merely stand and stare. Slowly,
she reached out . . .

There was no shock. Her palm came to rest on the
door and it felt warm; unyielding, but almost alive. She
drew breath, exerted a gentle strength, pushed -

Her head snapped back with a stunned reflex as an
instantaneous and blinding flash of light slammed
against her inner vision. A star - a seven-rayed star -
then it was gone as shockingly as it had come, and she
stared in astonishment as the silver door began, slowly
and silently, to swing open.

There was light, an eerie, nebulous coruscation of
mist, shifting and shimmering and deceiving the eye.
Through it Cyllan thought she could see slender pillars
that reached to an invisible ceiling, but they too seemed
to move and change with the ever changing light. It was
as though she had opened a door on to a fable-world, a
place of miraculous strangeness and soul-tearing
beauty; and she bit her lip hard against an irrational

surge of emotion. Slowly, not knowing if she dared
advance or if her presence would sully this silent perfec-
tion, she moved forward a pace, then another, until the
mists enveloped her, their light playing on her skin and
transforming her into some denizen of their own strange
dimension.

The Marble Hall . . . This could be no other place!
Awed, Cyllan advanced, gazing in wonderment at the
vast chamber which seemed to have no boundaries, at
the fascinating patterns of the jewel-hued mosaic floor.
It was a masterpiece, surpassing anything she could have
imagined - surely, she told herself, surely it could not
have been created by human hands!

She was so entranced by the undreamed-of beauties of
this magical place that all else was forgotten - until,
through the shimmering curtains of light, she saw some-
thing that jarred with the Hall's serenity. It loomed
black, angular and ugly out of the mist, and as she drew
nearer she saw that it was a great block of wood, roughly
the length and breadth of a man, that stood waist-high
like some crude altar. Pitted, scarred, clearly very
ancient, it was cruelly out of place among such beauty,
and something about it made Cyllan recoil. It seemed to
reek of decay and death and despair, and she skirted
widely round it, not wanting to move too close lest its
aura should touch her too.

And it was in changing her direction to avoid the black
block that she came face to face with the statues.

'Aeoris!' The oath was out before she could prevent it,
and Cyllan made the Sign before her heart in hasty
apology for such irreverence. Her eyes widened, barely
able to take in the sight that confronted her.

There were seven of them, towering figures which
rose out of the mist like something from a nightmare.
They were shaped like men, but gigantic; and the decep-
tive light playing and shifting over them gave a terrible
illusion of movement. They might at any moment have
stepped down from their stone plinths and advanced,
like giants, towards her.

But it was an illusion . . . they were statues, nothing

more. And yet, though she couldn't see them clearly,
Cyllan felt a deep thrill of awed recognition. Seven
statues . . . seven gods . . . this, then, was the most
sacred sanctum, the Circle's own temple to Aeoris . . .

Fearing to commit a sacrilege by daring to look more
closely at such holy artefacts, Cyllan was yet unable to
resist moving nearer to the statues. Throughout the land
she had seen many religious celebrations, bowed before
many images of the White Lords; but never before had
she been privileged to gaze upon the face of Aeoris in
such an exalted place. She drew closer to the towering
figures, staring up through the mists like a transfixed
child, to see the carven features of the seven gods.

Disappointment filled her as she saw that the statues
had no faces. The features of each one had been thor-
oughly and systematically hacked away until no detail
remained, and the sight of such desecration shocked
Cyllan to the core. But the statues were incredibly
ancient - the black stone was worn and pitted with the
ravages of countless centuries, and she realised suddenly
that this sacrilege might have taken place even before
the first Initiates made the Castle their stronghold.
Astounded by her discovery, she peered up again at the
towering figures -

And she stumbled back with a cry of shock.

Slowly, superimposed on the ruined and jagged stone,
faces were forming, manifesting fully even as she
looked. Those faces gazed impassively down on her,
serene and immortal. But the serenity was shot through
with malevolence; the features, though beautiful as only
gods could be, sharp-etched and cruel; the eyes ice-cold
and filled with a proud evil. These were not the faces of
Aeoris and his holy brethren! These were the antithesis
of Light, bringers of darkness and mayhem . . . and she
knew them!

Cyllan's heart pounded agonisingly in her breast as
she stared at the nearest of the statues - and she remem-
bered a moment in Shu-Nhadek, just before the Warp
had come shrieking through the town to snatch her and
Drachea, when she had stared in fascinated horror at the

grim, gaunt figure that beckoned like a nemesis from the
street, outlined against the insane sky. That face - she
could never forget that face!

Stunned by shock, yet unable to find the compulsion
to turn her head, she looked at the second figure which
stood beside the first. And what she saw made her slam a
fist against her mouth to stop herself from crying out
aloud. If the first face had been familiar to her, then the
second was infinitely more so - and in one horrifying
instant it confirmed everything the High Initiate's testi-
mony had revealed, and swept away all possible doubt.

Cyllan turned, almost losing balance in her haste, and
ran towards the silver door, now barely visible in the
coruscating mist. Reaching it, she flung herself through
and raced, sobbing for breath, up the steep slope to the
vault. The vault door crashed behind her; she didn't
hesitate, but stumbled over the scattered books towards
the stairs -

In the gloom a dark shape moved, materialising out of
the shadows. Powerful hands grasped her wrists, spun
her around - and Cyllan came face to face with Tarod.

'No!' The word was a full-throated scream and, with
the strength of panic, she twisted free and plunged
towards the door. She had almost reached it when it
slammed shut, and she cannoned into the unyielding
wood with tremendous force. Tarod caught her as she
reeled back, stunned, and Cyllan knew that she couldn't
escape him. Sick with the dizzy aftermath of her colli-
sion, she could offer no further resistance as Tarod
swung her to face him. Her back was pinned against the
door now, and all she could do was turn her head aside,
every muscle in her body rigid.

'Don't touch me,' she hissed through clenched teeth.

He didn't reply; neither did his grip slacken. Cyllan
shut her eyes, not knowing what he'd do to her and
aware that she was powerless to fight him. Fear and hate
surged in her, but she was impotent.

'Cyllan . . . ' Tarod's voice was soft with menace.
'You will answer me, and you'll tell me the truth. Where
have you been?'

She bit her lip until a bead of blood formed, shaking
her head violently. She expected him to hurt her, but he
didn't. Although the pressure of his fingers increased, he
only said, almost gently, 'Tell me, Cyllan.'

Startled by the tone she looked at him - and saw the
iron-hardness in his green eyes. He had no need to harm
her physically. He could destroy her sanity with a flick of
his fingers if he chose to, and they both knew it. She
struggled with her tongue, knowing she was defeated
but striving not to show weakness.

'I - ' The words came at last. 'Through the corridor
. . . the silver door . . . '

To the Marble Hall?'

'Yes

'And then?'

The green eyes still held hers, and she didn't dare
lie. 'I'd thought the door was locked, but ... it
opened.'

Tarod ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip. 'Yes,'
he said softly, almost to himself, 'I thought so . . . ' To
Cyllan's surprise he released her arms and turned away,
walking slowly across the vault towards the alcove.
Watching him, she began to edge one hand towards the
latch of the door at her back. If she could open it silently,
she might -

'The door won't open,' Tarod said, without looking at
her. 'It will stay closed until I release it.'

Her cheeks were afire with shame at her own naivety
when he turned to face her again. For a long moment he
regarded her with detached interest, then he said,

'Why are you so afraid to answer my questions?'

'I'm not afraid.' She couldn't look at him; the memory
of the statue's carved face was too strong.

'Ah, but you are. Why? Do you fear reprisal?' He
smiled, though it wasn't a kindly smile. 'I could hurt you,
if it suited me to do so, or perhaps if you angered me.
But I'd prefer otherwise.'

The utter certainty that he could do precisely as he
chose with her snapped Cyllan's self-control. She knew
what he was; knew that she had nothing to lose, and

something awoke in her that made her fatalistically care-
less. If she was damned, then let the damnation be
complete - she could at least hold to what little pride she
had left.

Her voice suddenly stronger, she spat back defiantly,
'Would you? I doubt that!' She took a step towards him,
shaking. 'Why don't you destroy me, Tarod? I'm
nothing to you - I'm of no value!' One hand went to the
collar of the shirt she wore, and in a single, violent
movement she tore it, exposing her throat and the slight,
pale swell of her breasts. 'Isn't this how a sacrifice should
be prepared? You care nothing for human life- kill me!'

Tarod didn't move. Instead, the cool expression on
his face gave way to another smile, but this time there
was a faint trace of warmth in it. Quietly, he said,
'You're very courageous, Cyllan. But your courage is
misplaced. I don't intend to harm you; it would be
pointless, and I've no desire for it. So perhaps I care a
little more for human life than you think.' He came
towards her, and she stood rigid as he laid a hand lightly
on her breast where the shirt was ripped. 'I ask only one
thing of you - that you tell me what you found in the
Marble Hall.'

His touch was cool, but physical, human . . . Cyllan
suddenly felt confused as warring impressions clashed in
her head. She feared his wrath if he should discover what
she had seen - but fear of what he still might do if she
kept silent was stronger, and she whispered, 'The stat-
ues . . . '

'Ah . . . the statues.' Tarod nodded. 'Yes. And what
else?'

'There was a block of wood - a great black slab. I - it
was a repellent thing.' Her fear was receding now; he
seemed unmoved by the fact that she had seen those
sculptured monstrosities, and though his lack of reaction
puzzled her she was grateful for it. She had the temerity
to look up at him, and saw that his eyes were narrowed
and his expression set, as though mention of the block
had revived some dark thought.

'Repellent,' he repeated speculatively. 'I'm a little

surprised at your choice of words, but . . . they're apt
enough. And was there anything more?'

'No,' she said. 'Nothing.'

A pause. 'You're certain of that?'

She remembered the stone, and Drachea's theory that
it was hidden somewhere in the Marble Hall. She'd seen
no sign of it ...

She nodded. 'Yes. I'm certain.'

Tarod tilted her face up, studied it intently, then
relaxed. 'Very well; I see you're telling me the truth.'
For some reason which Cyllan couldn't begin to guess at,
he seemed gratified by the fact, though it would have
been easy enough for him to wring the answer out of her
had she lied. He stood motionless a little longer, then his
hand moved from her breast to the torn fabric of her
shirt, and he folded it gently back over her.

'Cover yourself,' he said. 'And I'll hear no more talk
of sacrifice. Go back to Drachea, and tell him what
you've discovered.'

She frowned. Tell him? But - '

Tarod laughed, a harsh sound that contrasted sharply
with his previous manner. 'Then tell him or not, as you
please - it makes no difference to me! Drachea may like
to play his childish games, but he's no threat. If he were,
he'd no longer be alive.'

The words were casual enough, their meaning all too
clear. Cyllan had no answer; she merely nodded and
turned away. This time the door opened at a touch;
beyond, the long flight of stairs led up towards the
courtyard.

'I'll see you again,' Tarod said quietly as she set her
foot on the first step. Whether or not his words implied a
threat Cyllan didn't know, and didn't care to speculate.

When Cyllan was gone, Tarod stood staring down at the
scattered books around his feet. He felt sure that
Drachea had raided the library for a second time, but
neither knew nor cared what the young man might have
unearthed in his searches. Even the greatest rituals were

of little use in the hands of an amateur; Drachea was
irrelevant - and Tarod had other matters on his mind.

He walked towards the narrow door set in its alcove,
and quietly opened it. The comparatively brilliant light
from the passage beyond flowed over him, giving a
ghastly tinge to his already pale face, and though he was
tempted to tread the familiar way to the Marble Hall
once more, he resisted the temptation. He could gain
nothing by it - the Hall was, as always, barred to him.

Yet Cyllan had been able to enter . . .

It was what Tarod had suspected and, in one sense, it
was a hope fulfilled. Somewhere in that place - on the
physical plane or not, he didn't know - lay the single
clear jewel that was the focus of everything; and now he
knew that he could use Cyllan, as he had intended, to
find it and restore it to him. Yet the knowledge brought
only a desolate satisfaction. With the stone, he would be
again what Fate had made him; a being whose origins lay
not with humanity, but with Chaos. The ancient powers
would be restored; no man could gainsay him; and he
could, if he chose, abandon all pretence of mortality to
rise again to the heights which he had once, in immortal
form, commanded.

Since the moment when he had broken through the
final astral barrier to halt the Pendulum of Time, he had
never once questioned that desire. It had been in him
like a banked fire, only waiting for an opportunity to
burst into flame. But now it seemed distant and unreal.
The goal, suddenly so close, had lost its meaning.

Once, he recalled, he had renounced the Chaos stone
with all the passion of which he had, then, been capable.
He had pledged himself to destroy it, even if it meant his
own destruction, and when the Circle turned against him
he'd fought them, sublimating his loyalty as an Initiate
to the greater loyalty he owed to Aeoris and the White
Lords. Since losing the stone, and his humanity with it,
he had forgotten that desperate pledge, but it was haunt-
ing him now where by rights it should be dead and
buried.

For the first time since his final defeat of the Circle,

Tarod was beginning to question himself and his
motives. He believed he had lost his humanity . . . but
human emotions, far in the past and, he'd thought,
unattainable, were calling to him again. Memories clam-
oured in his mind where there had been only cold intel-
lect; a sensation that he recognised as pain constricted
him. It was as though a window had opened, allowing
him to look back on a bright, once treasured world that
he could no longer reach, and for the first time those
memories hurt.

He closed the door again, troubled and unsure
whether the feeling within him was anger or sorrow.
Briefly, when she had stood defiantly before him and
challenged him to kill her, he had wanted to trust Cyllan
with the full truth - but the old, ingrained cynicism held
him back as he remembered Sashka, who had so manip-
ulated his trust for her own purposes. Cyllan wasn't
Sashka - the drover-girl, by comparison, was as trans-
parent as a child, and even if she should prove duplicious
she would still be no threat; yet a deep-rooted desire not
to make the same mistake twice had stayed his tongue.
That, and the certain knowledge that, were she to realise
his true nature, she would turn against him as surely and
as violently as the Circle had done. Though he refused to
explore his reasons, he didn't want to count Cyllan as an
enemy.

Tarod was unaccustomed to indecisiveness, but now
he felt adrift. Feelings were moving him where pre-
viously there had been nothing; his path no longer
seemed clear. For the first time he doubted his own
motivation . . . and the doubt gave birth to the first
faint stirrings of fear.

Very gently he closed the door in the alcove, shutting
off all but a faint filtering glow of light from the Marble
Hall that seeped under the old wood. With an effort he
put all the unhappy thoughts out of his mind - it was a
technique he knew well, and had used on many
occasions. His face was a mask, as impassively unread-
able as carved stone, but his green eyes were unquiet as
he walked out of the library.

Chapter 7

'It's the final proof!' Drachea clasped Cyllan's shoulders
and spun her round the room excitedly. 'It's all the
evidence we need, Cyllan! Gods - to think that the
Marble Hall should yield such a find. The stone must be
there - it must be!'

Cyllan disentangled herself from his grasp, disquieted by
his exuberance. 'Surely it's no cause for jubilation?' she said.
'It's proof that we're facing a power we can't hope to combat!'

Drachea dismissed her doubts with a careless wave.
Tarod's not invincible. Without that jewel, as the High
Initiate's testimony says, he can't call the forces of
Chaos to his aid. And if we can find the stone, and
restore it to the Circle - '

Cyllan laughed, a short, sharp bark with little humour
in it. 'And how are we to do that?' she demanded. 'How
are we to call back Time?'

Drachea smiled. 'It's not as impossible as you might
think. I've been studying the books I brought from the
library, and all the Circle's rites and rituals are there, in
incredible detail. I'm convinced that I'll find the answer
in one of those volumes.' His eyes lit up with a fanatical
zeal. 'Just think, Cyllan - just think what might result if
we can restore the Circle to the world, and deliver the
perpetrator of this evil into their hands!'

His use of the word we, Cyllan knew, meant nothing-
in his imagination Drachea saw himself as the Circle's
sole saviour; and doubtless envisaged receiving all
honour and glory as a result. He was a fool, she thought,
if he believed that the path to such an achievement
would be easy; yet he was brimming with confidence,
already convinced that he'd succeed.

'Do you know,' he said, sobering a little when she
didn't appear to share his excitement, 'that I discovered
in one of those tomes the rite that the Circle must have
intended to use to destroy Tarod.' Cyllan turned, and he
went on, 'The wooden altar you saw - it's a very ancient
artefact, rarely used. It's an execution block.'

Cyllan's stomach contracted, and she understood why
the black wood slab had carried such an ugly aura.
Unbidden, an image flashed through her mind of how a
man might look, stretched out on that pitted surface,
awaiting the final fall of the knife or sword ... or
something worse . . . and she shuddered.

'Yes - it's not a pleasant ceremony,' Drachea told her,
with an edge of relish that she found repellent. 'And it's
used only in the most extreme circumstances. Doubt-
less, when Tarod is in the Circle's hands once more,
they'll conduct that rite where they failed before.'

She couldn't stop herself; the words were uttered
before she realised it, and her voice was angry. 'And you
find such a prospect pleasing?''

'Don't you?' Drachea frowned at her. 'This isn't a
man we're dealing with - it's a denizen of Chaos! Damn
it, would you rather see such a monster loose in the
world?'

I'd rather not see anyone die so barbarically, Cyllan
thought, but held her tongue. She was discomforted by
the fact that some inner compulsion had made her come
to Tarod's defence, but told herself it was nothing more
than Drachea's ghoulishness which had offended her.
Nonetheless, the thought of Tarod's fate if Drachea
should succeed- no, if she and Drachea should succeed,
for surely their cause was the same - chilled her to the
marrow.

If Drachea was aware of her misgivings he chose to
ignore them, too caught up in his own plans to heed
anything else.

'We must return to the Marble Hall,' he said
decisively, 'and find that jewel. And we'd be wise not to
delay in what we have to do.' He stood up again, hugging
himself. 'I still have the High Initiate's papers in my

possession. If Tarod were to discover them, I don't care
to speculate about how he might react. I think it might
be prudent to return them as quickly as possible.' He
glanced towards the door. Though the Gods know I'd
feel a good deal happier if I were armed before making
any further sorties in this place.'

'There must be weapons in the Castle,' Cyllan said,
though she privately doubted that a blade would have
any value against the dangers that lurked here. 'At the
Inauguration festival there were tournaments - sword-
fighting. I saw none of them, but I heard the tales. And
Tarod used to carry a knife . . . '

Drachea gave her an odd look, faintly tinged with
suspicion, but only said, 'Very well. Then you must find
those weapons. Try the Castle stables - in Shu-Nhadek,
the militia keep their arms close by their horses, and it's
a sound enough principle. Bring me a sword, light but
well balanced.' He paused. 'That is, if you know how to
judge a good blade.'

Cyllan's eyes narrowed. Drachea had probably car-
ried a sword only two or three times in his life, and then
for ceremonial purposes. She had had a knife of her
own, once; a wicked weapon with a curved blade and
bone hilt. She had used it to slit open the face of one of
her uncle's hirelings who'd thought he could take advan-
tage of his master's drunken stupor to rape his niece and
make his escape with three prize horses, and the man's
yells had roused the entire camp. Kand Brialen had sent
the would-be thief on his way with a broken arm and
three cracked ribs - 'one for each good piece of horse-
flesh' as he'd grimly put it - and had rewarded Cyllan's
vigilance by giving her a quarter-gravine and selling her
knife at the next town they reached.

She said, 'I can judge well enough, Drachea. And I'll
take a dagger for myself if there's anything suitable to be
found.'

He was slightly taken aback by her tone, but collected
himself quickly with a shrug. Then let's not delay. I'll
return the papers to their rightful place, and we'll meet
again here when our errands are done.'

Drachea was unwilling to admit to feeling frightened as
he headed down the long corridor that led to the High
Initiate's rooms, but the sick pounding of his heart gave
the lie to it. With Keridil Toln's and now Cyllan's revela-
tions fresh in his mind, the thought of meeting Tarod
with these incriminating documents in his possession
was almost enough to send him bolting back to the
sanctuary of his room. He wished he'd given his task to
Cyllan and gone himself in search of weapons; but it was
too late for regret. And surely, he told himself, trying to
bolster his failing nerve, in all the vastness of the Castle
the odds against encountering the Adept weighed
strongly in his favour.

Part of the reasoning behind Drachea's decision to
carry out this errand himself lay in the fact that he was
growing more mistrustful of Cyllan. To begin with, he'd
dismissed the obvious friction between them as nothing
more than the natural outcome of the differences in their
station - she was, after all, so far beneath him that in
happier circumstances he wouldn't have associated with
her at all - but now he wasn't so sure. She had met the
Castle's dark master before; she seemed unwilling to
condemn him for what he was - once or twice Drachea
had deliberately tested her, and she'd leaped to Tarod's
defence like a watchdog. When conflict finally came, as
it must, he wondered whether she'd be so blinded to the
truth that she wouldn't have the sense to fight on the side
of justice.

Still, Cyllan was a minor consideration. In the final
extreme she was expendable, and he for one wouldn't
particularly mourn her loss. Any debt he owed her
Drachea now considered repaid in full - had he not
helped her, guided her and instructed her in everything
since their unwarranted arrival here? If his plans, which
were admittedly embryonic as yet, worked, then she'd
do well to realise that his wisdom was superior to hers!

He had almost reached the end of the corridor, and
unease gave way to relief as the High Initiate's door
came in view. With the documents safely restored,
Tarod could never discover that they had been disturbed

and read; and any advantage, however trivial, was valu-
able.

He lifted the door-latch -

'Well, my friend. Your excursions grow bolder.'

Drachea spun round, jaw dropping in horror as he saw
Tarod standing behind him.

The tall Adept stepped forward, smiling, though the
smile didn't deceive Drachea. Tarod's green eyes were
alight with an unholy fire, and Drachea knew that he was
in a very dangerous mood.

'Such ambition doesn't become you, Drachea,' Tarod
continued softly. 'It hints of a willingness to step into a
dead man's shoes before the funeral has taken place.'

'I was - I merely intended - ' Drachea struggled to
find an answer that might sound plausible, and Tarod
watched his efforts with chilly detachment. He didn't
know what had motivated him to seek out the young
man for the sole purpose of tormenting him - it was a
hollow and pointless pursuit and even his dislike of
Drachea wasn't enough to justify it. But he had been
brooding; the brooding had led to anger, and the anger
desired an outlet. It was Drachea's ill fortune that he was
to hand and that Tarod had no compunction about using
him as a scapegoat.

But it seemed that Tarod's black mood had proved
fortuitous - for he suddenly saw the sheaf of papers
which Drachea was clumsily trying to hide. The topmost
document bore the High Initiate's own seal . . .

The fire smouldering in Tarod's mind began to flicker
into a blaze, and he stretched out his left hand. 'I think,' he
said, 'that you'd do well to show me what you have there.'

Desperate, Drachea shook his head. 'It's nothing,' he
replied carelessly, battling to keep himself from
stammering.

'Then you'll indulge my whim to see it.' Tarod's voice
was merciless.

Drachea tried to resist as the icy green eyes held his
gaze locked, but he couldn't look away. Jerkily, and
against his will, his hand came up, stretched out; and
Tarod took the documents from him.

One glance at the sheaf confirmed his suspicions. So
Drachea knew . . . and doubtless Cyllan, too, had seen
these pages. Little wonder she had been so afraid when he
encountered her in the vault, with Keridil's testimony
fresh in her mind ...

He looked at Drachea again. The Heir Margrave was
shaking as though he had the ague, and the guilty terror
in his eyes, the contempt his attitude aroused, disgusted
Tarod.

'So,' he said softly, 'you consider yourself entitled to
steal more than you can find in the library.'

White-faced, Drachea swallowed and dissembled
weakly. 'Cyllan discovered them, not I ... I - I didn't
trouble to read them; I told her they were none of my
concern . . . ' His voice trailed off as he saw Tarod's
expression.

'You're a liar.' And, incensed by Drachea's shameless
perfidy, Tarod felt something within him snap. His eyes
fired with loathing; he flung the papers aside, raised his
left hand, gestured once.

Something with the power of a horse's kick hurled
Drachea off his feet, and he crashed against the High
Initiate's door, which burst open. Sprawling across the
threshold, Drachea tried in panic to struggle upright and
run - but in doing so he caught Tarod's eye. Every
muscle in his body locked rigid. He couldn't move,
couldn't breathe; his mind fought against the inexorable
will that held it, but he was helpless.

Tarod smiled, and the smile made Drachea want to
scream. The gaunt face was changing, eyes narrowing,
burning with an inhuman light, the black hair like a
shadow of utter darkness. In an instant of terrified reve-
lation Drachea saw what Cyllan had seen in the graven
face of the statue - the malevolence, the knowledge, the
sheer power that lay behind the mask. He made a sound
deep in his throat; inarticulate, pleading. Tarod's smile
widened, and the fingers of his hand curled as though
outlining an invisible symbol.

The thrall that held Drachea broke, and he shrieked
like a wounded animal, eyes starting out of their sockets

and hands scrabbling for purchase on the floor. Tarod,
seeing what he saw, acknowledged the nightmare with a
laugh. The last time Drachea had crossed him, he had
shown him but a brief glimpse of the horrors he could
conjure if he chose. Now, the punishment was merciless.

'No . . . n-no . . . ' It was the only word Drachea
could form from a babbling, pleading stream of
incoherence. He was crawling on hands and knees, as a
mortally injured mouse might try to crawl away from a
preying cat, and Tarod moved slowly, casually after
him, holding the delusions and manipulating them so
that Drachea's terrors deepened, pushing him towards
the brink of insanity. He felt no true malice towards
Drachea - contempt was too ingrained for that - and
what he did now gave him no satisfaction. But some-
thing had moved him; a fury he couldn't contain. An
emotion that demanded its due.

Drachea was sobbing, curling into a foetal huddle in
the passage and seemingly trying to dig his nails into the
wall, as though refuge lay that way. Tarod's hatred had
reached its peak and, as abruptly as it had come, the rage
was passing. He stared down at the hunched wreck at his
feet. It would be so easy to kill him. A single movement,
and it would be done . . . but there seemed no point.
Better that Drachea lived on, and remembered . . .

He stepped back. The last time he had lost all self-
control, a man had died, and hideously; but that, like so
much else that plagued him, was in the past. He had no
such motivations now.

Or did he?

The thought wasn't one he liked to live with, and
when he looked at Drachea again he felt something close
to remorse. Tarod turned on his heel and stalked away
along the corridor towards the main doors. Behind him
as he went he could hear the demented sobbing pleas
diminishing in the distance, and the sound left a bitter
taste.

The two swords and the light, slim-bladed dagger were
all Cyllan had been able to find, but nonetheless she was

pleased with her spoils. Drachea's theory that an ar-
moury might lie next to the Castle stables had proved
wrong, and after an unfruitful search she had taken to
looking through individual rooms in the great building,
where she had found what she needed. The experience
of searching those chambers had been eerie; she felt like
a desecrator as she rummaged among the personal
belongings of men and women whose lives had been
abruptly suspended and who now languished in a world
beyond imagination, if they still existed at all; and it had
taken all the self-will she could muster to begin the
search. So many of the artefacts told their own poignant
stories; a torn coat with a sewing needle and thread laid
on it; two empty wine cups beside a rumpled bed; a sheaf
of papers covered with simple drawings in a child's hand.
It had been a sharp reminder that this Castle had once
lived and breathed and rung to the sounds of its human
inhabitants.

She had ignored, though with difficulty, the clothes
that she found in some of the rooms. Gowns and cloaks
in rich fabrics, graceful and decorative shoes that she
knew would have fitted her, jewellery . . . the choice
was almost endless, had she been able to ignore her
conscience and steal them. But instead she had reluc-
tantly set them aside, and her fantasies with them, and
concentrated on the task at hand.

Her search had, thankfully, allowed her to stay on the
upper floor of the Castle wing, where she knew there
was less chance of encountering Tarod. She had taken
two wrong turns on her way back towards her room, but
the maze of passages was growing more familiar and
there was little danger of becoming lost. She was cross-
ing the broad landing where the main staircase ended
when a faint sound caught her sharp ears, and she froze.
Someone was moving; someone on the stairs . . .

Holding her breath, Cyllan inched forward, keeping
close against the wall. The sounds seemed to have stop-
ped, and no shadows moved to betray an approaching
figure. Gaining confidence she crossed to peer over the
balcony rail . . .

The swords and dagger fell from her grasp, making an
echoing racket as they clattered across the floor. Cyllan
ran, flying down the stairs until she reached the figure
sprawled prone halfway down the flight.

Drachea wasn't quite unconscious, but the last dregs
of strength which had enabled him to crawl, inch by
painful inch, from the High Initiate's door had finally
run out. His hands were grasping feebly at the tread of
the next stair, the nails split and bloodied as though he
had been trying to claw his way through stone, and
palsied shudders racked his body.

'Drachea!' Cyllan tried to help him sit up, but he
couldn't rally. Appalled, she turned him over. His eyes
were tightly shut, face dead-white, and he seemed,
incredibly, to be trying to laugh, though no sound came
from between his bloodless lips.

Sweet Aeoris, what had happened to him? He couldn't
lie here - she had to get him to a bed! Crouching, Cyllan
hooked her hands under Drachea's arms and pulled with
all her strength. He moaned, but was too weak to strug-
gle, and with a great effort Cyllan managed to drag his
limp weight to the top of the stairs. Bent double and
gasping for breath, she looked along the corridor. His
room was nearer . . . Taking a deep breath she lifted
Drachea again and struggled towards the distant door,
praying meanwhile that he wasn't physically damaged
and this unceremonious progress only making matters
even worse.

By the time she reached the chamber Drachea had
lost consciousness, which was a mercy. Her muscles
protested as she forced them into one last effort to lift
him on to the bed. She made him as comfortable as she
could, then studied him closely to see if she could find
any clue to what had happened.

Thankfully, there were no obvious signs of injury -
though Cyllan was no healer, and knew how easily she
might overlook some serious hurt. Nor could she even
begin to guess how this had come about . . . but a
terrible suspicion was eating at her mind.

She straightened, trying to quell the dread that filled

her. Whatever the truth, something had to be done for
Drachea, or he could die. And the only one she could
turn to might be the very one who was responsible for
bringing him to this condition.

She looked at him again, and knew she had no choice
but to ask Tarod's help. The worst he would do, surely
the worst he would do, was refuse . . .

Quickly, before courage could desert her, she ran out
of the room and back along the passage to the stairs. The
swords and dagger still lay where they'd fallen; she
hesitated, then snatched up the knife and thrust it into
her belt. She couldn't conceal it, but it gave her a little
confidence. Then she was running down the long stair-
case towards the Castle's main door.

The sight of the black steps winding up into utter dark-
ness almost broke Cyllan's resolve when at last she stood
at the foot of the titanic Northern spire. She had seen the
dim light glowing in the narrow window at the summit,
and knew that Tarod must be there - but the thought of
climbing those endless stairs, through dark so intense
that it was almost tangible, was horrifying. She steeled
herself- it had to be done. Drachea needed help, and
she was his only ally.

And if Tarod refused to aid her? She'd thought of little
else as she crossed the courtyard, but amid all the doubt
and confusion was a spark of hope. Despite what she
knew, despite the terror she'd felt at their last meeting,
she thought she had, in the library, at last recognised a
shadow of Tarod as she had once known him, and she
clung tightly to that. He had treated her kindly, giving
the lie to those who had condemned him, and she prayed
that, if she could touch that same chord again, he would
help her now.

Or was she being a fool again? In her mind she could
hear Drachea's voice condemning her for her gullibility,
and hope gave way to uncertainty. If she was wrong . . .

She drew breath, squaring her shoulders. If she was
wrong, there was only one way to find out. She had to
try.

Determinedly ignoring the painful thumping of her
heart, Cyllan set foot on the first stair.

It seemed that the black spiral would never end. Cyllan
had climbed and climbed, trying not to falter but every
now and again forced to stop, to rest aching muscles and
regain her breath. The stops grew more frequent; her
legs felt as though they were on fire, and the long
struggle through the terrible, unchanging dark took on
the proportions of a nightmare. She couldn't go back -
she didn't know how many steps lay behind her, but they
must have numbered thousands; the thought of giving in
now and turning to face them all again was more than
she could bear. And yet, though she prayed to reach her
goal, the stairs still wound on and on, ever upward, with
no reprieve.

Her foot slipped and she stumbled, sinking down on
the cold black stone and sobbing with exhaustion. It
couldn't be much further - unless she had unwittingly
strayed into some twist of dimensions, some evil jest at
her expense, the stairs must surely end somewhere . . .
She pulled herself upright, hands pressed against the
unforgiving wall, and willed her limbs to obey her. She
couldn't falter now . . .

And, unexpectedly, Cyllan found that the seventh
step she climbed was the last.

The unexpectedness of it shocked her out of her mes-
merised state, and she reeled against the wall, having to
exert all her remaining strength to keep her legs from
buckling under her. She was on a dark, circular landing,
and in the gloom could just discern the faint outlines of
three doors. All were firmly closed, and Cyllan's flag-
ging confidence fell still further. If she were wrong, and
Tarod wasn't here . . . or if he refused to help her . . .

She swallowed back the thoughts, and stumbled
towards the nearest of the three doors. But before her
hand could reach it, the furthest opened, and a chilly
light spilled out, silhouetting a tall figure on the
threshold.

'Cyllan?' Tarod's voice was soft, faintly curious.
'What brings you here?'

She drew breath, but could hardly speak; the climb
had finally taken its toll and she was exhausted.
'Drachea . . .' she whispered dazedly. 'He's ill... hurt
. . . I came -I came for help . . .'Suddenly she swayed,
and Tarod stepped forward, taking her arm.

'Drachea be damned -I think it's you who are in need
of succour! Come; in here.'

She leaned against him, unable to support herself, and
he led her gently through the door. The light, poor as it
was, blinded Cyllan after the grim darkness on the stairs.
Through its dazzle she had an impression of a small and
overcrowded chamber, then Tarod was helping her to a
couch, and gratefully she let her limbs give way until she
was half sitting, half lying among its cushions. Gradually
her vision adjusted, and her breath returned, until she
was able to look at Tarod where he sat watching her.

'Are you recovered?' he asked.

'Yes. . .yes, well enough.'She met his gaze.'Thank you.'

He inclined his head slightly. 'So Drachea is unwell,
and you took it upon yourself to climb this great height
to find me? You're very loyal, Cyllan. I hope our young
Heir Margrave appreciates his friends!'

His tone stung her. 'Anyone would have done the
same,' she said.

'I doubt that. What ails him?'

She shook her head. 'I don't know ... I found him,
lying on the main stairs. He was all but unconscious, and
he - he was in a terrible condition! I don't know what
brought him to that pass, but he was - his eyes; his hands
-' She struggled to find a way to explain, then stopped as
she saw the expression on Tarod's face. He showed no
sign of surprise, or even interest; and a faint, wry smile
curved the corners of his mouth.

He saw her scrutiny, the dawning realisation in her
eyes, and said evenly, 'Drachea has a habit of bringing
his own misfortunes on himself. And if he's fool enough
to steal what doesn't belong to him, he should anticipate
the consequences.'

The gnawing suspicion flowered into sudden painful
certainty in Cyllan's mind. Tarod must have caught
Drachea as he tried to return the incriminating docu-
ments to the High Initiate's study . . . Slowly she got to
her feet. 'You . . .' Her throat was constricted. 'You did
that to him . . . '

Tarod looked back at her dispassionately. 'Yes. I did.'

A part of her had known; yet to hear Tarod admit the
truth so carelessly was still shocking. Doubt and con-
fusion were suddenly swept away, and in their place she
felt only disgust.

'Gods!' She spat the word. 'You are monstrous!'

Tarod sighed. 'Oh, indeed. A callous monster, wreak-
ing havoc at will with the minds and bodies of innocent
victims.' There was a harsh light in his eyes. 'You under-
stand nothing!'

'I understand,' she retorted, her voice shaking. 'I
understand all too well what you are! To tell me, without
qualm or conscience; to react as though it means
nothing, to - to be proud of such a deed - '

'Proud?' He was on his feet so fast that she
instinctively shrank back. 'Very well - I'll complete the
picture for you, as you obviously know me so com-
pletely! I have no conscience, I have no ethic-I am what
you see in your own mind, Cyllan. I like to bring torment
to others for the pleasure it gives me; it's my sole pur-
pose for living!' He took a grip on himself and added
with tightly controlled ferocity, 'Does that satisfy you?'

He was challenging her, daring her to stand against
him, and a sense of rebellion in Cyllan goaded her not to
give way.

'Yes!' she flared back at him. 'It satisfies me, Tarod;
for it proves to me that Drachea was right and I was
wrong! You are evil - and I know from where your evil
springs!' And she made the Sign of Aeoris, defiantly, in
his face.

Drachea had told her . . . Swift as a cat, Tarod's hand
came up and caught hold of her wrist. His own anger was
rising, so rapidly that he was barely in control of it. She
knew - and like all the others she had condemned out of

hand, as he had known she must. Suddenly in his mind's
eye another face supplanted Cyllan's; patrician, beauti-
ful, limpid eyes hiding the calculating and self-centred
heart beneath. He wanted to hurt the soul behind that
face, take the retribution that was long overdue . . .

His vision cleared and he saw instead Cyllan's thin
features and wide amber eyes. The beauty was gone; but
not the pride. Cyllan had pride enough, but it was of a
different order . . . and she had the courage to face him
with what she knew, instead of wielding the blade from
behind.

She was motionless, watching him and wary, ready to
spring free at the smallest opportunity. Tarod gave her
no opportunity. His hold on her wrist tightened until the
pain showed in her face, but she made no sound. He
could have snapped her arm; he could have killed her
with one flick of his fingers . . .

'You think you know me,' he whispered savagely.
'But you're wrong, Cyllan. You're wrong!'

She twisted, trying to break free; he held her
effortlessly, but had to battle to stem the tide of sheer,
raw emotion that was rising in him. 'I'm not wrong!' Her
voice was edged with pain, breath coming sharply. 'I
know what you are!'

'Do you?'

'Yes! I saw the documents, Tarod - Drachea read
them to me, and now I know why you took such a vicious
retribution! You are a thing of Chaos!'

A thing of Chaos. . . Her words drove home, and the
barriers which had been holding back the tide broke.
Tarod smiled again, and this time the smile made Cyllan
feel sick with terror. She had gone too far ... he'd kill
her; and a paralysis of fear locked her muscles rigid as
she anticipated the final, fatal strike.

But it didn't come. Instead Tarod laughed as though
at some private joke. 'Chaos,' he said softly. 'No,
Cyllan; this time you're not wrong.' He drew her
towards him, until her body pressed hard against him
and he could feel the rapid pulse of her heart. 'But you
are . . . misguided.' His free hand rose, pushed back

the pale hair from her face. Beads of sweat banded her
brow and now he could feel her trembling. There was
mayhem in his mind; he wanted to strike out, avenge
himself; and yet there was more, far more, behind the
compulsion.

'I'm no demon . . . ' he told her with soft menace.
'I'm man enough.' And before she could twist away, he
bent his face to hers and kissed her. It was a vicious kiss,
a taking and not an asking; and she fought back with a
strength that surprised him, writhing and clawing in his
grip. She was as lithe and sinuous as a cat, and her
ferocious determination struck an answering chord in
Tarod. His mouth found hers again, this time more
sensuously. He was reeling from the sensations that
were swamping him - vengeance was eclipsed by some-
thing far stronger and more urgent, and all thoughts of
Sashka were forgotten.

She broke free, breathless, and their gazes locked
briefly. Cyllan's amber eyes blazed - and then, so fast
that she almost caught Tarod unawares, she whipped a
dagger from her belt and brought it shearing up in a
vicious arc.

Acting on a reflex, Tarod swung her off balance as she
struck, and the blade flashed by an inch from his shoul-
der. His left hand locked on her right wrist and twisted it
until she choked out an involuntary cry; he pressed
once, with his thumb, and the knife spun from her grasp.

She glared at him, breath rasping in her throat. She
might be afraid, but she wasn't cowed; at the slightest
provocation he knew she'd fight him like a wild animal,
and the knowledge raised his adrenalin.

'You use a knife well,' he said, the words clipped by
the suffocating pounding of his heart. 'But I've been
fighting longer than you - and I know how to defend
myself!' He smiled, showing his teeth. 'Do you give me
best, Cyllan?'

She shook her head fiercely. 'No!'

The green eyes that gazed into hers suddenly seemed
to take fire, and Cyllan felt her will draining away before
Tarod's implacable stare. She tried to resist, but she was

weakening - an inner voice reminded her that she was
battling no ordinary mortal, and the fear came surging
back . . . but mingled with it was an echo of the old
feelings which she had thought banished, an overwhelm-
ing desire . . .

'Cyllan . . . ' Tarod's voice was sibilant, persuasive,
smashing through her defences. 'Have I no warmth? No
life?'

She tried to deny it, but the words wouldn't form. His
hands on her skin were real, physical; and a long-dor-
mant need within her answered with a power she
couldn't combat. She gasped as his teeth grazed her
shoulder and the shirt, already torn, fell away to expose
her pale skin.

Tarod ... no - please, no . . . ' The protest was cut
off as she staggered back under a gentle but irresistible
pressure. She stumbled against the couch, fell; felt the
weight and the strength of Tarod's body as he crushed
her. This time when he kissed her she couldn't stop
herself from responding. Terror was giving way to long-
ing, and she could no longer fight him; no longer wished
to fight him.

Tarod raised his head. The wild light in his eyes was
suddenly muted by a look that Cyllan didn't dare try to
interpret, and he shook his head, brushing a strand of his
unruly black hair away from his face. The gesture was so
human that confusion filled her again - whatever the
Circle might say, whatever he might have done, he was
surely no demon . . .

'You're brave,' he said softly, 'And you're honest. . .
you fight fairly. I could defeat you easily, Cyllan, and
you couldn't stand against my desire . . . but I won't. I
still have some sense of honour . . . and you don't want
to deny me. Do you?' His hands were light and cool on
her skin, pushing aside the encumbering garments. 'Do
you?'

Against her will Cyllan's body was responding to him,
racking her with a long-suppressed, aching longing that
made her want to cry and scream, to thrust him away and
yet hold him to her, all at once. A moan broke from

her throat, and involuntarily her lips formed a single
word.

'No . . .'

She cried out at his hungry violence when he took her,
but he silenced her with his mouth on hers, making her
yield in spite of herself. And after the first resistance
there was pleasure as well as pain; a fierce, shuddering
release as her bare arms locked tightly around him, her
head thrown back and teeth drawing blood from her
lower lip. Once she fought him again; he quieted her and
she became pliant beneath him once more.

At last, all desire satiated, Tarod let his hands move
slowly and gently over Cyllan's body, tracing the slight
curve of her breasts. She lay passive in his arms and her
eyes were tight shut, as though she was trying to deny the
truth. Tears that she stubbornly refused to shed sparkled
on her dark lashes, and a feeling that might have been
remorse awoke in Tarod.

He spoke her name, and her eyes opened, reflecting a
mixture of uncertainty and accusation and shame. He
wanted to say more, but suddenly couldn't. Instead, he
raised his hand and made a gesture over her.

Her eyes closed again and her breathing relaxed into
the light, even rhythm of sleep. He wanted no recrimina-
tions, not now . . . when her body relaxed and he knew
that her consciousness had slipped away, Tarod drew
her limp form towards him and kissed her, lightly, on
one pale cheek. Then he reluctantly released her, rose
and crossed the room to the narrow window, forcing
back the thoughts that threatened to take hold and
break through the barriers he had raised against their
onslaught.

Chapter 8

Cyllan woke to sense the uneven contours of the couch
beneath her, and the rough texture of something that
felt like an animal pelt covering her naked skin. Her
body was filled with a devastating, fiery ache; her mouth
felt bruised . . . and her stomach contracted as the
realisation came home to her: it hadn't been a dream. . .

Apprehensively, she opened her eyes.

There was barely any light in the room, but in the
dimness she could see Tarod seated in a chair. He had
dressed, and a heavy black cloak was flung around his
shoulders as though to keep out the cold. The high collar
shadowed his features, but she thought that he was
staring out of the window.

Cyllan's limbs began to shake as the full implications
of what had happened went through her like a knife.
Slowly, cautiously, she started to sit up, thinking to
reach for the crumpled clothes that lay among the debris
on the floor -

Tarod's head turned, and she froze. Mingled emo-
tions tumbled through her mind as they looked at one
another; then she saw the coldness in his green eyes, and
her reactions coalesced into an icy rush of bitter shame.
Tarod's passion was gone, as though it had never been;
the barriers between them were up again, and his face
was like stone. She had let him seduce her as though she
were a simpleton . . . and all she had earned was his
contempt.

Self-loathing swamped her, and with it a sick revul-
sion as she remembered what he was. But she still had a
vestige of pride, and it came to her aid. Tossing her head
back, she pushed away the blanket that covered her- it

was fur, and rich fur, but she hardly noticed - and stood
up. Tarod rose too, and Cyllan took a step back.

'Don't, Tarod.' Her voice was harsh. 'Don't come
near me!'

He hesitated, then made a gesture towards the floor
which she interpreted as careless. 'As you wish. But you
might have need of your clothing.'

'It hardly matters now, does it?' She squared her thin
shoulders, facing him defiantly. 'You've seen me,
you've touched me; you've taken what you wanted from
me. What have I left to hide from you?' To her fury, her
voice was shaking with poorly suppressed emotion, and
she knew she was on the verge of losing control.

Tarod said calmly, 'I took nothing that you were
unwilling to give.'

'Ohh . . . ' She turned away, hating him because he'd
spoken no less than the truth. 'Damn you! I came to you
for help, and you - you - ' She couldn't say any more;
her voice broke and it took every last ounce of her will
power not to burst into tears. Crying, she told herself
ferociously, was for children; she had learned long ago
to suppress such emotion, and wouldn't allow it to best
her now; especially not in the presence of a creature like
Tarod. She covered her face with her hands, fighting the
reaction with all her strength.

Tarod slipped his coat off and cast it round her shoul-
ders. She didn't protest, but nor would she face him,
only shook her head violently when he tried to turn her
around. He watched her reflectively as she struggled to
bring herself under control. Aware of her origins, he
hadn't expected her to be virgin, and the knowledge that
no man had ever lain with her before had disconcerted
him. Yet she had chosen to give herself- and however
bitterly she might regret it now, nothing could change
that.

Cyllan had calmed at last, and savagely pushed her
hair back out of her eyes. She stepped away from Tarod,
then deliberately shrugged the cloak aside and let it fall.
It was hard for her to gather her torn clothes and dress
with any dignity, and he moved back to the window,

gazing out across the courtyard to give her what grace he
could. She tugged the ruined shirt across her breasts and
hesitated, looking at him. His face was an inscrutable
mask, eyes hooded and brooding, and any thought
Cyllan might have had of making a move towards him
died within her. She stared down at the knife he had
wrested from her hand . . .

'Take it, if it's of use to you,' Tarod said.

She glared at him, and let the dagger lie where it had
fallen, turning and walking towards the door. Hand
halfway to the latch, she paused.

'Will it open?' she asked icily. 'Or do you have some
further sport in mind?'

Tarod sighed, and the door swung noiselessly open
before Cyllan could touch it. She ignored a wild, irra-
tional pang of hurt that he was prepared to let her go so
easily, and stepped out on to the dark landing. Then she
turned, looked back.

Tarod still watched her. 'It's a long way down to
the courtyard,' he said. 'I could make the descent
easier.'

For answer, Cyllan spat deliberately on the floor. 'I
want nothing from you!' she retorted ferociously. And
she was gone, her pale figure swallowed by the darkness
of the stairs.

She heard the echoing crash as the door above her
slammed, and the sound of it goaded her on, until she
was taking the stairs precariously fast, wanting only to
get away and not caring that she might fall and break her
neck. Suddenly the walls to either side of her warped;
the steps beneath her feet seemed to give way to a
dizzying emptiness, and she cried out involuntarily as
the blackness inverted into a dazzling white brilliance. It
lasted only the space of a single heartbeat - then she was
reeling against hard stone, and staring, shocked,
through the open door at the spire's foot.

Cyllan stumbled out into the Castle courtyard. Damn
Tarod - he'd had the last word, and she wished she could
have taken the knife again, struck him, stabbed him,
torn him apart . . .

But she had had her chance, and she'd failed. And
what he took from her, she had given of her own volition.

She shut her eyes against the memory, pressing
clenched fists to temples in a fruitless effort to blot out
the small inner voice which accused her of being a hypo-
crite as well as a fool. Tarod had awoken a fundamental,
animal need within her - she'd known it since their first
meeting on the cliffs of West High Land, and though
since then she had tried to deny and suppress it, it had
never truly died. That echo of the past had finally proved
strong enough to conquer the horrors of Tarod's true
nature, and she had gone to him, yielded to him, like an
infatuated child.

She wanted to kill him. However great a fool she had
been, he had manipulated and preyed on her. If by
destroying him she could free herself from guilt and self-
torment and recrimination, then, she told herself, she
would have no qualms. Drachea had known from the
beginning how dangerous Tarod was; he had warned
her -

Drachea. Cyllan came back to reality with a jolt, and
realised with a cold fear that she had utterly forgotten
Drachea in the mayhem of all that had happened. She
had failed him; and he still lay in his bed, mortally ill,
perhaps dying . . .

She began to run, racing towards the Castle's main
doors and taking the shallow steps two at a time. If
Drachea were to die - no, don't think of that! He had to
live - she needed him, needed his determination now as
never before, to keep the turmoil of her confusion at
bay, and to help the clear, cold rage that she struggled to
nurture shine through. Together they could defeat
Tarod; they must defeat him, see justice done - he was
evil, a creature of Chaos - he must be thwarted!

Cyllan repeated the silent litany in her head as she ran
up the broad staircase to the Castle's living quarters.
Heart pounding, she raced towards Drachea's room,
flung herself against the door, and burst in.

Drachea was sitting on the bed. One of the swords
which she had left on the landing lay at his feet; the other

was gripped in his right hand, while his left moved
slowly, almost hypnotically, up and down the length of
the blade, polishing it with one of his sea-drenched and
discarded garments.

Cyllan's heart turned over with relief, and she rushed
forward. 'Drachea! Oh, you've recovered! Aeoris be
thanked; I thought - '

He sprang to his feet, swinging the blade up in a wild,
defensive gesture. Then the terror in his face gave way
first to recognition, then to anger, and he snapped
viciously,

'Where in all the Seven Hells have you been?'

Cyllan stared at him, astonished and chagrined.
Drachea's face was dead white, and an obsessive,
unhealthy light burned in his eyes. The hand that held
the sword was trembling as he hissed again, 'I said,
where have you been! You should have been here - I
woke, and I was afraid, and I needed help, and you were
gone! You abandoned me . . . '

'Abandoned you?' The accusation took her breath
away, and her happiness at seeing him restored
crumbled. 'I found you, Drachea - I found you on the
stairs, unconscious, and I brought you here to
sanctuary!'

'And then you left me to wake alone - '

'I was afraid you might die!' Cyllan told him savagely.
'I tried to find a way of helping you"!'

Drachea's gaze raked her with a mingling of contempt
and suspicion, then his mouth twisted into a travesty of a
smile. 'Helping me - and what skills do you have that
could combat what he did to my mind?'

Tarod . . . ?' Her stomach tightened.

'Yes, Tarod!' Drachea turned and stalked away from
her. 'While you were safely occupied elsewhere, he -
attacked me. I didn't provoke him, but he turned on me
and - ' He put a hand to his mouth, bit the knuckles.
'Gods, those nightmares ... he conjured them out of
nothing, he sent them against me, and I -I couldn't fight
back. Not against that . . . Scum!' He drew a deep,
heaving breath. 'He'll pay for it. I'll see him annihilated!'

Cyllan crossed the room to stand behind him, and
tentatively reached out a hand. She was struggling to
recapture the feelings she had clung to as she ran to find
Drachea, the sense of comradeship, of fighting a holy
war together; but it was slipping away from her grip.
Drachea's outburst had broken the spell; by turning on
her instead of welcoming her, he had struck her cer-
tainty and confidence a hard blow.

But, she told herself, he couldn't be held to blame.
She knew what Tarod was capable of, and she knew
Drachea's weaknesses. His ordeal must have been far
worse than her own; enough to unhinge the strongest
will. She had to help him, match his resolve with hers - it
was the only hope for them both.

She let her fingers come to rest on his arm; he shook
her off.

'I don't want your sympathy!' His tone was angrily hostile.

Cyllan bit back a retort, willed herself to be patient.
'I'm not offering sympathy, Drachea. I'm offering to
stand beside you against Tarod.' She smiled bitterly.
Tor what little it might be worth.'

Drachea looked over his shoulder at her, suspicion
mingling with a sullen resentment in his look. 'Yes . . .'
he said. 'I don't know what your loyalty's worth, do I? I
don't know anything any more . . . how do I know that I
can trust you?' He swung round suddenly. 'You say you
went to find help - how do I know it's the truth? Where is
this help? What have you done for me?'

Cyllan gave a bark of harsh laughter, and put a hand
to her mouth. 'Done for you?' she echoed. 'Drachea, if
you knew - if you knew what I tried to do, what hap-
pened - ' She took a grip on herself, her eyes alight with
all the anger and shame of the memory. 'I failed. Tarod
. . . would not help me.'

'You went to him?' Drachea's jaw dropped, and for a
moment she thought he'd launch himself at her in sheer
rage. Then, breathing hard, he hissed between his
clenched teeth, 'You treacherous bitch! So now you
consort behind my back with the very demon who
almost killed me!'

Astounded by such wanton injustice, Cyllan fired
back without stopping to consider her words. 'How dare
you say such a thing! Gods, when I think what I've been
through for your sake - you're not the only one to have
suffered at Tarod's hands!'

Drachea's lips curled into a sneer. 'You, suffer? You
can't imagine what the word means! While you were
telling pretty stories to your demon friend, I was helpless
here, on the verge of death! Traitor!'

For a long, long moment Cyllan stared back at him,
her face dead-white and every muscle rigid. Then she
reached to her throat and pulled aside the ripped shirt,
so that her neck and the swell of her breasts were
revealed.

'Look at me, Drachea,' she said, her voice danger-
ously steady. 'Look closely, and you'll see what Tarod
did to me. Maybe he didn't choose to assault my mind,
not directly . . . but my body was a different matter!'

Drachea's angry gaze flickered to her pale skin. There
were bruises, the marks of fingers, a livid red crescent
where she had been bitten in the heat of passion ... He
moved closer, slowly . . . then his hand shot out and he
hit her with all his strength across the face.

Unprepared for such an attack, Cyllan went down,
and before she could scramble to her feet Drachea
lashed out with one foot and kicked her as though she
were a dog that had displeased its master.

'Slut!' he roared, hysterical. 'Lying, filthy, demon-
spawned whore!'

Stunned, she couldn't even begin to protest before he
kicked at her again. This time she had the presence of
mind to roll clear, and Drachea snatched up the sword,
brandishing it over her head. His eyes were starting out
of their sockets, and Cyllan knew beyond all shadow of
doubt that he'd lost his reason. Driven to the brink of
madness by Tarod's sorcery, he sought an enemy on
whom to avenge himself, and no power in the world
could make him listen or understand.

She hunched into a tight ball against the wall, unable
to escape, and appalled by the mania in Drachea's voice

as he demanded savagely, 'How many times have you
gone to his bed, harlot? How long have you been plot-
ting with him against me? Serpent!' As he shrieked the
last word his arm swung wildly and the sword blade came
hurtling down, to strike the floor inches from her head
with a shuddering clash of metal.

'Drachea!' She screamed his name, trying to break
through the insane rage but knowing she stood no
chance of reaching him. He had regained his balance
and now held the sword in both hands, swaying. The tip
of the blade swung mesmerically before her; she tried to
hunch further back but the wall blocked her way.

'Serpent!' Drachea yelled again, his voice cracking.
'Demon! You've been in league with him all along! You
ensnared me, you lured me into this nightmare - damn
you! I'll kill you, you white-faced monstrosity!'

He raised his arms high, and the crimson light that
pervaded through the window seemed to drench the
sword blade in blood. Eyes widening with the hideous
foreknowledge of her own death, Cyllan flung herself
frantically to one side as the sword sheared down. The
breath burst from her lungs as she sprawled on the floor,
then she jack-knifed her body and made a convulsive
grab for the door. It was ajar; her momentum forced it
open and she rolled, trying to gain her feet before
Drachea could reach her. She heard a bellow like a
maddened, insensate bull, saw the blade whistling like a
giant fang, light stabbing along its length, tried to throw
herself clear - and pain exploded in her ribs as the point
of the sword bit through clothing and flesh.

She gave an animal shriek, eclipsing Drachea's tri-
umphant howl. The sword came free with a fresh shock
of agony and she clasped a hand to her side, knowing
there must be blood and trying to stem it, but driven only
by a blind, terrified will to escape. Drachea bore down
on her again - she sensed rather than saw him - and,
rolling on to her back, she kicked out savagely with both
feet. By sheer fortuity the kick connected; she heard a
grunt and a thud, didn't stop to see what effect the
assault had had, but dragged herself to her feet and ran.

Before her lay the stairs, swimming and swaying
through a grey fog of pain and shock. She knew she was
weaving from side to side, wasting a valuable advantage,
but she couldn't run in a straight line. Warm stickiness
flowed over her hand, pulsing rhythmically with the
pounding of her heart, and she tried to laugh aloud. She
couldn't die - there was no Time here; her life couldn't
bleed away without Time to help it ...

Lucidity came back and she realised she was leaning
heavily on the rail above the stair-well, laughing like a
madwoman. A soft ticking sounded from the floor at her
feet. Her blood, dripping from the wound Drachea had
inflicted, sapping her strength . . .

'Demon bitch!' She heard the mad shouting behind
her, echoed by the thud of running feet, and the shock
brought her fully back to reality. She plunged on, reach-
ing the stairs and almost pitching headlong down them
before she could stop herself. A wild grab at the banister
rail saved her, then she was half staggering and half
falling towards the double doors that led to the court-
yard. Drachea was behind her, and closing - she could
hear his voice yelling for her to stop, and the sound of it
goaded her on. Part of her mind, which seemed to
observe from a misty distance, told her that flight was
useless; that she'd merely prolong the inevitable. She
could run only so far before she dropped from loss of
blood. And then he'd move in, to finish her . . .

Cyllan forced the thought away and grimly stumbled
on. The double doors lurched giddily before her, and as
she ran out she lost her footing and fell down the steps
into the courtyard. Struggling painfully to her feet she
saw the crimson smears marring the stone behind her,
leaving a trail that a child could follow, and desperation
brought a wild hope.

Tarod . . . if she could reach Tarod . . .

Savagely she ignored the inner voice. Not Tarod,
never Tarod ... she couldn't, wouldn't . . .

A crash told her that Drachea had reached the doors,
and she heard him laughing, certain of his success.
Blindly she staggered towards the fountain, clinging to a

crazed idea that she might be able to break off some
delicate piece of the stone tracery and wield it as a
weapon against him. She cannoned into the fountain
basin, and the pain of colliding with solid stone took her
breath away so that she collapsed, clutching at an impas-
sive carved fish as she fell. The running footsteps at her
back thudded closer, dinning in her ears; she twisted,
striking out with a rapidly weakening arm, spitting and
cursing a stream of drover's oaths in the face of her
nemesis, but knowing she was lost.

White light blazed beyond her tight-shut eyelids, and
hands gripped her. She screamed defiance, trying to
beat them off -

'Cyllan!'

He was going to slaughter her, and she fought him
with all her fast-waning strength, trying to kick, bite,
battle to the last.

'Cyllan!' The voice wasn't Drachea's - shocked, her
eyes snapped open and her body went rigid.

The grey fog clouded her vision still, but through it she
could see the raven's-wing shadow of his black hair, the
sharp-etched features, the green of his eyes. Cool fingers
touched her burning face and she heard Tarod say softly,
as though from a great distance,

'It's all right. You're safe ... he can't reach you, he
can't touch you. You're safe with me, Cyllan . . . '

She tried to speak, but only choked as the pain within
her redoubled and swelled to a crescendo. Her hand
clawed convulsively and tangled in his hair; he clasped it
tightly, and his voice was more gentle than she had
believed possible.

'Peace, Cyllan. No more harm can come to you. Sleep
. . . I'll heal you. Sleep, now . . . '

The words were a balm, and she clung to them. His
hand still held hers, and she felt the throb of the pain
fading, fading, her senses like a hot tide receding away,
until a quiet, engulfing darkness overcame all else.

*****
'Drachea . . . No!'

The words broke in harsh confusion from Cyllan's
lips. She'd been dreaming, and in the dream Drachea
had turned on her with the face of a devil, lunging
towards her with a blade that glittered like molten silver
against a blood-crimson background. She twisted con-
vulsively and heard the soft thud of a cushion falling to
the floor . . . then a powerful hand gripped her shoul-
der, pressing her back and gently yet firmly forcing her
to quiescence. The knowledge that she wasn't alone with
the nightmare eased her, and she felt her muscles slowly
relaxing.

'Cyllan. The dream's gone. It's over; there's nothing
to fear.'

In her half-waking state she'd expected Drachea's
voice, and the unexpected yet familiar tone made her
open her eyes in quick alarm.

She was in the room at the top of the spire, lying on the
long couch. Tarod sat beside her, and his hand had
moved to her brow, tracing lightly across her skin. She
raised her own hand to clasp his fingers, a mute gesture
of gratitude that brought a faint smile to his lips; then,
still confused, tried to form words.

'I thought I was - ' Recollection came back then, and
she drew in a violently sharp breath. 'Oh, Gods;
Drachea - '

'Drachea tried to kill you,' Tarod told her, and the
gentleness of his tone was belied by the cold anger in his
eyes. 'It was fortunate that I found you before he could
complete what he'd begun.'

The memory was crowding back, and she began to
feel sick. 'Then the light - ' she whispered. 'It was you
. . . ' She looked down at her own body. There was no
pain now - she had only just realised the fact - and nor
was there any trace of blood. The wound Drachea had
inflicted had vanished as though it had never existed.
Quickly she raised her gaze to meet Tarod's once more,
uncomprehending, and he said quietly but wryly, 'Yes,
it's more than any healer could have done. There are
occasions when power such as mine has advantages.'

Cyllan swallowed, hard. 'Thank you . . . '

Tarod's instinct was to dismiss her thanks carelessly,
but he checked himself. Such a reaction could easily be
misconstrued, and he was anxious not to alienate her
now. Instead he reached behind him to a table and
picked up a cup, holding it out to her.

'Drink this,' he said, and smiled again, this time with a
touch of humour. 'It won't fortify you, in a place where
food and drink are irrelevant - but it'll warm you. And I
imagine you've not tasted good wine since the High
Initiate's inauguration!'

He was reminding her of their second meeting, when
he had championed her against a cheating wine-seller,
and tears sprang to Cyllan's eyes. She blinked them
back, angry with herself for being moved, and took the
cup. Over its rim, as she sipped, her amber eyes
regarded him uncertainly, and at last she asked, 'Why
did you save me?'

'Why?' He seemed surprised by the question, and she
nodded.

'You owe me nothing. After we - parted-I thought - '

'That we were enemies?' Tarod finished the sentence
for her. 'No, Cyllan. I feel no enmity to wards you; in fact
- ' He stopped, and a quick uncertainty flickered in his
green eyes before he took a grip on himself again. Then
he shook his head. 'You must judge me as you think fit.
You've seen the High Initiate's documents for yourself,
and for the most part Keridil presented the truth as he
saw it.' His eyes narrowed. 'I can't deny what I am, and
if you look on me as an enemy I can expect nothing
better. But, demon or no, I saved your life because I
wanted to ... to protect you.' He shrugged. 'Perhaps
that sounds glib. If it does, you must put your own
interpretation on it.'

Demon or no . . . Cyllan detected the irony in his
voice, and her throat tightened with an emotion she
didn't dare allow to take hold. Whatever else he might
be, Tarod was no demon . . . the term was more fitting
to Drachea, who had turned on her, condemned her
without a hearing and elected himself judge and
executioner.

Cyllan had determined never to cry, least of all in
Tarod's presence, but she had the terrible feeling that
she was about to lose control and break down. Her ally
had betrayed her; her enemy had saved her life - and the
old feelings, which she had done all in her power to crush
since arriving at the Castle, were fighting back to the
surface.

Her hand started to shake and Tarod took the cup
from her. He set it down, then gripped her fingers again,
but gently this time.

'Why did Drachea try to kill you, Cyllan?' he asked.

She bit her lip. She didn't want to think about what
had happened, but it had to be faced . . . and she had to
tell the truth. She owed Tarod that, at least.

'He - he found out that I'd been here,' she said, so
quietly that the words were barely audible. 'He was -
was berating me for not being at his side when he began
to recover from . . . ' She stopped, swallowed, con-
tinued with an effort. 'From what had happened to him.
I was angry because his attitude was so callous, and I told
him - told him - ' This time, she couldn't finish.

He began to understand. 'So he jumped to the con-
clusion that you were . . . shall we say, a willing victim?'

She nodded. The memory of Drachea's twisted face,
his injustice, his cruelty, surged up from the dark corner
of her mind to which she'd tried to banish it, and with it
came a burning, bitter fury. Unable to stem it, she said,
choking on the words, 'He called me a whore, and a
serpent, and - '

And suddenly the barrier she'd been tightly holding
on to broke. Cyllan covered her face with both hands
and burst into tears as the pent emotion shattered her
self-control. She felt Tarod's arms go round her and
pressed herself against him, hiding her face in the black
tangle of his hair. He said nothing, only held her, and the
relief of being able to cry freely with no fear of rejection
or contempt was like a cleansing balm.

Finally, the storm of weeping subsided. Tarod made
no attempt to release her, and eventually it was she who
disengaged herself from his arms, rising unsteadily to

her feet and walking towards the window. She wiped her
face with both hands, leaving smears on her cheeks, and
said indistinctly, 'I'm sorry.'

'You've nothing to be sorry for. I've known many
Adepts who'd weep at less provocation.'

She shook her head. 'No; I mean for more than that.'
She wanted to look at him, to read the expression in his
eyes, but didn't dare for fear of what she might see. She
took a deep breath, aware that she must say what was in
her heart, now or never. If she had misjudged Tarod
then the mistake would hurt her badly. But she felt that
she had nothing left to lose - and emotion was dictating
what reason had finally been unable to suppress.

'I've done you a great injustice,' she said quietly. 'I
believed that you were an enemy, not to be trusted, and
I allied myself with Drachea because I believed -
thought I believed - in the cause he espoused. He wants
to destroy you. I thought he was right.' She laughed, her
voice breaking. 'I call myself a seer, yet I couldn't see the
truth before my own eyes. Or at least ... I wouldn't
acknowledge it. I thought Drachea's wisdom was
greater than mine.'

'And now?' Tarod asked softly, when she didn't
continue.

'Now ... I don't know. Drachea thinks me a
simpleton peasant, and perhaps he's right. But I can
only judge by what I see, not by what I'm told.' The
words were coming in a rush now, and with them was a
growing fear that seemed to eat into her soul. She was
gambling everything; if she lost, she couldn't live with
herself. But instinct - and emotion - told her to put her
trust in the gamble, and believe that, at very least, Tarod
would understand.

'I wish,' she said, 'that I'd listened to my inner self.
Because ... I don't believe you're the demon they say
you are. And I don't want to be your enemy.'

There was silence for a while. Then she heard a faint
rustle as Tarod moved, and thought that he had come
to stand behind her, though she didn't dare look
round.

'You've read the High Initiate's testimony,' he said.

'No, I haven't. Drachea read it to me.' She smiled a
smile that she didn't intend him to see. 'I can't read.'

There was no surprise in his voice, no amusement, no
pity. He simply said levelly, 'I can't deny the truth of that
document, Cyllan. I might challenge the interpretation,
but the facts are real enough.'

She shrugged.

'Doesn't that repel you?'

'No. If those papers described a total stranger, then
perhaps I'd condemn, because I knew no better. But
they don't describe the man I met at West High Land, or
the Adept who remembered me at the celebrations . . .
or the man who saved my life.' She drew a breath. 'I
thought I was afraid of you. But... I think I was more
afraid of my own feelings.'

Tarod felt as though something were constricting his
lungs and throat. Cyllan was almost silhouetted against
the gloomy light from beyond the window, only a faint
blood-red gleam tinting her pale hair, and he wanted to
move towards her, touch her, hold her. Her hesitant
confession had stunned him - yet he knew she'd spoken
from the heart, willing to risk mockery or contempt.
She'd trusted him, and he imagined that throughout her
harsh life such trust had rarely been honoured. She was
still uncertain - the set of her small shoulders gave away
her determined resolve not to seem weak - but she had
bared her soul. And he, though he was soulless and had
thought himself incapable of feeling, was overtaken by a
force he couldn't combat and didn't want to. Emotions
moved in him like an implacable tide; hope, wistfulness,
an aching longing to be able truly to live again. He had
held the feelings back, afraid of what they might mean
and what they could lead to. But he could no longer
control them.

Cyllan laughed suddenly, chokingly. 'I still don't
understand why,' she said.

'Why?'

'Why you saved my life.'

He stepped forward  and  laid his hands on her

shoulders. 'Don't you?' he said softly, and bent to
kiss her upturned face. She responded eagerly, almost
childlike - then her body tensed and she pulled
away.

'Please, Tarod . . . don't. Not unless - unless you
mean it.'

Tarod understood, and an image of Sashka as she had
so often gazed at him, beautiful, hungry and inviting,
came unbidden to his mind. He banished it. Sashka was
dead; long dead for him . . .

'I mean it.' He drew her towards him, his mouth
finding hers and his body responding to the warmth of
her. 'I mean it, Cyllan . . . '

*****

Desire was spent, but the emotion remained. They lay
together on Tarod's couch, Cyllan's head resting in the
crook of his arm. Neither had felt the need to speak, and
now it seemed that Cyllan was asleep, her breathing
light and regular.

Tarod watched her. He felt more at peace than he
could ever remember, and yet the peace was touched by
a sadness that he had, as yet, been unable to bring
himself to face. He had been shocked by the feelings that
this oddly courageous and loyal girl had aroused within
him, but knew that there was nothing illusory or transi-
tory about his love for her, or hers for him. And yet,
despite the flowering of those feelings, he was aware of
an emptiness at the core of his heart, a dark, emotionless
shadow that marred his new-found happiness.

Could there be a future for them? Here, in this strange
dimension where nothing ever changed, they could exist
for eternity if they chose. But for a man without a soul,
unable to give completely, it would be a hollow exist-
ence because he could never be truly fulfilled. Tarod
wanted to be complete again; to know the pains and the
joys of completion. Soulless, he was but half alive . . .
and yet to regain his soul would be to face once more the
full implication of his true nature . . .

He sighed, and Cyllan's eyes flickered open.

Tarod?' Her fingers touched his arm lightly, sleepily,
then she frowned. 'Something troubles you . . . '

She read him all too well. 'Idle thoughts,' he said.

'Tell me. Please.'

He drew her closer. 'I was thinking of the future.' He
smiled, but not happily. 'Since Time was banished, I've
existed here without caring about all that I'd left behind.
But now ... so much has changed. When I lost my
soul, I thought I'd moved beyond humanity. I was
wrong. And yet I'm a husk; a shell - there's a cold core
within me that I can't break down. I can't give to you in
the way that I once could have done; I can't love you
with my soul, because I have no soul. And yet if I should
try to turn back, and if I should succeed - '

Tarod . . .' Sensing his distress Cyllan tried to interrupt
him, but he silenced her by placing a finger on her lips.

'No. It has to be said. You know what I've become,
Cyllan. But do you know what I once was?'

An echo of the old fear crept into her eyes, and he felt
as though a knife had twisted in his gut. She still didn't
fully understand, and he was afraid that, when she did,
she would be unable to face the truth without revulsion.
But he couldn't keep it from her. She had been prepared
to gamble - so must he.

'Once,' he said, 'I wore a ring. In the ring was a stone;
a very beautiful gem. I learned that that gem was a focus
of power, but I was ignorant of its true nature . . . until
that nature was revealed to me by Yandros.'

'Yandros . . . ' The word sent an atavistic shiver
through Cyllan, and she said tentatively. The testimony
claimed that he was - is - a Lord of Chaos . . . '

'Yes.'

'And the stone . . .' She knew the answer, but needed
to hear it in his own words.

The stone was the vehicle for my soul.' He ran his
tongue over lips that were suddenly dry. 'It, too, is from
the Chaos realm.'

She sat up, seemingly wrestling with some inner con-
flict - then turned abruptly to face him, reaching out to

take his hand as her distress found voice.

'But you're no demon! You're of this world; you're
human - '

'Cyllan - ' He squeezed her fingers, moved by her
loyalty and yet finding it a bleak comfort. 'I'm not
human. Not wholly. I never have been - though the
Gods know it took me long enough to find that out.'

'Then what are you?'

Tarod shook his head. 'I don't know, Cyllan; I truly
don't know. I have human feelings, human reactions;
yet I also possess powers which no mortal man should be
capable of wielding. The Circle say I'm a demon. And
Yandros . . . ' his gaze flickered uncertainly to her face,
'Yandros called me "brother".'

Cyllan didn't speak, and when he looked at her again
her head was bowed so that he couldn't see her face.
Inwardly, she was struggling to assimilate all he had told
her. She had expected him to deny the charges laid
against him by the Circle; instead he admitted that,
though slanted, they were in essence true. The idea that
this man could be kin to a Lord of Chaos appalled her
. . . and yet, no matter what every catechism she had
learned since childhood might say, she couldn't reject
him; couldn't turn against him for the sake of an abstract
principle.

'If I were to regain the soul-stone,' Tarod said, 'The
links with Chaos would be reforged. Yet without it I
can't truly live, and I can't find the fulfilment I long for
with you.' He smiled bleakly. 'Can you reconcile such a
paradox?'

Cyllan looked at him. 'Is it a paradox, Tarod? What-
ever that stone might have made you, you're human
enough! You were a high Adept, a servant of our gods,
when you possessed your soul. You were no demon -
why should that change if you regain it now?'

He laughed bitterly. The Circle would disagree.'

'Then damn the Circle! If they couldn't see the truth
before their eyes, they were fools!'

He turned to regard her, unsure of himself. 'Do you
really have so much faith in me, Cyllan?'

'Yes,' she told him simply.

The irony of her unquestioning loyalty, contrasted
with the hostility he had met from those who had pur-
ported to be friends and peers of a lifetime's standing,
was sobering. During his cold existence alone in the
timeless Castle Tarod had turned his back on the old
allegiance to the Lords of Order, for with the Circle's
betrayal Order had failed him. But the stirrings of a
rekindled humanity had brought back the love of his
world. He wanted to be a part of that world again; and it
was a world in which Yandros and his ilk played no part.

He looked down at the buckled base of the ring on his
left hand. 'There could be dangers if the stone is
recovered. It was the key to Yandros's plan to challenge
the rule of Aeoris, and it could be that it would open the
gateway . . . that Chaos could threaten the world once
again.'

'You fought Chaos once before. Even the High Initi-
ate admitted that. His papers said that you banished
Yandros . . . '

'Nonetheless, Yandros doesn't accept defeat easily.'
Tarod smiled thinly. 'As I know to my cost.'

Cyllan leaned forward and let her arms slip around
him, moving closer until she was pressed warmly against
him. 'I don't care about Yandros,' she said with deter-
mination. 'He's a shadow - and I'm not afraid of shad-
ows. All that matters to me is that you've lost a part of
yourself, and you want to regain it. That's what counts.'

Tarod gazed down at her, and one hand reached out
to stroke her pale hair. 'Whatever that self might be?
You don't fear that?'

'No.' She kissed him, and the kiss was fierce. 'I don't
fear that.'

Chapter 9

Drachea's hand moved slowly, rhythmically back and
forth along the length of the sword blade as he sat
crouched over the weapon in one of the remotest of the
Castle's many empty rooms. He had carefully wiped
Cyllan's blood from the blade, but that wasn't enough;
he needed to polish the steel until it shone blindingly,
eradicate every possible trace of her. Purity, he told
himself over and over again, with a twisted ferocity; the
sword must be pure before it was fit for him to wield -
he'd have no taint of the white-faced witch about him.

Memory of the frustration and fury he'd felt at being
cheated of his victim brought a chilly sweat to Drachea's
brow. Bearing down on Cyllan, certain of securing her
death, he had been momentarily blinded by the shatter-
ing aurora of light that materialised around her from
nowhere, and when its brief flash faded she had van-
ished. He had no doubt that Tarod was responsible,
though whether his skills had been enough to keep her
alive he didn't know, If she lived, then she was another
adversary to be counted in his personal reckoning - but
the scores he had to settle with both her and her demonic
lover could wait awhile. He had more urgent matters at
hand.

Drachea stopped polishing, studied the sword criti-
cally and, satisfied, laid it with something approaching
reverence on the bed before rising and crossing to the
window. During his search for a safe hideaway he had
found new clothes that he felt were more fitting to his
station both as heir to a Margravate and as champion of
the Circle against their common enemy. Taking up a
stance at the window, he flicked back the short, fur-

trimmed cloak that covered dark green velvet jerkin and
grey silk shirt and trousers, trying to glimpse his own
reflection in the glass. The panes distorted the image and
irritated him; he turned back and picked up the sword
once more, hefting it and testing its balance. Not ideal -
Cyllan had failed him there, as in so many other ways -
but it would do. And he had found a knife for him-
self, which might prove a more useful weapon. The knife
now hung in a sheath fastened to the belt at his waist; he
slipped the sword through the adjacent loop, adjusted
its angle at his hip and decided that he was ready.

Drachea had no illusions about his prospects if he
should face and defy Tarod alone - his last experience at
the Adept's hands had all but unhinged him, and
nothing would induce him to repeat it. If Tarod was to be
defeated, he would need help - and the only chance of
securing that help lay in finding a way to reverse the spell
which had stopped Time, and call the Circle back to the
world. Then retribution would be his for the taking, and
he would relish every sweet moment. If Cyllan lived
she'd learn to regret her alliance with Chaos, and he
smiled to himself, thinking of the satisfaction that forc-
ing her to witness Tarod's final annihilation would give
him.

But to relish his triumph now was premature - he had
a long way to go before the victory. And the first step
was to search for the Chaos stone, which could prove to
be the most valuable weapon of all. With that in his
grasp, he would be in a position to bargain with Tarod -
a bargain that would be very much to his own advantage.

Drachea took a final glance around the room, wishing
that he could have shared this moment with someone
who would admire his courage and wish him well. No
matter; he would in time receive the Circle's gratitude as
their champion and saviour, and they would see to it that
he had his just reward.

He left the chamber, closing the door quietly behind
him, and set off towards the stairs.

'Cyllan.' Tarod laid his hands gently on her shoulders as
she looked up at him. 'Are you sure you want to do this?'

She smiled, her face lighting. 'Yes, I'm sure.' She
covered his left hand with her own, feeling the sharp
contours of his broken ring against her palm. 'You can't
enter the Marble Hall - but I can. And if the stone can be
found, I'll find it.' She stood on tiptoe, drawing him
down to kiss him. 'Trust me.'

'I do. But I'm uneasy.' His green eyes, unquiet,
focused on a point beyond her. 'You persuaded me to
show mercy to Drachea ... I still think you were
wrong.'

'No.' She shook her head emphatically, remembering
how hard it had been to dissuade him from finding the
young man and slaying him without a second thought.
Why she felt a measure of compassion for Drachea she
didn't know; he had betrayed her trust and, if their
positions were reversed, would have had no hesitation in
killing her. But mingled with her contempt was an ele-
ment of pity; revenge played no part in her thinking, and
to see Drachea die for no good reason would prey on her
conscience.

Tarod felt differently. Drachea's treatment of Cyllan
was in itself enough to provoke his quick temper, and he
wanted nothing more than to blast him to damnation
and have done. For her sake he had promised to stay his
hand - but deep down he wondered if he might come to
regret the promise.

'Drachea can do us no harm.' Cyllan said. 'He counts
for nothing, Tarod. I'm not afraid of him.'

He hesitated, then smiled, though there was still a hint
of doubt in his eyes. 'Go, then,' he told her. 'And if you
need me, I'll hear you and be with you.' He kissed her,
seeming reluctant to break away. 'The gods protect you.'

He watched the door close at her back, waited until he
heard her light footfalls on the stairs, then closed his
green eyes, concentrating briefly on the small exertion
of power that would transport her to the foot of the
titanic spire. When it was done, he turned back to his
table and sat down. The single candle in its sconce stood

among a clutter of books; he passed one hand over it,
and the familiar green witchfire glowed into life. As it
gained strength, casting a cold radiance across his gaunt
features, Tarod gazed unblinkingly into the heart of the
flame and tried to banish the uneasiness that lurked like
a worm within him.

As she descended the stairs that wound down towards
the library vault, Cyllan was keyed up with a mingling of
excitement, anticipation and dread. She didn't fear the
task that lay ahead of her, but knew that, if she was
successful, the future would become unknown and per-
haps perilous territory. With the soul-stone restored to
him Tarod would again assume his true nature, and to
stay in the timeless Castle wouldn't content him. He'd
refused to admit the truth directly, but Cyllan believed
that, when the stone was in his possession, he would use
its power to call back Time to the dimension. The
thought of what might ensue when he confronted the
Circle again chilled her to the marrow; but she knew him
well enough to realise he'd have it no other way. He
couldn't exist in an unchanging eternity; he needed to
live, and if living involved risk, he'd take the risk. She
couldn't find it in her heart to argue with him, and yet the
one fear which ate at her like a disease was the fear of
losing him. Even with his soul restored, Tarod wasn't
invincible; and if the Circle should prevail against him,
she'd lose her own reason for existing.

The sudden and drastic changes in both herself and
Tarod had happened so unexpectedly that Cyllan had
had no chance even to try to question or understand
them. Nor, if she was honest, did she wish to. At
Drachea's behest she had convinced herself that Tarod
was evil, an enemy to be mistrusted and thwarted, and
she had fought against her own desires and instincts in an
effort to reinforce that conviction. But she had never
been at ease with it; and once the barriers between them
finally broke down, the feelings she had tried to suppress
had taken hold of her with a vengeance. Powerful emo-
tions, long repressed, had found their focus in a man

who awoke in her a fierce desire, unquenchable love and
a loyalty that nothing could shake. Right or wrong she
had chosen her path, and no matter what the future
might bring she wouldn't turn from it.

She ran down the last few stairs of the flight and
pushed open the door that led to the library. The dim
vault was still and silent, and Cyllan paused on the
threshold, turning her mind to Tarod where he waited in
the spire. At once she felt an answering presence joining
with her and soothing her unease, and she was com-
forted by it. Whatever lay ahead, he'd be with her . . .

As she crossed the room towards the half-hidden door
which would lead her to the Marble Hall, the hem of her
skirt snagged on one of the scattered books which lit-
tered the floor, and she was forced to stop and free it.
She was unused to wearing clothes like these; for as long
as she could remember she'd had nothing but shirts and
trousers handed down from a cousin or, in recent years,
from one of the men in her uncle's drover-band. But
Tarod had told her that she deserved something better,
far better . . . and he had found, though the gods alone
knew from where, a dress of dark red silk which fitted
her as though it had been made for her alone. The feel of
the fabric fascinated her; the rustle as she moved, the
sensation of the silk swirling against her bare legs . . . and
when she wore it for him he had said she looked beautiful.
No one had ever paid her such a compliment before, yet
she didn't doubt Tarod's sincerity. To him she was beauti-
ful, and the knowledge meant more to her than she could
express. Cyllan remembered his words, cherishing them,
as she reached the low door, opened it and gazed through
to the empty passage with its peculiar, silver-tinged light.
Then, gathering her courage, she started towards the
source of the light and the Marble Hall beyond.

Tarod's plan, as he had outlined it to her, was straight-
forward enough. Without the soul-stone he could do
nothing to reverse the forces which had halted the
Pendulum of Time and locked the Castle into this
strange non-dimension; yet the stone had been con-
signed to limbo along with the Castle's inhabitants. The

only way to resolve the paradox was to break through
the barrier on one of the highest of the seven astral
planes, and find the stone. If the stratagem worked - and
Tarod admitted that he was uncertain of success - it
could be brought back through dimensions, if the
motivating power and will were strong enough. Tarod
had the power, and the will, but the vital focus provided
by the Marble Hall itself was denied to him through the
quirk of fate which had shifted it fractionally out of
synchronisation with the Castle when Time was ban-
ished. Soulless, he couldn't enter . . . but Cyllan could.
And her innate psychic ability, Tarod believed, would
be enough to enable him to succeed in his task using her
as a medium.

Cyllan didn't pretend to understand the nature of the
occult skill which Tarod would need to achieve his aim,
but only prayed that she would be capable of doing what
he wanted of her. He had warned her that there could be
dangers but she had stubbornly dismissed them; she
trusted him, wanted to help him, and she was resolved to
play her part.

Now though, as she reached out to touch the dull
silver door that stood between her and the Marble Hall,
she was assailed by a chilly shiver of uncertainty. No one
knew the true properties of this strange, illusion-
haunted place; so much had been made clear in the High
Initiate's papers, and Tarod had only confirmed it. If
something were to go wrong with the plan, if some force
that even Tarod hadn't bargained for were to manifest
then no amount of foresight could predict the possible
consequences. Limbo . . . Cyllan shuddered at the
thought and all but withdrew her hand from the door.

There's no shame in being afraid, Tarod had told her.
Don't fight your fear, or pretend it doesn't exist. He was
right . . . the feeling, on the threshold of such an
undertaking, was natural . . .

She took a deep breath, and touched her hand to the
door. It swung open, and the shifting, shimmering mists
enfolded her as she walked slowly into the Marble Hall.

Drachea stood in the shelter of the doorway, his gaze
roaming uneasily across the courtyard's vast expanse. It
seemed deserted, but it was impossible to be sure; the
crimson light played tricks with the eyes, and any one of
a thousand dense shadows might without warning move
and resolve into something other than shadow . . . He
glanced towards the summit of the Northern spire, and
thought he detected the faintest glimmer of light from a
high window; but again, it could easily be illusion.

He had arrived at the courtyard by a deliberately
tortuous route which finally brought him to an insignifi-
cant side entrance adjacent to the stables. If Tarod were
watching for him, the chances were that he'd mount his
vigil in sight of the main doors, which Drachea could see
standing open. If he kept to the deeper darkness, he
should be able to reach his goal with small risk of being
detected . . . and so, trying to quell the thumping of his
heart, he eased out into the shadow of the black wall and
began to edge his way along it. Nothing untoward hap-
pened - once he thought he glimpsed a blur of move-
ment low down, as though something sentient had
detached itself from the foot of a buttress and slipped
snaking away across the flagstones; but it was nothing
more than his imagination, and at last he gained the
shelter of the colonnaded walkway. Here he could
merge easily with the gaunt silhouettes of the pillars, and
by moving with slow caution arrive at the door which led
to the library vault.

At the top of the vault stairs his determination almost
failed him as he realised that Tarod could be waiting for
him in the library, but Drachea forced himself not to
dwell on the idea. If he baulked now, seeing demons at
every turn, he might just as well return to his room and
wait for insanity or Tarod's vengeance - or both - to
claim him. The work must be begun, and he could gain
nothing by delaying.

Softly, though imagining every footfall to be as loud as
thunder, Drachea began to descend the stairs.

Cyllan stood at he head of the massive block of black

wood which lay at what was deemed to be the Marble
Hall's exact centre. Her eyes were closed, and her lips
moved silently in a fervent prayer to Aeoris for protec-
tion - though whether the god would see fit to grant it to
her in the face of what she was about to do, she didn't
like to speculate. Her stomach roiled with the sickness of
nerves, and though instinct urged her to reach out and
lay her hands on the block's surface, she couldn't bring
herself to touch it. Passing by the seven defaced black
statues, which loomed eerily out of the shrouding mist,
she had faltered, and only by silently repeating the litany
of Tarod's words to her could she force herself on. But
she had come this far ... for his sake, for both their
sakes, she must look forward and not back.

The silence and stillness were absolute. Once she had
imagined she had heard a distant sound like the muted
chiming of a bell, and once an echo of soft laughter,
almost beyond the threshold of human hearing, had
seemed to shiver in the mist; but such illusions were
gone now. The Hall itself seemed alive and waiting; she
felt its tension like a physical presence. The mosaic floor
was cold beneath her bare feet . . . she clasped her
hands before her and struggled to quiet her mind, make
herself receptive for contact with Tarod.

His presence in her subconscious mind came suddenly
and powerfully. For an instant Cyllan glimpsed the
darkened room at the top of the spire and seemed to see
steady green eyes gazing into her own, lit with an inten-
sity that frightened her. Then she sensed the guiding will
that began to integrate with hers and to take control. . .
breathing slowly, lightly, she reached out as though
sleepwalking, and her hands came to rest on the pitted
surface of the block. As they touched, a lurching sensa-
tion of vertigo struck up from far beneath the floor and
she swayed, biting her tongue to stop herself crying out
in alarm. The feeling passed, but she knew that, beyond
her closed lids, something had changed. The tension was
transmuting into a dreamlike sensation, as though she
floated free of time and space. She wanted to open her
eyes, but courage failed her. Whatever surrounded her

now wasn't for mortal sight or mortal understanding,
and the knowledge brought on something akin to panic.
She flailed mentally, blindly seeking an anchor, and
almost at once the other will touched her and held her,
drawing her back from the terror. She felt Tarod's pre-
sence in her mind again, but it was a presence that
transcended humanity, more powerful than anything
she had ever known. For a moment her own will resisted
through fear, but the presence soothed her, reassured
her, and she let herself be eclipsed by it as Tarod drew
her through the planes towards their mutual goal.

Sword drawn, Drachea stepped into the vault and
picked his way carefully among the fallen books and
manuscripts. At every other pace he turned quickly, the
blade swinging up as though to block some assault from
behind, but the precaution was needless. The library
was empty.

And yet he had a conviction that not all was as it
should have been. Something was awry, though he
couldn't put a finger on the cause. Drachea was no
psychic, but a glimmer of sensitivity warned him, even
before he came across the low door in its alcove and
found it standing wide open.

He stopped on the threshold, licking his lips uncer-
tainly. This way lay the Marble Hall; the one place in all
the Castle where, on his own admission, Tarod couldn't
go. Yet the door gaped, suggesting that someone had
recently come this way . . . and the Castle's only other
inhabitant was Cyllan . . .

His previous unreasoning fear of the Marble Hall
meant nothing in the face of this unexpected oppor-
tunity to settle the score. Drachea put the sword away,
aware of its disadvantages in the confined space of the
passage, and instead drew the short knife from its
sheath. The blade glittered wickedly in the odd light,
and he set off slowly, cautiously, towards the silver door.

First there was a terrible sensation of weight, as though
the towering cliffs of West High Land were crushing her

beneath them . . . she resisted, urged by the will inter-
locked with her own, and abruptly the pressure gave way
to the balm of a cool, clear current which carried her like a
fish on its tide. She heard the eldritch song of the fanaani,
but it faded and instead she was being buffeted on a
laughing, capricious gale . . . which exploded into heat
that assailed her, burning, unquenchable. She seemed to
pass through fire, on the point of screaming until sud-
denly the searing pain was eclipsed by a voice that spoke
in her innermost consciousness, Slowly, it seemed to say,
Slowly . . . gently ... I am with you . . .

And there was silence. She felt as though she hung
weightless and motionless amid nothing; yet there was a
disturbance in her mind, an unease, a fear . . . a sense
that below her, something waited . . . and the voice
spoke within her again and said, Look . . .

It was a black and silver world, with no colour to
relieve the austerity. Cyllan hung disembodied above a
floor where mosaics made a complex pattern, and she
looked down upon an extraordinary, motionless
tableau.

Some twenty or thirty men and women were ranged in a
circle, all heads turned towards one man in heavy, sombre
ceremonial garb, wearing a circlet that glittered coldly on
his head. His arms were outstretched, and in both hands he
held a massive, ugly sword which gave off a coruscation of
light that seemed to burn the air around it. The light
illuminated his powerful frame and a face which, though
young and handsome, was set in hard lines.

Cyllan felt a shaft of anger lance through her, and
knew it emanated from the part of the linked con-
sciousness that was Tarod. She looked again, and saw
that the young man who held the sword stood before a
great block of black wood . . . and on the block was
another figure, tall, gaunt, face half hidden by a mane of
black hair. The tableau's still rigidity gave a macabre
twist to the attitude of extreme agony that racked the
victim on the block - then the fury flared into life again,
and Cyllan's mind recoiled in shock as she recognised
him.

The stone, Cyllan . . . find the stone . . . The voice
that spoke within her carried no overt emotion, but
Cyllan felt the savage thrust of pain that accompanied
the words. Momentarily she realised how Tarod must
feel at witnessing the scene of his own execution, but the
understanding was eclipsed by an urgent longing that
surged within their linked wills. Guided by Tarod, she
exerted her strength, seeking, hunting . . .

And then she saw it. It lay in the cupped hands of
another Initiate who stood at the foot of the block, and it
glowed with a cold inner life of its own. A single gem,
multifaceted and beautiful . . . the Chaos stone.

Take it, she heard Tarod's whispered command, and
something seemed to propel her forward and down-
ward, so that her mind reached out to the still figures of
the tableau. The stone began to pulse, radiating seven
shafts of light that all but blinded her as she drew closer,
closer . . . and the presence in her mind prepared itself
for a last, single exertion of will. She knew that this was
the perilous moment; it would take all Tarod's skill to
link their shared consciousness with the soul-stone, and
snatch them back from this world of illusion and phan-
tasm. She felt the power building within her, building
until she thought she couldn't contain it and would
shatter under its inexorable pressure . . . still it grew,
and the glowing stone blazed more fiercely than ever,
drawing her into itself like some terrible vortex . . .

A gigantic concussion smashed from every direction
at once, and Cyllan's scream of terror shattered into a
thousand echoes that dinned in her ears as she was
hurled from the dimension. Mind, body and soul split
asunder, the scream rang on and on - until with a titanic
crack the world returned.

She was sprawled across the execution block, all
breath knocked out of her lungs by the force of impact.
She tried to move, but her limbs had no strength and she
could only slide helplessly to the floor as her spinning
senses struggled to right themselves. At last, guided by
the feel of the cold marble beneath her, she gained a
small measure of orientation and by slow and painful

degrees was able to sit up. Her hands were clenched into
fists and when she tried to unlock them she was racked
by violent muscular spasms . . . but in her hand she felt
something hard and cold and rounded . . .

'Tarod . . . ' She croaked his name aloud, trying to
urge her will to meld once again with his, and almost
sobbed with relief when she felt his mind reaching out to
her. The presence was weakened by their shared ordeal;
he had exerted all his strength in calling on the forces
he'd summoned, and the contact was tenuous. Yet it was
enough . . .

She projected the certainty she felt with all her
remaining energy. I have the stone . . .

He was barely able to answer her, and Cyllan began to
struggle upright. Gaining her feet, she was forced to lean
over the block to balance herself and get her breath -
and it was as she gasped air thankfully into her lungs, the
Chaos stone still tightly gripped in her hand, that a
glittering sliver of steel slid from behind her shoulder to
hover a hairsbreadth from her throat, and a voice thick
with triumphant savagery said,

'Thank you, Cyllan. You've solved my most pressing
problem . . . '

Tarod slumped in the chair, his head thrown back and
sweat gleaming on his face and hands. He was drained,
and the strength he craved wouldn't return to him. To
summon and use such power was taxing enough under
any circumstances, but to do so at second hand, through
the medium of another mind, had almost proved his
undoing. Only by an iron control of his will had he been
able to pull himself and Cyllan back from limbo, and
now he felt as weak as a new-born child.

But it was done . . . The realisation lit a fire within
him, though he hadn't the strength to rejoice. They had
succeeded, and the stone had been retrieved from that
netherworld . . .

He must go to Cyllan. In his present condition he had
no power to bring her back to the spire, but he must go to
her. With a tremendous effort Tarod forced himself to

rise from the chair, and stood swaying as though drunk.
And then, as he turned towards the door, something
impinged on a deeper level of his consciousness.

Tarod . . .

He felt the first stirrings of concern, for he recognised
the source of the voiceless, psychic call and its inflection
told him something was wrong.

Tarod. . .

Fear. It was fear he sensed in the call she sent, out to
him; fear and an incoherent pleading. Drained as he
was, he couldn't lock his mind completely with Cyllan's,
but enough energy remained, fuelled now by alarm, for
him to reach out psychically towards her. As he did, he
heard her thoughts more clearly.

Tarod, I've failed you . . . I was wrong. I thought he
could do us no harm . . .

The shock of her words struck his tired mind, and a
terrible clarity brought home the truth to Tarod. He
swung round to where the candle still burned with its
sickly halo, and bent over the nacreous green flame.
Distorted images danced before him; he willed them to
focus, and saw her.

She knelt on the mosaic floor at Drachea's feet, both
arms twisted viciously up behind her back. Drachea held
the blade of a knife poised at her throat, in such a
position that one incautious movement would sever the
jugular vein. Her eyes were tight shut and Tarod saw
blood on her lip where she had bitten into it.

A rage as he had never known before began to fill
Tarod. The fury at Themila's death, which had led him
to kill Rhiman Han, the bitterness of Sashka's betrayal,
were nothing by comparison to the insanity of malev-
olence that consumed him now. He gasped, swaying
back, then with one hand swept the candle, books and
all other artefacts from the table-top. They smashed to
the floor; the witchfire halo winked out, and blackness
surged up in Tarod's mind, bringing with it a resurgence
of power which he caught, focused, savagely directing it
towards Drachea -

'No!' He yelled the word aloud in a desperate bid to

break his own concentration, and reeled back as the
power-bolt disintegrated in his head. His magic was
useless - without a willing medium he couldn't penetrate
the barrier between himself and the Marble Hall, and to
use Cyllan as a vehicle for this would be to kill her. He
sucked air into his lungs, striving to calm himself and
railing wildly against the realisation that he was trapped.
He could do nothing to Drachea, and Drachea held
Cyllan's life as hostage. Whatever the treacherous Heir
Margrave wanted - and Tarod believed he knew the
answer to that question - he had no choice but to com-
ply. If he refused, Cyllan would die. And as he faced this
final, terrible test, Tarod knew that no sacrifice would be
too great to save her.

'So our mutual friend has heard you, and is aware of
your plight.' Drachea smiled, speaking softly, and gave
a vicious jerk to Cyllan's pinned arms that made her gasp
with pain. 'No doubt he's aware, too, of what could
become of his precious stone if he attempts to cross
me!'

Cyllan didn't answer. She could make no move,
knowing that Drachea held the knife-blade so close to
her throat that the smallest slip would drive it deep, and
the wound would be fatal;. She had felt Tarod's despair
and fury as he realised what had happened, but now
there was no presence in her mind at all. She prayed that
he still had a reserve of power, that he could use it to
blast Drachea, and cursed herself a thousand times for a
fool. If she hadn't pleaded with Tarod to show leniency,
Drachea would be dead . . .

Another cruel jerk at her arms brought her back to
earth. 'Well?' Drachea demanded, his voice harsh in her
ear. 'What does he say? What does he mean to do?'

Cyllan made an inarticulate noise and he withdrew the
knife sufficiently to allow her to speak. 'I - don't know
. . . ' she whispered.

'Liar!'

'No ... it's the truth

Drachea laughed. 'Then perhaps your demon-lover

thinks less of you than you so fondly believe! Nonethe-
less, he values that pretty trinket in your hand. Release
it, Cyllan.'

She clenched her fist. 'No . . . '

'I said, release it!' The knife touched her neck and
Cyllan realised she would achieve nothing by defiance.
He could kill her and take the stone; she had nothing to
gain by sacrificing herself.

The jewel fell to the floor with a small, cold clink and
Drachea stared down at it, hardly able to believe his
good fortune. It looked an ordinary enough bauble now;
dull, lifeless, like a piece of glass. But he had seen the
white-hot glare that sprang from Cyllan's outstretched
hands as the thing materialised in his full sight, and he
had felt the power pulsing from its heart. It was a deadly
artefact - and the Circle would reward him well when he
returned it into their rightful custody!

Drachea had entered the Marble Hall as the rite con-
ducted by Tarod and Cyllan neared its climax. Cyllan
was oblivious to her surroundings, and he had hidden
himself behind one of the black statues, gambling that
his presence would go undetected. He soon realised that
Cyllan was acting as a medium for the dark sorcerer, and
when he saw the soul-stone's radiance spilling from
between her cupped fingers he knew what they had
done, and a heady exultation filled him. Weak as she
now was, Cyllan would be easy prey. Tarod couldn't
enter the Hall . . . and with the Chaos-stone in his
hand, Drachea would have an unassailable fortress from
which to make his demands.

But as yet, he had had no chance to voice those
demands. He had ordered Cyllan to make contact with
Tarod, but although she swore she had done so, Tarod
hadn't responded. Doubtless he considered her ex-
pendable - eventually he must come seeking the stone.
And he wouldn't be inclined to risk the loss of his own
soul for the sake of a simple bargain . . .

Drachea wondered if Tarod was planning some coun-
ter-move. The demon had great guile, and he felt uneasy
with nothing to do but wait. Suddenly angry, he twisted

Cyllan's arm again, opening his mouth to voice a further
threat if she didn't try to make contact again. But before
he could speak, a new voice cut across the eerie quiet of
the Marble Hall.

'Drachea.'

The tone was chilling, calm but terrible. Drachea
started and all but lost his grip of Cyllan's arms; seeing a
chance, albeit slender, she twisted in his grasp and tried
to pull away, but before she could roll clear he had
snatched at her and jerked her back, her head against his
shoulder, the knife touching the flesh of her neck.
Slowly, dragging his burden with him, Drachea turned
around.

The coruscating mists had shivered apart as though a
beam of light had cut through them, and the way to the
silver door was unobscured. A single pace beyond the
Marble Hall's threshold stood Tarod, mad-eyed, his left
hand raised and pointing directly at Drachea.

Tarod said with unhuman malignance, 'Release her.'

For an instant Drachea baulked, then he remembered
the Marble Hall's properties, and his face worked into a
sneer. 'Release her?' he repeated mockingly. 'You may
think me a fool, demon, but I'm not that gullible! I have
the stone, and I have Cyllan. I will destroy either with
impunity if you dare to give me orders again!'

Tarod's eyes blazed, and a dark aura flickered into life
around him. 'You cannot destroy the Chaos stone,
worm.'

'Perhaps not - but I can kill her!' Drachea jerked
Cyllan violently- and saw fear in Tarod's look before he
could disguise it. His own eyes lit with excitement as he
realised that his adversary had revealed an unexpected
weakness. Could it be that he had some care for Cyllan
after all - or at least, that she was in some way vital to
him?

Slowly, thoughtfully, Drachea ran his tongue over his
lower lip. 'Let us say, Adept Tarod,' he went on, inject-
ing a venomous contempt in the last two words, 'that
there is something I want from you. Let us say that if you
refuse to grant it, I will slit Cyllan's throat, and you may

watch her life-blood spill over this mosaic floor. What
would your answer to my request be?'

Tarod's face tightened and he responded savagely,
'Harm Cyllan in any way, and you won't merely die - I'll
send you to eternal torture!'

'Ah!' Drachea crowed delightedly. 'So the soulless
one has a flaw after all! What is Cyllan to you, Tarod,
that makes her so vital to your needs ? A whore's a
whore, after all - there are plenty better to choose from
in the world!'

Tarod's hand jerked up as though to release a furious
power-bolt, but Cyllan cried out, 'No! Tarod, he seeks
only to enrage you! Don't give him that satisfaction!'

Drachea swore and pulled viciously at her hair to
silence her, but Tarod knew she was right. Fury and fear
had taken him dangerously close to losing control; now,
with an effort, he collected his wits. If Cyllan was to be
saved, he had no business arguing with Drachea. There
was a bargain to be struck . . . and he knew what that
bargain must be.

The black aura flickered, faded as he stared at the
Heir Margrave and at Cyllan. The slightest move could
mean her death ... he swallowed, his throat dry, and
he said to Drachea,

'What is it you want of me?'

Drachea grinned. 'Better! You begin to understand at
last. I'll spell it out clearly for you, demon. I have
Cyllan, and I have your soul-stone. If you want to save
Cyllan's life, you must use the stone, and call back Time
to this Castle!'

Cyllan twisted ferociously in Drachea's grip. 'Tarod,
no!' she shrieked. 'It would mean awakening the Circle
- you can't do it, not this way!'

Her eyes, wide and staring, met his, and she saw a
sadness and compassion in his green gaze that horrified
her with its implication. She tried to shake her head, but
the knife was too close. 'Tarod, no, please . . . '

He continued to look at her. 'I have no choice.'

'But you have! Let him kill me - it's better than the
alternative!'

'No!' The refusal was shockingly vehement, and
Tarod raised his head to stare proudly, contemptuously
at Drachea. 'I will do what needs to be done, Heir
Margrave. And I congratulate you on your deviousness.
My reckoning with you must wait!'

'Your reckoning will be with the High Initiate!'
Drachea sneered. 'Save your pride for him, serpent!'

Tarod took a deep breath, fighting down his fury, and
said calmly, Then give me the stone.'

'What?' Drachea was incredulous, then he laughed, a
loud peal that rang and echoed dashingly through the
Marble Hall. 'I gave up suckling at the teat many years
ago, my friend! Until the Circle return, and you are
safely bound, this stone stays with me!' He forced Cyllan
forward until she crouched painfully with head bent,
then with one foot shifted the Chaos stone, which still
lay on the floor, into Tarod's view. 'You've already used
this white-faced bitch as your medium. Use her again.'

It would take more strength than he possessed . . . he
was still weakened by the force expended to call the stone
out of limbo . . . Aloud, Tarod said, 'I can't.'

'You're lying! You've done it before!'

'Cyllan may not consent.'

'Damn you, then make her consent! It's a simple
enough choice - either you do what I command, in the
way I command it, or you watch her die! My patience has
run out - make your decision!'

There was no other way open to him. If he refused to
accede to Drachea's demands, the Heir Margrave would
slit Cyllan's throat while Tarod stood helpless. And no
matter what vengeance he took, nothing could ever
compensate for her loss . . .

But Tarod knew that, weakened as he was by the
forces he had used to call the Chaos stone out of limbo,
he might not have the strength to do what Drachea
wanted of him. This was no trifling magic, and if he
failed, if his will broke, then the backlash of power could
destroy Cyllan.

Yet she's damned already if you don't try . . .

The inner voice chilled him, for it spoke nothing less

than the truth. Tarod sighed. 'Very well, Drachea. I
accept your terms.'

'Ha!' Drachea grinned, then leaned over to leer at
Cyllan. 'It seems you can take comfort from your
demon-friend's loyalty, bitch! And he thought I was the
fool

Cyllan shut her eyes, wanting to blot out the image of
Drachea's twisted, triumphant face. She had to stop
Tarod somehow - it was better, far better, that she died
and left him free, for the alternative was too appalling to
consider. Desperately, she tried again to plead with him.

Tarod . . . listen to me . . . '

'Quiet!' Drachea hissed.

'No! Tarod!' Her voice rose shrilly. 'I don't care what
happens to me - let him use the knife, I don't care ! You
musn't do this, you can't!'

Drachea had twisted her around so that she couldn't
see Tarod, but she heard his voice clearly enough, and it
was implacable.

'There's no other way.' And as he spoke aloud, she
heard other words, voiceless, echo in her mind. Cyllan,
if you love me, obey me in this!

She summoned her mental resources. I can't! The
Circle will —

Damn the Circle! I won't see you die . . .

I'll fight you ...

You can't fight me. I'll do what I must do, and I'll use
you in whatever ways I need to, to save your life!

There was venom in the last message, and Cyllan
realised that nothing she could say or do would sway
him. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks; tears of
misery and defeat, and Drachea looked quickly up at
Tarod. 'Is she subdued?' he demanded.

'She'll do what I ask of her,' Tarod told him curtly.

'Good. Then don't prevaricate - begin!'

Tarod bowed his head. To turn his mind from Cyllan's
plight and concentrate on what must be done was a
nightmare, but he forced himself to clear all extraneous
thoughts from his mind. So much depended on his skill
and remaining strength now . . . yet if he succeeded, he

would be placing himself in a trap with jaws that could
clamp ferociously on him. It was likely that Drachea
would attempt to kill Cyllan the moment the rite was
completed, and Tarod had to risk everything on the
chance that, freed from the constraints put upon him by
timelessness, he would be able to intervene before it was
too late. But if he failed . . .

He spoke, hardly recognising his own voice. 'Let
Cyllan kneel by the wooden plinth, and place the stone
in her hands.'

Drachea spat. The stone stays where it is, and so does
she!'

Tarod looked up, his eyes malevolent. Then there
can be no raising of power. The procedures must be
followed.'

The Heir Margrave flushed angrily, and looked about
him. At his back the slab of black wood loomed out of
the mist, and he dragged Cyllan towards it, kicking the
Chaos stone along the floor as he went. Reaching the
block he looked back at Tarod speculatively - then with a
force that made her cry out, he wrenched Cyllan up on to
the slab so that she lay staring at the invisible roof, her
white throat exposed. Snatching the stone Drachea
pressed it into her hands, then took up a stance over her
and laid the blade of the knife lightly on her neck.

'I trust I make my intentions clear, demon,' he said to
Tarod. 'If you attempt to trick me, however swift you
are I'll cut her throat before you can touch me!' He
smiled unpleasantly. 'When we play the game of Quar-
ters at my home in Shu-Nhadek, both contestants know
that to try to take advantage of such an impasse will gain
them nothing.'

'We, too, play Quarters at the Castle,' Tarod replied.
'When impasse is reached, the game is at an end and
there's no victor.'

Then I'd suggest for Cyllan's sake that you don't
attempt to change the rules.'

Tarod inclined his head. 'So be it.'

Lying on the unyielding, splintered wood of the block,

her eyes closed, Cyllan knew that they were lost. Tarod
had made his decision and had refused, foolhardily, to
sacrifice her. Now, she hadn't the will to defy him,
however much she might want to. He could overcome
any obstacles she put in his path, and she was helpless.

Inwardly she railed against the twist of Fate that had
brought them both to this. She should have let Tarod kill
Drachea . . . and she swore to herself that, if they both
lived - or if only she lived, which was too terrible a
thought to contemplate further - she wouldn't rest until
she had destroyed the Heir Margrave of Shu-Nhadek;
destroyed him and all he stood for. She hadn't thought
herself capable of such hate, but it burned in her now
like a black flame. And mingling with it suddenly came
the awareness of another mind, a raw emotion that
linked with hers and made her strong.

Tarod . . . She sent the mental call out softly and
heard his reply shape into silent words.

Listen to me, love. I may not be strong enough - and to
conserve strength, I must act swiftly. Don't be afraid, and
don't resist me. Holdfast to the stone, let it guide you. . .
I'll be with you . . .

His presence faded suddenly into a confusion of
images which resolved into a smoothness, a oneness,
like a dark, featureless sea. Cyllan felt her identity slip-
ping away, and the stone in her hands seemed to pulse
hot, a living heart. She could still feel the touch of the
knife at her throat, but it was her only link with reality,
and a tenuous one. With a soft sigh she let her con-
sciousness sink into the sea, merging with Tarod, with
the soul-stone, with infinity . . .

It must be done quickly, for there would be no second
chance. Before, when he sought the Pendulum of Time,
he had travelled through the seven astral planes, gather-
ing strength and will from each in turn, until at the last he
had cloaked himself in an iron strength that was sufficient
for his awesome task. But now there could be no such
precautions. There was but one way; savage and
instantaneous. And an ancient memory was unlocking

deep within him, opening the doors that would take him
to that brink . . .

Tarod reached out his will, and found the Chaos
stone. It called him and he both loved it and loathed it;
but he had to master it, or it would betray him. Every
muscle in his body was locked rigid: all awareness of
Cyllan, Drachea, the Marble Hall, faded away and was
left far behind as he travelled onward and outward in
spirit. The stone hung always ahead of him, just out of
reach; he tried to breathe and found no air, and sweat
soaked him as his hands clenched together into a sign
which, in his human existence, he had all but forgotten.

It was drawing nearer . . . He felt its presence like
some grim nemesis, and again reached his mind towards
the stone, needing its power now at this crucial moment.
An image flickered at the edge of awareness; darkness,
rust, decay ... he pursued it and it eluded him.

Darkness, rust, decay . . . remember what you once
were ...

And slowly, slowly, it materialised before him, a mon-
strous shadow amid dense, evil gloom. The shaft reared
up into an unimaginable void, and the titanic bob hung
still and lifeless, red-brown corrosion encroaching
across its surface. The Pendulum, Time's arbiter in his
own world, abandoned and rotting, a derelict hulk,
frozen until the single bolt of power should wake it...

Tarod reached down, far down into the deepest
recesses of his being. His strength was failing, the power
of the stone slipping away from him - he must make the
last summoning now, or be defeated. Drawing his
psyche like an animal poising to spring, he felt a white-
hot flowering at his heart as the force of the Chaos soul,
momentarily freed from its crystal prison, flowed into
him. For an instant he and the Pendulum were one - and
Tarod flung himself forward with the full power of his
will.

A high, thin shriek like a soul in torment split the
darkness apart as the massive bob of the Pendulum gave
under the forces that assailed it. The shaft quivered with
a monstrous shock - and the Pendulum of Time swung

forward, shattering the barrier between dimensions and
hurtling into the world with a vast, clamouring boom
that smashed Tarod back like flotsam against a tidal
wave. Momentarily he glimpsed the tremendous bulk of
the Pendulum bearing down on him, then it seemed to
explode into a blinding, seven-rayed flash that blasted
his senses. Walls rose from nowhere to meet him; he
reeled, then his body crashed in a twisted contortion to
the floor of the passage as all awareness was obliterated.

The scream that tore from Cyllan's throat was drowned
by the awesome voice of the Pendulum, and the Marble
Hall seemed to turn in on itself, the floor bucking and
the walls shrieking a protest. She was flung from the
block like a doll thrown by some giant, petulant child,
and sprawled on the mosaic floor of the Hall with the
reverberations of the great concussion still echoing in
her head. Gasping like a stranded fish, she glimpsed
through watering eyes the prone form of Drachea - then
she was seized by a spasm of retching and doubled over
as the muscles of her empty stomach contracted
violently.

Tarod . . . Memory crawled to the surface of her
mind at last. Where was Tarod? Had they succeeded?
And the stone . . . Her hand clenched convulsively and
she felt the sharp contours of the gem against her palm.
In her confused state, all she knew was that she must
reach Tarod, and she began to struggle upright -

'Ah, no, you bitch!'

Cyllan whipped round, and saw Drachea bearing
down on her. He had recovered his senses more quickly
than she, and was already on his feet, though unsteady.
Horrified she started to run, heard footsteps at her back
- and Drachea flung himself at her, bringing them both
down with a jarring impact. Cyllan kicked out wildly,
and a fist smashed across her face, stunning her; she
slumped, and Drachea breathlessly grasped her shoul-
ders as he got up, made to drag her back across the
floor -

And stopped.

'Aeoris!' He dropped his burden and made the White
God's sign over his heart. The robed figures — some
.twenty or thirty of them, women as well as men - who
formed a circle around the black slab were all staring at
him, their faces white and shocked and uncomprehend-
ing. One man, young and fair-haired, held a huge sword
in both hands; now it fell from his fingers and clattered
raucously on the marble floor as its wielder struggled to
assimilate the sight that greeted him. A movement to
one side alerted Drachea's attention and he was in time
to see a much older man slide to the floor with a soft
moan and lie motionless; then a woman began to
scream, a long, wailing, featureless cry of hysteria.

Drachea and the fair-haired man continued to stare at
each other, and all the words of triumphant greeting that
Drachea had so carefully and frequently rehearsed died
on his tongue. Then slowly, shakily, the fair-haired man
moved round the block.

'What . . . ' He shook his head, dazed and unable to
form the question.

Cyllan stirred. A livid bruise was spreading across her
cheek where Drachea had hit her, and when she opened
her eyes her vision wouldn't focus at first. Convulsively,
she tried to move, and hands viciously pushed her down.
She winced in protest - then realised that someone was
staring at her. And as her sight cleared she found herself
meeting the light brown, steady eyes of a man dressed in
a sombre, funereal garb of purple and sapphire blue.
Recollection dawned - she had seen that face, that garb,
before, in the grisly tableau on the astral plane . . .
and then she recognised the symbol at the man's
shoulder; a double circle bisected by a lightning-flash.
Keridil Toln, High Initiate of the Circle - and Tarod's
deadliest enemy ...

Drachea pushed sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes
and made a creditable attempt at a bow in the fair-haired
man's direction. 'Sir,' he said when he had breath
enough, 'There's much explaining to be done, and I'd
consider it my privilege. But. . . Aeoris be thanked for
your safe return!'

Chapter 10

Keridil Toln stared at Drachea and Cyllan, stunned by
the sudden and violent interruption of the Circle ritual.
To him, it seemed that he had but a moment ago been
standing before the execution block, ceremonial sword
raised high above Tarod's head as he called down the
White Flame of Aeoris to consume and finally damn the
creature of Chaos. Then with no warning a colossal
crash of thunder had split his mind, shattering the power
he had built - and, reeling with the shock, he had
opened his eyes to find his victim gone and two complete
strangers fighting like wildcats on the floor of the Marble
Hall. A combination of fury and fear of something
beyond his comprehension filled him, and he snapped at
Drachea, 'Who are you? And how in the name of all the
gods did you get here?'

Drachea swallowed. 'Sir, there's no time for explana-
tions now! Your enemy - the creature called Tarod - is
at large, and must be found before he can wreak more
havoc!'

Keridil's head snapped quickly round to look at the
empty block. Tarod is behind this . . . ?'

Before Drachea could answer, Cyllan twisted in his
grasp and cried out, 'No! He's lying, it isn't true! Listen
to me - '

Drachea's bunched fist hit her hard on the side of the
head and she collapsed to the floor. 'Quiet, you harlot!'
Drachea spat. 'One more word from you and I'll kill
you!'

Keridil's face darkened with anger, and he said
furiously, 'I'll have no such behaviour here!'

Drachea stared down at Cyllan and said harshly,

'Even towards a woman in league with Chaos? This
treacherous bitch is Tarod's paramour - and she has his
soul-stone!'

'What?' The beginnings of comprehension dawned in
Keridil's eyes and he moved to stand over Cyllan. 'Is this
true, girl?'

Cyllan stared back with mute defiance, wishing that
her mouth wasn't too dry to spit.

'She holds it in her left hand,' Drachea said, giving her
a vicious shake. 'And there's only one way to make her
give it up.' He touched the tip of the knife blade to
Cyllan's neck.

'No.' Keridil raised a hand, forestalling him. 'I'll have
no violence against her until I've heard the whole story.'
His eyes met Drachea's again. 'You say Tarod is at
large. Where is he?'

'I'm here, Keridil.'

Everyone turned, save for Cyllan who was held rigid
with Drachea's blade still at her throat. Tarod walked
slowly and unsteadily into the Marble Hall, barely able
to stay on his feet. His sweat-soaked hair hung lank and
his eyes were glazed with exhaustion; he had used the
very last of his strength to call back Time, and its final
draining had left him an empty husk.

Four men moved forward, weapons drawn, then hesi-
tated, remembering how the sorcerer had dealt with
such assaults before. Tarod smiled thinly and with an
effort. 'Tell your friends they've nothing to fear, High
Initiate.'

Keridil stared at him for a moment as though weighing
his words. Then he said curtly, 'Bind him.'

One of the Adepts used the belt of his robe to tie
Tarod's hands behind his back, then all four flanked him
closely as he approached the gathering around the
block, until at last he and Keridil stood facing one
another.

Keridil said softly, 'So we failed to destroy you ... I
should have known you'd not admit defeat so easily.'

Tarod, kill him!' Cyllan suddenly cried out. 'Kill him,
before they - ' Her words choked off as Drachea

wrenched on her hair and raised his knife as though to
strike a death blow -

'No!' The harsh order came from Keridil, who swung
round and knocked the dagger out of Drachea's hand.
Cyllan tried to launch herself towards Tarod, but the
High Initiate caught her arm and dragged her back, his
other hand locking on her left wrist. He was taller and
heavier than Drachea, and she could only gasp a curse at
him as he tried to prize her fingers open.

'Let's see if the young man speaks the truth about this
girl . . . ' Keridil grunted as Cyllan ferociously resisted
him, then twisted her hand round so that he could get at it
more easily. Cyllan bit him with all her strength, drawing
blood, and two other Adepts stepped forward to pin her
while Keridil at last forced her clenched fingers to part.

The stone fell free, and Drachea pounced on it as
Cyllan shrieked a protest. He held it out to the High
Initiate, who handed the struggling girl into the safe
custody of the two Adepts before taking the stone - a
little gingerly, Drachea noticed - and weighing it in his
palm. His brown eyes looked with thoughtful specula-
tion at the younger man for a moment, then he turned
his gaze once more to Tarod.

'We seem to have opened a veritable nest of vipers,'
he said evenly. 'But I think we hold the upper hand. We
have the Chaos stone - and Tarod, it would seem, is in
no condition to challenge us. Perhaps now someone will
explain to me what has happened here!'

Tarod said nothing, and Drachea stepped forward.
'Sir, I am Drachea Rannak, Heir Margrave of Shu
Province. I believe you are acquainted with my father,
Gant Ambaril Rannak . . . '

Keridil frowned. 'I know Gant . . . and you have his
look about you, I'll grant you that. But how, by all that's
sacred, did you come to be here?'

Drachea glared at Tarod. 'I've been held prisoner in
the Castle - just before the Spring Quarter-Day I was
brought here against my will - '

'What?' Keridil was incredulous. 'The Spring Quarter
Day is two months ahead of us - '

'No, sir! By now it could be two months or even two
years past, for all I know!'

Keridil looked quickly at his fellow Adepts. Their
faces were blank, and he said harshly, 'Explain
yourself!'

Drachea took a deep breath. 'Time has been stopped.
This Castle has had no true existence since the creature
called Tarod used his demonic power to snatch it and all
its inhabitants from the world and lock them in limbo.'
He paused. 'I've seen the documents relating to his
execution. He called on his Chaotic powers at the climax
of your rite, and banished Time itself.'

Someone made a sound of shocked disbelief, and
Keridil shook his head. 'No - I can't accept that such a
thing's possible!'

'It's possible, Keridil.' Tarod spoke quietly, and when
the High Initiate looked at him he saw a trace of the old
malevolence in Tarod's smile. 'Did you think I'd meekly
submit, at the last, to my own destruction?'

Keridil stared at him, and realised that he was telling
the truth. The thought of such a titanic power in the
hands of one man chilled him to the marrow, and he
suppressed a shiver before turning back to Drachea.

'You say that Time here was halted - yet you and this
woman found your way to the Castle. How?'

Drachea shook his head. 'I don't know, High Initiate
- but I believe it was at her behest.' He pointed an
accusing finger at Cyllan. 'She's a witch, a creature of
Chaos herself - she duped me and lured me here, and
since I arrived she's been plotting with that hellspawn
against me and against all who stand for Light and
Order.'

'Liar!' Cyllan spat. 'Traitor, betrayer!'

Keridil looked over his shoulder at her and said
calmly, 'You'll have your turn to speak, girl. Until then,
hold your tongue - or I'll cut it out.'

'She should die!' Drachea insisted vehemently. 'Isn't
that the rightful fate of all Chaos's servants? She's a
witch, a serpent - waste no time on her, High Initiate,
kill her now!' His hand went to the sword at his hip.

'You've seen for yourself that she's in league with this
demon - and after what they've done to me - '

'Touch Cyllan and I'll see you damned!' Tarod grated.

Keridil looked into Drachea's eyes and saw a feverish
hunger for revenge. The young man was hot-headed; he
had made his judgement and wanted to see it imple-
mented. Cyllan's continued survival was of no personal
interest to Keridil - and if she had indeed plotted with
Tarod against the Circle, she deserved the severest
penalty. But he wouldn't condone Drachea's idea of
summary justice . . . and besides, Tarod's angry threat
had given him a vital clue. Unlikely though it might
seem, the girl was obviously important to him, and he
was anxious to protect her - which placed the black-
haired sorcerer at a singular disadvantage . . .

Drachea was launching into a further tirade against
Cyllan, but a searing look from Keridil silenced him.
The High Initiate crossed the floor to where Cyllan still
fought her captors, and, taking a handful of her hair,
tilted her head back until she was forced to look at him.

'It seems that Tarod sets great store by your safety,' he
said, quite gently. 'We must see what we can do to
accommodate his desire to protect you.'

'I don't want protection!' Cyllan fired back. 'I'm not
afraid of dying, and I'm not afraid of you!'

'Brave words.' Keridil smiled. 'But we shall see how
your courage faces up to your soul's damnation.'

His words provoked the response he hoped for. Tarod
shook off the four men who held him and stepped for-
ward. 'Harm her at your peril, High Initiate! If any hurt
comes to Cyllan I swear I'll destroy you, destroy the
Circle, destroy this Castle!'

The malign glitter was returning to his eyes, and
Keridil guessed that he had regained some measure of
strength. Not enough, yet, to make him dangerous; but
nonetheless he'd be well advised to waste no time in
sealing a bargain between them. He turned his back on
Cyllan and walked with slow deliberation towards his
adversary.

'Very well, Tarod. Your loyalty is to be commended,

and perhaps it can be used to the girl's advantage.'
His eyes hardened. 'Your fate is ordained. We have
the soul-stone, and we have the means whereby we
can finally see you annihilated. But you've already
proved yourself treacherous, and I intend to ensure
that you don't try to cheat us a second time.' He stroked
his chin, making a show of deliberation. The girl
will stay in the Castle, under close guard, while
preparations are made to repeat the ceremony which
failed tonight. If you submit to us, she won't be
harmed, and when you are dead she will be allowed to
go free. But if you attempt any treachery - just
one move which could be misconstrued - then I'll give
her to the Heir Margrave to take the vengeance he
craves.'

It was the same blackmail which Drachea had used to
force the return of Time, and Tarod's heart was bleak.
He knew Keridil well enough to realise that he'd have no
compunction in carrying out the threat - his was a cold,
calculated motivation, more dangerous than the per-
sonal score Drachea had to settle, and his choice was
painfully clear. If he agreed to Keridil's terms, he would
die; cruelly, agonisingly. And the Chaos stone would
remain in the world, a vehicle for Yandros's ambitions.
Yet if he did not, Cyllan's death would follow on the
instant.

He could carry out his threat; destroy Keridil and the
Circle, retrieve the stone and send them all to damna-
tion. But he couldn't bring Cyllan back to life, and
without her there was no life worth the having. Damn
the world ... he cared nothing for whatever evil might
threaten it if he allowed them to kill him. If Cyllan could
live, that was all that counted.

But Keridil had betrayed him once before ... He
looked up, met the High Initiate's steady gaze.

'What safeguard do I have, Keridil? What guarantee
can you give that Cyllan will be treated kindly if I agree
to your demand?'

Keridil smiled reservedly. 'My word as High Initiate
of the Circle.'

The green eyes narrowed to slits. 'Your word is worth
nothing!'

Take it or leave it. You're in no position to barter -
unless you'd prefer to see her die here and now?'

A sudden, violent scuffle broke out at Keridil's back,
and he turned in time to see Cyllan wrestling with one of
the Adepts. She was trying to wrench his short sword
from its scabbard, and blood flowed from her palm
where she'd cut it on the blade.

'Hold her!' Keridil snapped, furious as he realised
what she was attempting. If she could have got her arm
to the blade, she could have opened an artery and spilled
her life-blood before anyone could stop her.

Cyllan fought as though demented, kicking and bit-
ing, but she was overpowered. One of the Adepts cut a
length of fabric from his own cloak and bound her hand,
and only when she was finally subdued did Keridil turn
back to Tarod.

'Well?' he said. 'I'm awaiting your answer.'

There was nothing he could do but pray that Keridil
would keep his word. The High Initiate had no personal
grudge against Cyllan, and nothing to gain by harming
her. It was a chance . . . and he had no choice but to
take it.

Tarod nodded once, curtly. 'I agree.' Then his head
came up and he regarded Keridil with a cold, cruel stare.
'But you must abide by your bargain to the letter. If any
man lays hands on her against her will - '

'There'll be no abuse of her.' Keridil smiled un-
pleasantly. 'I doubt that any man living would want to
bed with a servant of Chaos.'

Tarod ignored the jibe. 'And when I'm dead - ' He
hesitated, hearing a stifled cry from Cyllan, 'she will be
granted her freedom.' He looked at the girl. 'She has no
power. She'll be no threat to you.'

'She will be released, unharmed.'

Tarod nodded again. 'I'll not clasp hands with you on
the pact. But consider it sealed.'

Keridil let out a pent breath. For a moment he had
wondered if Tarod's loyalty would waver in the face of

the choice he had to make, but his first instinct had
proved right. He gave silent thanks to Aeoris for the
quixotic flaw in Tarod's character which would provoke
him to sacrifice himself for the sake of a personal altru-
ism - an admirable quality under some circumstances,
but one which too often proved misguided. Yet as he
turned away he was aware of a small worm of discomfort
within himself that might have been a sense of shame.
He dismissed it impatiently, then spoke to his fellow
Adepts.

There's nothing to gain from remaining here any
longer. If our friend Drachea Rannak,' he bowed an
acknowledgement in Drachea's direction, 'is right in
what he has told us, we'll find the Castle in some disar-
ray. There's much to put right, and a great deal of
explaining to be done.' He gestured in Tarod's direc-
tion. 'Lock him up, and guard him heavily. I'll see about
further precautions later.'

'And the girl?' one of the Adepts asked.

'Assign her a room, and see that she's comfortable.
But have her watched.' Keridil turned to Drachea. 'Heir
Margrave, if you would accompany us . . . ?'

Cyllan made no protest as the Adepts led her towards
the silver door. Tarod stood motionless, watching her,
and as she drew level with him she suddenly stopped and
looked up.

Tarod.' Her voice was frighteningly calm. 'I won't let
this happen to you. I'm going to kill myself. I don't know
how, but I'll find a way, I swear it. I'm not going to let
you die for me.'

'No, Cyllan.' He tried to reach out to her, forgetting
momentarily that his hands were bound behind him.
'You must live. For me.'

She shook her head violently. 'Without you, I'll have
nothing to live for! I'll do it, Tarod. I don't want to stay
in the world if it means . . . this.' She pulled her hand
free from her guard's grip . . . embarrassed and uncer-
tain, the man let it go ... and touched his face gently.
Tarod kissed her fingers, then turned his head away.

'She means it, Keridil.' His eyes were filled with pain.

'Stop her. You know what the alternative is.' And
before Cyllan could speak again he walked away
towards the vault beyond.

It was a strange procession that made its way up the
winding stairs to the Castle courtyard. Keridil led, with
Drachea hurrying eagerly at his heels, and behind them
came Tarod under the close guard of four Adepts.
Cyllan and her escort followed, while the remainder of
the high-ranking Adepts brought up the rear.

As they approached the courtyard door, Cyllan felt a
sense of foreboding at the prospect of what she might
see. In a strange way she had come to love the Castle as
she knew it; the eerie crimson light somehow befitted
the ancient stone of its walls, and the stillness had a
peace - albeit a dark, brooding peace - that was better
suited to it than the bustle of human habitation. And
there were memories here that brought tears to her eyes
as she climbed the last few steps and emerged at last into
the night.

The crimson glow had gone. In its place, a dense grey
darkness hung over all; the pewter-green of a night sky
lit by the reflection of one Moon, now setting below the
high walls. A faint susurration caught her ears and she
saw the glitter of water from the ornate fountain, catch-
ing and reflecting the dim starlight. The Castle stared
down like a blind, indifferent beast, not a single lamp or
torch showing in any of its myriad windows, and there
was a smell of the sea on the night breeze.

Keridil drew a deep breath, tasting the air. 'Come,' he
said quietly. There's an hour or more to go before
dawn, by the feel of it. We'll gather in the hall.'

Silently they crossed the courtyard and mounted the
steps to the main doors. As they walked through the
Castle's corridors, footsteps echoing hollowly, Cyllan
gazed about at her surroundings which had taken on a
disturbing unfamiliarity. Every now and then she looked
at Tarod, who walked ahead of her, and once she had
tried to use her psychic skill to make mental contact with
him, but he had not responded.

She felt bitter and miserable. With victory literally in
their grasp they had been thwarted, and she blamed
herself for the misplaced pity which had allowed
Drachea Rannak to live. Now, nothing but an empty
void lay ahead of her. But she would find a way to do
what she had promised. And when she was dead, Tarod
would be free to exact his revenge . . .

The doors of the dining-hall opened with a groan of
protesting hinges, and Keridil surveyed the bare, des-
erted chamber. It shocked him deeply to see the Castle
so empty and forlorn, and to assuage his uneasiness he
became brisk.

'Rouse the servants, and have a fire lit,' he ordered.
'We'll send word to the kitchens for food to be prepared
- oh, and if someone would be so good as to find my
steward, Gyneth, I'll need him here.' He turned to
regard Tarod. 'Find the securest place you can find for
him, preferably on the lower levels where there are no
windows. I'll finalise the arrangements later. And as for
this girl . . . ' He stared at Cyllan thoughtfully for a few
moments, then beckoned to her escort. 'Come with me.'

Cyllan looked back over her shoulder to see Tarod
being hustled away through a side door before she was
propelled up the stairs that led to the gallery above the
vast fireplace. From the back of the gallery a small door
led to another maze of passages and stairs, until finally
they arrived at a narrow corridor on the Castle's highest
floor. Keridil opened the door to a room at the far end,
looked in and, satisfied, motioned for Cyllan's guards to
bring her through.

The room was small, and sparsely though comfortably
furnished. An alcove bed, a single upholstered chair, a
small table, and heavy velvet curtains at the window.
Underfoot were woven rugs, and Cyllan stood mute in
the middle of the room, staring around.

Keridil crossed to the window and pulled the curtains
back to reveal an iron mesh across the glass. Then he
drew a knife from his belt and, with two quick strokes,
severed the tasselled cords that hung from the curtains.
Then he came to stand in front of Cyllan.

'Understand me,' he said, not unkindly. 'The window
is barred, so that you can neither open it and jump out,
nor break the glass and use it to slash your wrists. There
are no curtain ropes by which you can hang yourself.
And a lamp will be fixed at a point too high for you to
reach, so don't think you can burn yourself to death
either.'

Cyllan only glowered at him.

'Consider yourself a valued guest of the Circle,'
Keridil went on. 'When we've done what must be done
you'll be free to go, and if you choose to take your own
life then, it's no concern of mine.' He paused before
smiling in an attempt to thaw her ice-cold expression.
'Though I think it would be a tragic waste.'

'Think what you please,' Cyllan said venomously.

'I'll wish to talk to you when I've attended to some
more urgent matters. I've yet to hear your side of this
story, and I want to be fair.'

That brought a response. Cyllan laughed harshly.
'Fair?' she echoed. 'You don't know the meaning of the
word! Tarod has told me about you, High Initiate, and I
want none of your idea of justice!'

Keridil sighed. 'Have it your own way. Perhaps in
time you'll understand - I hope so. I feel no malice
towards you, Cyllan- that is your name, isn't it? And I'll
keep my side of the bargain I made with Tarod.'

She smiled unpleasantly. 'So will I.'

'I think not. Oh, you could try and starve yourself to
death, true; but our physician, Grevard, has a few meth-
ods for dealing with such cases, and he can keep you
alive and well whether you will it or no. So you'll live,
and you'll prosper. If you understand and accept that
now, we'll get along a good deal better.'

Cyllan walked to the window, shoulders hunched. 'I
want to see Tarod.'

'That isn't possible.' Keridil returned to the door and
spoke in a lowered voice to the two Adepts. 'Stay on
guard outside until I can find someone to relieve you.
Keep the door between yourselves and her unless
there's some emergency- but whatever you do, don't let

her near your swords or she'll stab herself before anyone
can stop her.' He looked back at the small, defiant figure
by the window. 'She's a valuable hostage, although the
gods alone know how valuable she'll prove to be until it's
put to the test.' He clapped each man on the shoulder.
'Be vigilant.'

Cyllan heard the door close and lock from behind her,
and turned to find herself alone in the unlit room. Her
eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and she paced restlessly
around the chamber's perimeter, seeking something
which she could use to carry out her self-destructive
plan. She wanted to die; wanted to free Tarod from the
onus he had taken on himself - but Keridil had been
thorough, and there was nothing to hand. Even the bed
had no pillows, though she doubted if she could have
smothered herself anyway . . . she was thwarted.

At last, giving up the search, she moved to the bed and
sat down, clasping her hands in her lap and trying not to
let despair take hold of her. She wondered where they
had taken Tarod, how he fared, whether she would be
able to persuade them to let her see him, at least one last
time before . . . angrily she broke the dismal train of
thought. She wasn't going to admit defeat, not yet.
While he lived, there was still hope. And she'd find a
way to spark and fuel that hope . . . somehow, she'd
find it.

The words were brave - as Keridil had said - and yet
in the solitude of her prison they rang hollow. Cyllan
fought to keep them alive in her mind, but it was an
unequal struggle. And at last, giving in to the feelings
that lay buried far deeper within her, she began to cry,
softly, helplessly, as the first pale glimmer of dawn
showed beyond her window.

*****

The dining-hall was a maelstrom of activity, gladdening
Drachea's heart as he sat, washed and refreshed and
replete from a good breakfast, at a bench near the huge
grate. A fire burned brightly, banishing the chill, and he

was surrounded by men and women who all morning
had plied him with questions, praise and gratitude until
he was giddy with their approbation.

A few paces from him, the High Initiate sat at a
separate table with the senior members of the Council of
Adepts - or at least, those who had survived their
ordeal. It had been an unpleasant revelation to find that
the return of Time had taken its toll. Seven of the
Castle's older inhabitants, including the high Adept who
had collapsed in the Marble Hall, were dead; their
hearts incapable of withstanding the shock as the Pen-
dulum had heralded its presence in their world like an
earthquake. Others were in need of medical attention,
and Drachea had glimpsed Grevard, the Castle's physi-
cian and by all accounts the most skilled of his kind in the
world, harassed and weary, attending to one emergency
after another, aided only by two assistants and a horse-
faced, elderly woman in the white robes of a Sister of
Aeoris.

An hour ago, a party from Shu Province had come
thundering through the Maze that held the Castle aloof
from all but the Initiated, and among their number had
been a white-faced messenger from the Margrave him-
self, bringing a plea for the High Initiate's aid in finding
his missing son and heir. Keridil had immediately
despatched a rider to carry the good news to Shu-
Nhadek, and imagined that the Circle could anticipate a
personal visit from Gant Ambaril Rannak by return.
The prospect didn't please him - he remembered
Drachea's father as a fussy martinet, and with so much
confusion to put to rights he could do without unnecess-
ary interruption. But there were formalities that
couldn't be avoided - Drachea must remain at the Castle
at least until a full session of the Council of Adepts could
be convened so that he could present his evidence in the
proper manner. And, although he had to admit privately
that he didn't entirely like the arrogant young man,
Keridil acknowledged that Drachea was due some for-
mal recognition of the service he had rendered.

He had now had the chance to hear the full story, at

least in outline, and it formed a disturbing picture. But
for Drachea's intervention. Tarod would have regained
possession of the soul-stone, and the thought of the
havoc he might have wreaked then was appalling. Now
though, Tarod was safely locked away in one of the
Castle's cellars, and as soon as Grevard had finished his
work and had a chance to rest, he'd be detailed to see to
it that the right precautions were taken.

Keridil pinched the bridge of his nose between fore-
finger and thumb as the papers before him blurred. He
badly needed sleep himself, but there could be no
respite yet. Messengers were arriving seemingly every
minute, and he was only just beginning to realise the
extent of the alarm that had been raised throughout the
land at the Circle's unexplained disappearance. Spring
was advancing; there had been plenty of time for
rumours to arise and grow, and it would take a
concentrated effort to spread the word that all was
now well. A report must be made to the High Margrave,
to the Matriarch of the Sisterhood; there were fears
and speculations to be allayed . . . the list seemed
endless and the prospect of completing the work
daunting.

But, somehow, it would be done . . . and Keridil was
warmed by the thought that, in his task, he'd have the
support of one person in particular. She sat near him
now, in a comfortable chair a little behind his, and when
he turned his head she smiled radiantly at him.

Sashka Veyyil looked as serene and as beautiful as she
had done at the moment when he had kissed her and left
to begin the rite that would send Tarod to destruction. In
a velvet gown with a fur-trimmed jacket over it to ward
off chill, and with her rich auburn hair carefully dressed
and ornamented, she was composed, self-assured, ut-
terly the aristocrat, and Keridil felt proud of her. Time
and again Sashka was proving her worth to him . . . she
noted matters for his later attention, gave orders on his
behalf, fended off the constant flow of messengers from
the South. And later, when the work was done, she
would come to him in his private rooms and let him taste

again her pliant, hungry sweetness as she soothed away
the ravages that the day wrought.

Sashka herself was intrigued with the turn events had
taken. Listening as Drachea Rannak's story was told,
she had at first been wide-eyed with disbelief - but
Keridil had confirmed enough of the facts to convince
her. She congratulated herself on her own strength of
character in taking the return from Timelessness in her
stride - despite the fact that her only experience of it had
been the shock which had racked the entire Castle as the
Pendulum broke through from limbo - and now was
speculating on the realisation that Tarod was still alive.
Once, when he was seventh-rank Adept of the Circle,
she had been betrothed to him . . . but when the truth
about him was revealed, she had thankfully had the
wisdom and foresight to change her allegiance before
any slur could be cast upon herself. And the gods had
rewarded her by bringing her to the attention of a man
whose rank Tarod could never have hoped to match; a
man, moreover, whom she found far easier to cajole and
persuade to her will. As the High Initiate's paramour she
had an undreamed-of status ... yet deep down some-
thing still rankled, and would continue to rankle while
Tarod lived. She despised him, hated him . . . but she
couldn't entirely forget him. And because of those feelings,
she wanted him to suffer. Before, she had had the satisfac-
tion of believing that he still loved her and yearned for her;
but now it seemed that matters had taken a different turn.
The young man from Shu-Nhadek had spoken of a girl
from the Eastern Flatlands who had taken it into her head
to champion Tarod's cause, and who was now shut away in
the Castle. It would be interesting, Sashka thought, to find
out a little more about her . . .

She leaned forward and touched Keridil lightly on the
shoulder. He turned, smiling at her, and lifted her
fingers to his lips to kiss them.

'You must be weary, love,' he said solicitously.

She shook her head. 'Not weary, no ... but a little
stiff with sitting for so long. Will you forgive me if I leave
you for a while?'

'Of course.' He kissed her hand again. 'See if there's
anything your .mother and father are in need of. And
convey to them my regards.'

'Of course.' She slid gracefully out through the nar-
row aisle between tables, and made her way at leisure
along the length of the dining-hall. An elderly woman in
a Sister's robes, passing by, gave her a withering look,
but Sashka ignored the scrutiny. Sister Erminet Rowald
had been one of her Seniors at the West High Land cot
where she was officially a Novice, and was at no pains to
hide her dislike of Sashka. Sashka cared nothing for the
good opinion of Sister Erminet, considering her a
shrivelled and frustrated harridan who vented her jeal-
ousy on those more fortunate than herself. And she had
nothing to fear from the old woman, for if all went well,
it was unlikely she would ever need to return to the cot to
continue her studies.

Holding her head at an arrogant angle, she brushed past
Sister Erminet, then glanced around the hall. Almost at
once she saw her quarry seated among a group of younger
Initiates whom he seemed to be regaling with a story.
Drachea Rannak was a celebrity, but Sashka felt sure he
could be persuaded to give her a little of his time . . .

She walked up to the table and said, 'Pardon me . . .'

Drachea looked up, and was startled to see the beauti-
ful, patrician girl who all morning had sat beside the
High Initiate smiling down at him. He didn't know her
name or rank, but her face alone was enough to arouse
his interest. He rose, and bowed.

'Madam. I'm afraid I haven't had the privilege of an
introduction.'

His manners were impeccable . . . Sashka inclined
her head. 'I am Sashka Veyyil, of Veyyil Saravin, Han
Province.' She was gratified to see that the clan name
was familiar to him. 'I believe you are Drachea Rannak,
Heir Margrave of Shu?'

'At your service.'

The Initiates had also risen, and were watching the
exchange with interest. Sashka turned her haughtiest
expression on them.

'Gentlemen, the High Initiate has asked me to convey
some information of a confidential nature to the Heir
Margrave. If you would excuse us . . . ?'

The ploy was effective, and with expressions of cour-
tesy they moved away, leaving Sashka and Drachea
alone. She sat down, gesturing graciously for him to do
likewise, and with no preamble said, 'I was most inter-
ested by your story, Drachea- may I call you Drachea?'

He flushed. 'I'd consider it an honour.'

Thank you. I particularly wanted to know more
about the girl whom you tell us was in league with
Tarod.'

'Cyllan.' He didn't quite understand her; what pos-
sible interest could she have in Cyllan's well-being?

Sashka ignored his obvious puzzlement. 'Can you tell
me something about her?' she asked sweetly. 'Her back-
ground, her past - I gather that she's from the Great
Eastern Flatlands.'

Drachea studied his folded hands for a moment, then
said with unexpected venom, 'Cyllan Anassan is nothing
but an ignorant, gutter-bred slut who has yet to learn her
place!'

Sashka raised her perfect eyebrows. 'Indeed? You are
- vehement, Drachea.'

He smiled. 'Then I must crave your foregiveness. I
have a personal score to settle with both that trull and
her lover; memory of what I have suffered because of
them makes me . . . indelicate in my expression of
those feelings.'

She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. 'It must
have been a great ordeal for you.'

Drachea's eyes burned eagerly. 'Yes . . .' Gods, this
girl was exquisite . . . a match for any man with the
courage to try her . . .

'You said,' Sashka went on, not removing her hand,
'that she was Tarod's lover.'

'Lover, paramour, harlot - ' Suddenly Drachea grin-
ned wolfishly. 'Whichever term you choose, he was fool
enough to sacrifice himself for her sake.'

'So he loves her . . . ?'

'Love? I don't know if a soulless vermin like Tarod
can know the meaning of the word. But he made a pact
for her safety with the High Initiate, so he values the
little witch in some way.' He paused. 'May I venture to
ask if you yourself knew Tarod?'

'Oh,' Sashka said carelessly, 'we all knew Tarod to
some degree. I simply wanted to clarify one or two
points that Keridil was unclear on.' She rose, amused by
the haste with which he followed her example and grati-
fied by his obvious anxiety to please her. 'Thank you,
Drachea. You've been most helpful.'

The chances of being able to speak alone with her
again were slim, Drachea knew, and so before she could
turn away he said, keeping his voice casual, This room
grows a little overbearing - perhaps you'll permit me to
escort you into the fresh air for a while?'

She regarded him. 'Thank you, but no.'

Then perhaps some refreshment?'

Sashka smiled sweetly. 'I think that to save embar-
rassment, Drachea, I should tell you that I am shortly to
wed the High Initiate.'

She had flattened him and dismissed him with a single
sentence, and as he began to stammer out an apology
she gave him a small, almost amused bow and walked
away. The boy must be arrogance itself if he thought he
was worthy of her ... he was well mannered and
pleasant enough, but her prospects went far beyond a
mere Margravate.

'Sashka!' A voice spoke behind her, and she turned to
find her father, Frayn Veyyil Saravin, at her elbow.

'Father.' She kissed him. 'Is Mother rested?'

'Well rested, yes - she'll join us a little later.' He
nodded in the direction of Drachea, who had sat down
again disconsolately. 'I saw you talking with the Heir
Margrave. He seems a very worthy young man.'

'I'm sure he is,' Sashka said disinterestedly.

Frayn pursed his lips. 'I hope you weren't rude to him.
He looks downcast, and I know what your tongue can be
like.'

'Oh, Father! Of course I wasn't rude. He made a

polite and proper advance, and I simply told him that I
am betrothed to the High Initiate.'

Her father's jaw dropped. 'But you're not!'

'Keep your voice down; people are staring at us.'

His face purpled apoplectically and he repeated in a
strangled whisper, 'But you're not betrothed!'

'Not officially yet, perhaps, but . . . ' Sashka shrug-
ged. 'It's only a matter of time, Father. Would you
therefore want me to squander myself in some dalliance
with a provincial Margrave's son?'

Frayn frowned darkly. 'Sometimes, Sashka, your
arrogance astonishes me! If Keridil hasn't yet asked for
your hand - '

'But he will.' She planted a kiss squarely on her
father's forehead to pacify him, then, turning, tossed her
hair back. 'Sashka Veyyil Toln - it sits well on the
tongue, don't you think? And don't try to tell me that it
won't be the best alliance our clan has ever had!'

Frayn Veyyil Saravin sighed exasperatedly, but knew
better than to argue with her. In truth he was deeply
proud of what his daughter had achieved. He'd never
felt easy with her original plan to marry that black-
haired Adept; he'd always felt there was something
wrong with the man, and his opinion had been vindi-
cated. But the High Initiate was another matter. As a
man of rank, Keridil was second only to the High Mar-
grave himself; as an individual he was personable, trust-
worthy, had already proved himself a worthy successor
to his sire, Jehrek. Frayn could hope for nothing better.

He caught his daughter's arm and squeezed it fondly.
'Then if you're so set in your own mind, Sashka - and
I'm not about to gainsay you - take an old man's advice,
and return to the High Initiate's side. That's a woman's
proper place, and he'll appreciate you the more for it.
Ask your mother if you doubt me.'

Sashka gave him one of her most beatific smiles, laced
with a good measure of pity. 'Dear Father!' she said, and
kissed him soundly again before moving quickly and grace-
fully away in the direction of the hall doors.

Chapter 11

Cyllan's face was white and pinched with strain as she
walked between her two guards through the Castle's
corridors. In the three days which had passed since
her imprisonment she had seen no one, save the
escorted servant who brought her food and returned
after an interval to take away the untouched plate,
and she had spent almost all her time sitting at the
window of her room, gazing out over the courtyard
in the vain hope of gaining some clue to Tarod's
whereabouts.

She had to admit - though it rankled - that her captors
had been scrupulous in keeping their part of the bargain
for her life. No one had made any attempt to molest her;
indeed, they'd treated her with punctilious courtesy,
even kindness. She'd stonily rebuffed their efforts, igno-
ring the delicacies sent to tempt her and refusing to
respond to any attempt at conversation. But she knew
that this impasse couldn't last forever. Keridil Toln had
anticipated and thwarted any effort she might make to
kill herself; unless she found another way to break the
deadlock, then the grim pact would be fulfilled, and
Tarod would die while she remained a helpless hostage.
And she had little time left . . .

She had tried to make mental contact with Tarod, but
always her efforts failed, and she imagined that the
Circle had taken precautions- perhaps by drugging him,
perhaps by magical means - to prevent any communi-
cation. And so, with every other way she could think of
barred to her, Cyllan had concluded that she had but one
choice ... to plead with the High Initiate for Tarod's
life.

Knowing what she knew of the enmity between
Keridil Toln and Tarod, and the reasons behind it, she
felt that a mouse in the jaws of a cat would have a better
chance of survival than she had of convincing the High
Initiate to heed her. But when, on her third morning of
captivity, two Initiates came to confer with the guards
outside her door and then announced that she was to be
brought before Keridil for an interview, she felt a spark
of hope. She had nothing to lose by making her plea save
her self-respect, and that counted for nothing.

And so she went with them willingly enough, her
heart pounding with nervousness as at last they halted
outside the door of the High Initiate's apartments.

'Come.' Keridil answered the knock crisply, and
Cyllan was led in.

The room was lined with shelves crammed with papers,
and dominated by a large table behind which Keridil Toln
sat. Cyllan's spirits sank as she realised that, contrary to her
hopes, he wasn't alone. Two elderly men flanked him, one
fussing with a scroll, the other staring at her with something
resembling distaste. Grevard, the Castle's physician,
stood by the window, and on a chair nearby sat a girl of
about Cyllan's own age; a patrician, beautiful yet cold-
eyed girl with rich auburn hair. From Tarod's descrip-
tion Cyllan recognised Sashka Veyyil immediately, and
forced herself not to react outwardly to her first sight of
the woman who had been his chief betrayer.

'Cyllan.' The High Initiate's quiet voice broke into
her angry thoughts and, dazedly, she turned to look at
him. He smiled reassuringly. 'Please, sit down. There's
nothing to fear.'

She gave him a withering glance, and seated herself in
the chair he indicated.

Keridil clasped his hands and rested his chin on them.
'We want to give you the chance to tell your side of this
unhappy story,' he went on. 'And I hope that you'll look
on us not as enemies, but as friends. There's a great deal
you don't yet know about the events that have led up to
today, and it's the merest justice that you should under-
stand fully.'

Cyllan stared back at him. 'Where is Tarod?'

Sashka Veyyil coughed delicately, and amusement
flickered in her eyes. Tarod still lives,' Keridil said.
'And he has kept his side of the bargain we made. I hope
we can persuade you to do the same.'

She ignored the remark. 'I want to see him.'

'I'm sorry; that's impossible. As I explained to you
before -'

'Keridil . . . ' Sashka rose gracefully and came to
stand at his back, her hands resting lightly on his shoul-
ders. 'Please, let me intercede for this girl. Surely, under
the circumstances, she can at least be permitted to see
Tarod one last time before he dies?' She looked at
Cyllan and her eyes were malicious.

That's a kind thought, love.' The High Initiate was
clearly unaware of any ulterior motive, and Cyllan won-
dered how he could be so blind to Sashka's duplicity.
But if the patrician girl anticipated any reaction from
Cyllan to her deliberate reminder of Tarod's impending
fate, she was disappointed. Cyllan's expression
remained stony. But inwardly the taunt was like a knife-
thrust . . . and she knew she couldn't plead for Tarod's
life in the presence of such an audience. Thought of
Sashka's mockery, the cold hostility of the two old men,
the physician's hawk-like scrutiny . . . she couldn't do
it; the words would wither on her tongue, for her cause
would be lost before she could begin.

Keridil glanced at Sashka, who had resumed her seat.
'We'll see what can be arranged . . . but there's time
enough yet. I want to hear your story, Cyllan - and I
want you to understand that we of the Circle are not
your enemies. We want to help you, in any way that we
can.'

The look he received for his well-intentioned remark
was one of such searing contempt that it brought an
involuntary flush to his face. Collecting himself, he tried
again.

'Perhaps you'd begin by telling us how you came to
the Castle? We've heard Drachea's side of the tale, of
course, but - '

'Then you don't need mine,' Cyllan said.

'But we do. If justice is to be done - '

'Justice?' She laughed harshly, then: 'I have nothing
to say to you.'

One of the elderly Councillors leaned across and cup-
ped a hand to Keridil's ear. 'If this girl chooses to be
difficult, High Initiate, I see little point in wasting time
on her. We have, surely, all the information we need
from the Rannak boy? And it must be said that any
evidence she presents to us can at best be considered -
ah - dubious.'

Keridil looked obliquely at Cyllan, who sat mutely
defiant on the chair opposite him. Despite her alle-
giances he felt sympathy for her, and couldn't help but
admire her steadfastness. He believed - and he didn't
think it a rash assumption - that if she could be per-
suaded to speak at all, she'd speak the truth. And he
wanted to hear what she might have to say.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. 'I take your point,
Councillor Fosker, but I've a suspicion that the girl's
reticence stems more from fear than hostility, and per-
haps it's little wonder. With respect, I suggest that we'd
have better hope of success if I were to interview her
privately.'

The elderly Initiate looked at his fellow Councillor,
who had overheard Keridil's words. The other man
grunted. 'If the High Initiate thinks it wise . . . '

'I do.'

Fosker nodded. 'Very well. Though I must say I've
little faith in the notion, Keridil.'

Keridil smiled thinly. 'I trust I can prove you wrong.'

Cyllan watched with wary suspicion as the two old
men made a great fuss of escorting Sashka to the door.
She had caught the flash of resentment in the girl's eyes
when Keridil asked her to leave, but Sashka made no
overt protest. When they were gone, Grevard levered
himself up from his reclining posture against the wall.

'Do you wish me to leave, too?' he inquired.

Keridil inclined his head. 'I'd appreciate it, Grevard.'

The physician paused as he drew level with Cyllan,

and stared critically at her, eyes narrowed. 'I'll want to
see you again before much time has passed,' he told her
sternly, then looked at the High Initiate. 'She's not been
eating. We'll have to do something about that, if she's to
stay in good health. As soon as I've had a chance to catch
up on some sleep, I'll see to it.'

Thank you.' Keridil watched until Grevard had
closed the door behind him, then sat back with a sigh. A
flask of wine and several cups stood near him on the
table; he poured two cups and set one in front of Cyllan.
She ignored it, and he said, 'You won't compromise
yourself by drinking wine with me, Cyllan., I need it, and
I don't doubt you do, too. Oh - and pay no heed to
Grevard's brusque manner; it's merely an affectation.
Now ... do you feel a little better without a plethora of
strangers to stare at you?'

He smiled encouragingly, and a little of Cyllan's lost
confidence returned. He was attempting to bridge the
gulf between them, and if she could bring herself to
unbend towards him - or at least appear to - she might
stand a slender chance of winning a sympathetic
hearing.

She nodded, and picked up the cup. The wine was
light and crisp, and made her realise how thirsty and
hungry she had become. She drank more, and Keridil
nodded approval. 'That's better. If we can get along
without hostility, I think this will be a happier interview,
don't you?'

Cyllan stared down into her cup. 'I didn't ask for this
interview,' she said. 'And it's true that I've nothing to
tell you that you don't already know.'

'Maybe so. But I still want to hear the story from your
own lips. I want to be fair to you, Cyllan. You've done
nothing to harm the Circle, not directly; and it saddens
me to think that you consider me your enemy.'

The wine, on an empty stomach, was going quickly to
her head. Cyllan looked up, blinking, and found herself
voicing the thoughts she'd intended to keep to herself.
'But you're Tarod's enemy, High Initiate. That makes
you my enemy, also.'

'Not of necessity. If you only understood what lies
behind this affair - '

'Oh, but I do. Tarod told me the whole story.' She
paused. 'He also told me that you were once his closest
friend.'

Keridil shifted uncomfortably. 'Yes, I was. But that
was before I discovered the truth about him.'

'So you changed your allegiance without a second
thought, and friendship and loyalty counted for
nothing.' She smiled humourlessly. 'It's little wonder
that Tarod is so bitter!'

The barb went home, and not for the first time Keridil
felt echoes of shame.

Cyllan drained her cup and held it out for more. She
was beginning to feel reckless, and although she knew
the wine was dangerously loosening her tongue, she no
longer cared. Keridil refilled her cup without comment,
and she took another mouthful before setting it down.

Tarod was loyal,' she said savagely. 'He was loyal to
the Circle, and the Circle betrayed him.'

Keridil shook his head. 'You don't understand. What-
ever Tarod told you, it's a twisted image of the facts.'

Tarod isn't a liar!'

Keridil sighed. This was proving harder than he'd
expected - he had hoped that by using reason he could
persuade her round to his point of view, but the task was
looking more hopeless with every moment. Cyllan had
no thought for her own safety, no fear of reprisal - her
loyalty to Tarod was ferocious, and the High Initiate
realised that, however deluded she might be, she loved
him. In the face of that, how could he make her accept
that Tarod had to die?

'Cyllan.' He laid both hands on the table, palms
down, in a conciliatory gesture. 'Please. You must listen
to me, and try to see matters through my eyes.'

Anger flared in her look and she retorted, 'Must I,
Keridil? You'll not see matters through mine - why
should I make concessions where you refuse them?' She
picked up her cup, drank again, beginning to feel giddy
and a little sick. 'You hold me hostage while you make

preparations to murder Tarod. Yes, murder,' she added
as Keridil made to protest. 'It's nothing less than that!
He's never been tried for his supposed crimes - oh, I too
saw the documents! Instead, you simply condemn him to
death because it's expedient!' She spat the last word
viciously. 'If that's your justice, I want none of it!'

Keridil's mouth tightened as anger began to replace
the nagging guilt. 'As you're so ready to cry murder,' he
snapped back, 'then perhaps you'll spare a thought for
the fellow Initiate whom Tarod slaughtered in cold
blood, in this very room! Do you condone that?'

Cyllan smiled icily. 'Do you mean the man who killed
Themila Gan Lin?'

That was an accident!' Keridil got up and paced
across the room, furious. The girl was twisting his every
word to her own advantage; he felt as though he were
the prisoner and she the inquisitor. Abruptly he turned
on his heel, pointing a finger at her. 'Your lover isn't
what you so fondly believe him to be. Damn it, he isn't
even human! Consorting with Chaos is a crime that
hasn't been heard of in this land for centuries, but you,
with your ridiculous romantic notions, have committed
that crime! The rightful punishment is death, and if it
wasn't for the fact that we need you as a safeguard, I'd-'
He stopped, realising that he was losing his temper, and
took a deep breath. 'No. I didn't mean that; I'm sorry.'

'You shouldn't be,' Cyllan replied, her eyes intense.
'Kill me. I don't care.'

He shook his head. 'I won't harm you. When Tarod is
dead, you'll go free with no stigma attached to you. I'll
keep my bargain - and.the gods know I don't bear you
any personal ill will! But while you persist in this insane
determination to champion an evil-doer, I can't help
you, either.'

She turned her head away. 'I don't want your help. I
don't want anything from you - except Tarod's release.'

'You know that's impossible. One day, with Aeoris's
grace, perhaps you'll understand.'

The storm of rage was past now, leaving Cyllan
drained and weakened; and the wine was sapping her

will to fight. At this moment she would have gone down
on her knees before the High Initiate and pleaded for
Tarod's life, but she knew with a dismal certainty that it
could avail her nothing. Keridil was implacable in both
his hatred and his resolve, and nothing she could do or
say would sway him. She felt despairing tears start in her
eyes and struggled to hold them back, but Keridil saw
the tell-tale glitter on her lashes. He moved towards her,
knowing he couldn't comfort her and yet urged by an
uneasy conscience to try, but was interrupted by a tenta-
tive knock at the door, which opened to reveal an elderly
woman in the white robes of a Sister of Aeoris.

'Oh . . . forgive me, High Initiate.' Her bright, sharp
eyes focused on Cyllan. 'I'm seeking Grevard, and I was
told I'd find him here.'

Keridil forced himself, with an effort, not to snap at
her. 'He was, Sister Erminet, but he's gone. Can I be of
service?'

'It's simply that your captive should be attended to
before he has a chance to recover from Grevard's last
dosage,' the old woman told him briskly. Cyllan's head
came up sharply and she stared at the Sister, receiving a
frown in return. 'I understand it's a precaution that's
better not neglected,' Sister Erminet went on. 'But if
Grevard is occupied elsewhere, I'll gladly see to the
matter myself.'

'Yes, yes.' Keridil was impatient, annoyed by the
interruption and only thinking to rid himself of its
perpetrator as quickly as possible. 'Please do as
you think fit, Sister. Grevard will be grateful for your
help.'

'Very well.' The old woman looked at Cyllan again,
speculatively this time. The girl's face was frozen, as
though she'd seen some ancestral ghost, and the snip-
pets of hearsay she'd gleaned in the Castle over the past
few days began to make a pattern in Erminet's mind.
She pulled her gaze away, nodded with quick courtesy to
the High Initiate, and went out.

Cyllan stared at the closed door until Keridil's hand
on her shoulder startled her back to the moment. She

jerked away, her face venomous. 'She's going to Tarod
. . . where is he? What have you done with him?'

'He's safe, and he's well enough.' Keridil spoke
shortly.

'I want to see him!'

'And I've told you, you can't!' Sister Erminet's unwit-
ting interruption had brought the High Initiate near the
end of his tether. 'Don't you think I've enough to do
without this miserable affair to contend with as well? I
brought you here in the hope that I could make you see
sense - I'm beginning to feel I'm wasting my time!'

Cyllan bit her lip hard to stop the tears. 'We disagree,
High Initiate, on what is sense and what is not. And if
you think you'll persuade me to change, you're wrong!'
She looked at him, accusation and contempt in her eyes.
'Unlike many others, I abide by my word of honour!'

Keridil's lips whitened and he strode to the door,
flinging it open and shouting for Cyllan's escort, who
were waiting a little further down the corridor. They
hastened in, and he made a dismissive gesture in
Cyllan's direction.

'Get the girl out of my sight,' the High Initiate said
coldly. 'She's had her chance - I'm wasting my time with
her!'

He wondered if Cyllan would have some last word,
even some plea, as she was led away. Even now he'd
help her if he could . . . but her face remained whitely,
icily expressionless, and she didn't so much as glance at
him. The door closed behind her and, angry and frus-
trated, Keridil lifted his own wine cup and drained its
contents in a single draught.

The steep stairs that led down to the Castle's cellar level
were uneven, and the unsteady light of Sister Erminet
Rowald's lantern made the way more tricky still,
especially with the added encumbrance of her bag of
herbs and philtres. She had, however, refused all offers
of help with her task, convincing Grevard that she could
quite well manage alone.
The physician had been thankful enough to have this

particular duty lifted from his shoulders, and his willing-
ness suited Erminet's purpose perfectly. Past the wine
stores, he had told her; then the third cellar on the right.
A troublesome task, and a time-consuming one . . .
Erminet's nostrils caught the mingled smells of musty
casks, old, spilled wine, stale air and earth; and wryly
she wondered how any living being could be expected to
prosper in such unsavoury surroundings.

Reaching the bottom of the flight she set off briskly
along the dark, narrow passage. At her heels a small
silver-grey shape trotted, blending with the shadows,
and as she approached the third door Erminet paused to
look down at the cat which had followed her from the
main wing.

'Little Imp.' Affection softened the old woman's nor-
mally acerbic tone, and the cat raised its tail high.
There'll be no tidbits for you down here!'

The cat uttered a self-satisfied chirrup in reply, and
ran on ahead. It was one of the numerous offspring of
Grevard's own pet which lived half wild in the Castle,
and for some inscrutable reason it had lately taken to
following Erminet wherever she went, attaching itself to
her like a familiar. Erminet was amused and gratified by
its partiality for her company; she had dubbed it the Imp
- not entirely in jest; many people mistrusted these
creatures' telepathic abilities - and, when no one was
about to observe, spoiled it with food from her own plate.

The cat, prompted by that same telepathic instinct
which enabled its kind to communicate in a primitive
way with human emotion and intent, stopped at the
appropriate door and looked at Erminet with inquiring
interest. The door was unguarded - Keridil had taken
more arcane precautions - and Erminet drew the key
Grevard had given her from her pouch. It turned stiffly
in the lock, and she entered the cellar beyond.

She couldn't see him at first. Her lantern-light was
poor, and the shadows played tricks with the eyes. But
as she turned from relocking the door carefully behind
her, a figure moved in the deeper darkness on the far
side of the chamber.

He was sitting on what looked like a pile of worn and
discarded rugs, his back propped against the damp wall,
and even in this dim light Sister Erminet could see the
sardony in his green eyes. Grevard had been lax - the
drugs he had administered had clearly worn off, leaving
the captive in full possession of his faculties. But perhaps
that could be to her advantage . , .

Tarod spoke suddenly. 'A Sister of Aeoris to adminis-
ter to my needs. I'm honoured.'

Erminet sniffed. She had encountered this man - or
demon, or whatever he was - before, under similar
circumstances; and although they had crossed swords,
she felt respect and a strong measure of sympathy for
him. Heretical though the thought might be, the old
Sister strongly disapproved of the kind of treachery
which had brought Tarod to this pass, and disliked
seeing a once proud individual so reduced. And she had
stronger views still on the nature of girls like Sashka
Veyyil . . .

'Adept Tarod.' She crossed the room towards him,
aware that he hadn't as yet recognised her. 'I see
Grevard's nostrums have done nothing to dull your
tongue.'

The green eyes narrowed momentarily, then Tarod
laughed a tired, throaty laugh. 'Well, well; Sister
Erminet. I didn't expect this particular wheel to come
full turn again.'

She set her bag down on the floor and stared at her
patient. Gaunter than ever, unshaven, hair lank, clothes
dirty . . . and the tell-tale lines of tremendous strain on
his face. The sight of him affected her, and to combat
such unwarranted feelings she was brusque as she said,
'You look no better for your respite.'

Thank you. Did Grevard send you specifically to
entertain me with your observations?'

'Grevard is too busy attending to what they tell me is
the aftermath of your handiwork,' Erminet retorted.
'I've simply been detailed to see that you are, and
remain, stupefied.' She frowned at him. 'It would
appear that someone has been neglecting their duty.'

Tarod sighed. 'Perhaps they also tell you that I don't
present a threat to anyone here, drugged or no.'

This was what Erminet had suspected, and it fitted
with the slowly emerging picture. 'I heard some rumour
of a bargain between you and the High Initiate,' she
said, busying herself with the contents of her bag. 'But it
sounded unlikely, and no one took the trouble to explain
it to a withered old apple like me, so I dismissed it as
nonsense.'

'It's true.' Tarod eyed the concoction she was prepar-
ing with distaste.

Erminet stopped her work and regarded him
thoughtfully. Then I've misjudged you. I hadn't imag-
ined you would accept defeat so easily.'

She saw the answering flicker of pain in his eyes, and
the cat, which until now had sat peacefully washing
itself, paused to give a little cry of protest as though its
telepathic senses had picked up some powerful emotion.
Then Tarod said curtly, 'I have my reasons, Sister.'

'Ah, yes . . . ' Erminet licked her lips. 'The girl. . . '

The sudden change in the atmosphere was palpable as
Tarod sat upright, every muscle tense. 'You've seen
Cyllan?'

She had expected a reaction, but not one so vehe-
ment; and to hide her surprise she feigned indifference.
'Cyllan; so that's her name. Yes, I've seen her, not an
hour ago in fact. That is, if she's that frail-looking child
with the pale hair and peculiar eyes.'

Tarod tensed visibly. 'Where is she?'

'Your anxiety betrays you, Adept.' Erminet eyed him
with sour amusement, then abruptly relented. 'She was
with the High Initiate, in his study - and yes, I recall the
circumstances under which Sister-Novice Sashka Veyyil
was granted a similar interview.' She remembered
Cyllan's face, the agony of rage in her eyes; remem-
bered, too, the argument on which she'd shamelessly
eavesdropped before knocking at Keridil's door. 'You
need have no fears there,' she added. 'Had the girl been
armed, I imagine I'd have found the High Initiate with a
knife through his heart.'

Tarod closed his eyes. 'Then she's alive, and she's well
... I thought Keridil might betray our pact . . . '

Erminet looked at him beadily. 'Your pact? How is
the girl involved in that?'

Tarod met her gaze, weighing her up in an attempt to
decide whether or not he should say more. This old
woman had tried to be kind to him once, in her peculiar
way; despite his contempt for Circle and Sisterhood, he
liked her - and, though in many ways the two women
were poles apart, something in her character reminded
him of Themila Gan Lin.

He said, softly, 'Cyllan is the crux of our pact, Sister.
She is a hostage against my good behaviour. If I should
fight against the fate the Circle has ordained for me,
Keridil will have her executed the moment I'm dead.'

Erminet was clearly shocked, and her customary sour-
ness gave way to sudden humanity. 'But she's no more
than a child! The High Initiate surely wouldn't - '

'She has consorted with me. Any Province Margrave
would hang her for less.'

That was true enough. . . no one, now, was in any doubt
as to Tarod's real nature, although in the privacy of the
cellar Erminet found it hard to believe she was talking with
a demon of Chaos. She should have been afraid of him, but
wasn't. To her, he seemed little more than a victim of
circumstance . . . and that was a condition she understood
all too well, even if the memory was forty years old . . .

'So you're prepared to die, in order to save her life . . .'
she said.

'Yes.'

Gods, she thought, was the age-old pattern repeating
itself yet again? She licked her dry lips. 'And when
you're gone?' she asked.

'Keridil has promised that she'll go free.' Tarod's eyes
darkened. 'I have no choice but to trust him. At least this
way she'll have a chance.'

Erminet doubted the wisdom of speaking what was in
her mind, but couldn't break her lifelong habit of brutal
honesty. 'Are you sure it's a worthwhile sacrifice,
Tarod? You were betrayed once . . . '

For a moment she thought he'd strike her, but the
anger in his eyes died and he only said, 'I'll not
be betrayed a second time, Sister Erminet. Not by
Cyllan.'

No ... recalling again what she had overheard,
Erminet believed that he was right. She sat down, dis-
carding her potions, and her face was suddenly drawn
with an uncomfortable mingling of confusion and pain.
Tarod's love for that strange little outland girl, his readi-
ness to lose his own life in order to save hers, moved her
deeply, awakening emotions which she'd thought gone
and forgotten. She sat motionless for what seemed a
long time, tormented by her thoughts, and only looked
up when Tarod's hand touched her arm.

He was smiling, faintly but kindly. 'Forty years ago,
you said, Sister. But you haven't forgotten what it is to
love, have you?'

The face of the youth, doubtless by now aged and
withered, as she was, who had spurned her and for love
of whom she had tried to kill herself, was suddenly sharp
and clear in Sister Erminet's inner eye. The cat ran up to
her and tried to climb on to her lap, making small sounds
of distress. Tarod stroked its head. 'I'm sorry. I
shouldn't have spoken.'

'Nonsense.' Erminet forced her voice to take on its
old brusqueness. 'Ghosts can't harm anyone . . . ' She
laughed, sharply and artificially. 'I haven't cried since I
entered the Sisterhood, and I'm not about to start now;
not for myself, at any rate.' She looked at him, her eyes
over-bright. 'But that doesn't stop me wishing there was
something I could do for you and that girl.'

Tarod leaned back. 'You could do something for me,'
he told her. 'If you will.'

'What's that?'

'See to it that she lives, and prospers.'

Erminet blinked. 'Should she not?'

'She's sworn to take her own life. She tried once,
when we were first captured, to stop the bargain being
made. I believe she'll try again, and I don't trust Keridil
to prevent her.' He hesitated. 'If you can do that for me,

Sister, you'll have my lifelong gratitude - ' He stopped,
and laughed at the irony of his own words. 'No; that's
worth little enough. Say instead, my thanks.'

It was a modest enough request; and if the High
Initiate, or her own Senior, the Lady Kael Amion,
disapproved, they might do as they pleased. The
thought gave Erminet a frisson that was almost pleasant.

'I don't need your thanks,' she told Tarod. 'I'll do as you
ask, because I don't want to see two lives wasted where one
would suffice.' Abruptly she smiled. 'There; now you have
a sour old woman's reasoning to comfort you.'

'You're not as sour as you like to pretend.'

'You've only seen my weaknesses. But you'll see my
strengths unless you take this.' Bending, she picked up
the concoction she had been mixing. 'Enough, Grevard
says, to render you unconscious, so that the rest of us can
sleep easy in our beds tonight.'

Sleep would be a blessing ... its oblivion was far
preferable to the long, solitary hours, the agony of wait-
ing, of wondering. Tarod took the tiny silver cup. 'A
bargain, then, Sister Erminet.'

'You're too fond of making bargains for your own
good,' she said with an attempt at acid humour. 'But yes.
I'll keep my promise.'

She watched as he drank the cup's contents, then took
it from him and said, 'I'll speak to the girl. I'll tell her you
still live - though whether she'll trust me, I can't predict.
Were I in her place, I wouldn't believe a word anyone
said to me.'

Tarod gazed thoughtfully into the middle distance for
a few moments, then smiled wryly. 'Give her a message
from me, Sister. Ask her if she remembers her first visit
to the spire . . . and remind her that I took nothing she
was unwilling to give.' His green eyes met Erminet's.
'She'll understand.'

His look made the old woman feel something akin to
shame. She nodded, hiding behind a brisk defence. 'I'll
tell her.'

Tarod leaned forward and kissed her brow. 'Thank
you.'

Erminet smiled thinly. 'I never thought I'd live to be
kissed by a demon from Chaos. That would have been a
tale to tell my grandchildren, had I had them.'

The Imp, silent as a shadow, followed her out of the
door. Tarod heard the key grate in the stiff lock, then
tried to make himself comfortable as he waited for the
drug to take effect. Although the cellar was almost
pitch-black without Sister Erminet's lantern, he could
see well in darkness. Not that there was any prospect
worthy of attention . . .

He lay back, ignoring the irrational flicker of hope
within himself. Hope was a pointless exercise. One old
woman, however kindly her intentions, could do
nothing beyond bearing a message; and during the stul-
tified miasma of the days since his capture Tarod had
consciously chosen to resign himself to what fate had
decreed for him. He had quenched the fires of hatred
and vengeance and fury, deliberately deadening all feel-
ing and all thought of the future. If Cyllan were to
survive, he could do nothing more.

His eyelids felt heavy, and he wondered if he would
dream. If he did, likely as not they'd be fragmented
dreams, meaningless; as everything else was meaning-
less now. Tarod closed his eyes. Briefly, in his inner
vision, he thought he saw a many-faceted stone, glitter-
ing like a mocking eye, and from far away someone - or
something - seemed to call his name with an odd
urgency. Lapsing into narcotic-induced confusion he
ignored the call, thrust it away. It faded and was gone,
and he lay still in the silent darkness of the cellar.

Chapter 12

The Sun's last light had flared above the Castle wall in
brief glory, and the first of the two Moons would soon
show its pockmarked face in the East. Torches flickered
in the courtyard; groups of people crossed the flagstones
and an occasional burst of laughter drifted up to where
Cyllan sat at her window staring out, unmoved, at the
activity.

She was exhausted by her argument with Keridil Toln,
dazed with the effects of the wine, and yet she couldn't
sleep. She had had her one chance to plead for Tarod,
however remote the hope of succeeding - and her tem-
per had got the better of her. She'd failed him; and now
it seemed there was no other path left.

Fury welled up in her, a bitter railing against the
Circle's justice which could condemn one of their own to
a terrible death without a qualm. The ceremony involved
fire, Tarod had told her; a supernatural fire that burned
more than flesh—abruptly Cyllan put a hand to her mouth,
forcing back a sick spasm as hideous images sprang
unbidden and unwanted into her mind. When the spasm
faded she was shaking uncontrollably with the rage of
impotence, and with a desperate fear that made her
want to scream aloud. Tarod would die, while she sat by
in this dismal room, helpless until she should be granted
her freedom - and then it would be far too late.

But there was nothing she could do. Keridil had seen
to it that she couldn't kill herself and thereby negate the
bargain Tarod had made; Tarod would not abandon her
as she had pleaded with him to do; the Circle was
intractable. Her only choice, now, would be to go down
on her knees and pray to Aeoris for a miracle.

But Aeoris was unlikely to take pity on one who
interceded on behalf of Chaos. More likely the White
Lord would rejoice at Tarod's destruction, and, not
caring that the thought was blasphemous, Cyllan felt her
anger focusing on the god himself. She'd find no help
there - better to turn to Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who
had claimed kinship with Tarod . . .

Yandros. The idea shocked her and chilled her blood.
But surely Yandros, of all beings, wouldn't be willing to
see Tarod die, if it was within his power to intervene?

She tried to dismiss the idea as insane. Tarod himself
had rejected his links with Chaos, banished Yandros,
and spoke of him as a deadly enemy. Yet, Cyllan
reasoned, there could be no enemy deadlier than those
who were bent on Tarod's annihilation. Perhaps
Yandros couldn't aid her; perhaps he'd not choose to.
But with every other door closed to her, she had nothing
left to lose.

She rose, still shaking, and for a minute or two stared
at the slowly rising Moon, which glared back like a
malevolent eye. How could she reach out to such an
entity as Yandros? The travelling Sisters who had cate-
chised the children of her home village taught that
Aeoris heard the most humble of petitions; that a pure
heart and spirit was enough to ensure the great god's
benevolence. Cyllan's heart and spirit were ablaze with
a black flame of fury - and petitioning Chaos was a very
different matter. By turning to Yandros, she would
betray her fealty to the White Lords and damn herself in
their eyes. But to reject any possibility that gave her
even the most slender thread of hope was a greater
betrayal still . . .

She lowered her gaze to look across the courtyard,
beyond the splashes of torchlight and the groups of
people, to the brooding bulk of the Castle's North spire
where Tarod had had his eyrie. Her eyes misted as she
thought of him, and she said softly, as though whispering
to an intimate companion.

'Tarod . . . forgive me. There's no other way left.'

Turning, Cyllan sat down cross-legged on the floor.

By tradition all prayers to Aeoris were made while the
supplicant faced the East. As Yandros was Aeoris's
sworn enemy it seemed fitting that his petitioner should
look to the West, and she quelled an instinctive sense of
sacrilege as she set her back to the point of Sunrise.
Closing her eyes, she tried to form an image in her mind,
recalling the vision she had seen in the Marble Hall when
the defaced statues had manifested their true origin to
her. Sharp-etched features, beautiful but cruel; mouth
smiling in mockery, eyes slanted and knowing . . . the
picture wavered, eluding her. She concentrated harder,
her breathing harsh and loud in the room's quiet, but
still the image wouldn't form.

If only she had her stones . . . they would aid her,
enable her to focus her mind and her desires. But her
pouch lay somewhere in the Castle beyond her reach,
and she didn't dare ask for it lest her motives should be
suspected. Cyllan's eyes flickered open and she sighed.
She was no sorceress - her skills were limited enough
even with the precious pebbles; without them she could
do nothing.

Then her gaze lit on a bowl which her jailers had
earlier placed on the table. In an effort to tempt her
appetite, and thus avoid the unpleasant necessity of
calling on Grevard's services to force her to eat, Keridil
had sent a dish of Prospect Province fruits from the
Castle's precious supply. She had ignored them, despite
their rarity and the fact that she had never been offered
such delicacies in her life; but now she realised that the
fruit would contain stones . . . and even a substitute
might suffice if her own pebbles were unavailable.

Quickly she snatched the bowl from the table and
broke one of the fruits apart. At its centre was a hard,
wrinkled stone the size of her thumbnail. . . discarding
the pulp, Cyllan set to work on the other fruits until she
had a collection of some dozen seeds. Few enough, but
they might be all she needed . . . She licked juice from
her fingers - she was sorely tempted to eat one or two of
the ruined fruits, but, having heard of the importance of
fasting for magical rites, rejected the impulse - then

wiped her palms on her skirt and gathered the stones
into her hands.

This time, when she closed her eyes the darkness
behind her lids was absolute. And moments later she felt
the first prickling sensation at the back of her neck,
suffusing through to her scalp. Quelling her excitement
she focused her mind, feeling the rough, hard contours
of the stones between locked fingers. Hardly aware of
what she did, her lips formed a name, whispered it into
silence.

'Yandros ...'

Her hands were hot, blazing hot; the stones like ice by
comparison . . . and a face was beginning to form in her
inner eye, taking shape and life . . .

' Yandros . . . Yandros, hear me. Lord of Chaos, hear
me . . . '

The room's stillness deepened and the air seemed to
cloy around her, as though a vast, dark curtain had
descended. Cyllan could feel her pulse pounding suf-
focatingly throughout her body; her hands burned, the
stones burned . . .

'Yandros, Lord of Night, Master of Illusion, hear my
prayer . . . ' The words were coming swiftly, uncon-
sciously; she no longer chose them but they were sud-
denly there on her tongue, as though an ancient memory
had awoken. 'Yandros, though you were banished, your
servants still remember. Return to me, Master of Chaos,
return from the realm of Night and aid me?

It was as though the stones had caught fire in her
hands. Cyllan cried out with pain and shock, and the
fruit-seeds scattered across the floor as she flung them
from her with a violent reflex, rocking back. And at the
same moment a dull, echoing crack reverberated in her
ears.

'Aeoris!' The oath, though inappropriate, was invol-
untary, and Cyllan's eyes snapped open.

The gloomy walls of her room surrounded her,
unchanged. The stones lay on the floor, forming a ran-
dom pattern which she couldn't even begin to interpret,
and as the shock of their burning heat faded she realised

miserably that she had failed. Yandros either could not
or would not answer her call, and all she had experi-
enced was the delusion of a fevered and desperate
imagination.

She rose, ignoring the scattered stones, and walked to
the window. The first Moon was high now - odd; for it
seemed that only a few minutes had passed - and its
scarred face, near full, mocked her chagrin. Down
below in the courtyard the torches had been
extinguished and the giant rectangle was empty.

Or was it? Cyllan looked again, and realised that there
were figures in the court . . . but none of them was
moving. Each stood like a statue, as though a single
moment in their lives had been frozen and preserved.
They looked faintly ridiculous, some with one foot
raised in the act of walking, one with an arm held high in
some extravagant, arrested gesture . . . and the foun-
tain was no longer playing . . .

Instinct warned her in the split second before she
heard the softly emphasised sound of a latch clicking
behind her. She whirled round -

The outlines of a door which hung suspended in the
middle of the room were flickering out of existence,
vanishing even as she glimpsed them. He stood before
her, and with a flowering of panic she realised that she
faced something so far beyond humanity that the con-
cept threatened her sanity. Tall, gaunt, gold hair flowing
over his high shoulders, he could have been Tarod's twin
- but for the fact that there was no trace of mortality in
the beautiful, cruel features, that the smile on his lips
made a mockery of human knowledge and ambition. His
narrow, feline eyes were opalescent, their colour shift-
ing and changing in the deceptive Moonlight.

Cyllan backed away until her spine jarred against the
window-frame. She was struggling for breath, but there
was no air to fill her lungs. The being - demon or god,
whatever he might be termed - stepped with graceful
ease towards her, and as he moved, the outlines of the
room warped and twisted as though they and he could
not exist in the same space. Cyllan sensed a vastness

wiped her palms on her skirt and gathered the stones
into her hands.

This time, when she closed her eyes the darkness
behind her lids was absolute. And moments later she felt
the first prickling sensation at the back of her neck,
suffusing through to her scalp. Quelling her excitement
she focused her mind, feeling the rough, hard contours
of the stones between locked fingers. Hardly aware of
what she did, her lips formed a name, whispered it into
silence.

'Yandros . . . '

Her hands were hot, blazing hot; the stones like ice by
comparison . . . and a face was beginning to form in her
inner eye, taking shape and life . . .

'Yandros. . . Yandros, hear me. Lord of Chaos, hear
me . . . '

The room's stillness deepened and the air seemed to
cloy around her, as though a vast, dark curtain had
descended. Cyllan could feel her pulse pounding suf-
focatingly throughout her body; her hands burned, the
stones burned . . .

'Yandros, Lord of Night, Master of Illusion, hear my
prayer . . . ' The words were corning swiftly, uncon-
sciously; she no longer chose them but they were sud-
denly there on her tongue, as though an ancient memory
had awoken. 'Yandros, though you were banished, your
servants still remember. Return to me, Master of Chaos,
return from the realm of Night and aid me!'

It was as though the stones had caught fire in her
hands. Cyllan cried out with pain and shock, and the
fruit-seeds scattered across the floor as she flung them
from her with a violent reflex, rocking back. And at the
same moment a dull, echoing crack reverberated in her
ears.

'Aeoris!' The oath, though inappropriate, was invol-
untary, and Cyllan's eyes snapped open.

The gloomy walls of her room surrounded her,
unchanged. The stones lay on the floor, forming a ran-
dom pattern which she couldn't even begin to interpret,
and as the shock of their burning heat faded she realised

miserably that she had failed. Yandros either could not
or would not answer her call, and all she had experi-
enced was the delusion of a fevered and desperate
imagination.

She rose, ignoring the scattered stones, and walked to
the window. The first Moon was high now - odd; for it
seemed that only a few minutes had passed — and its
scarred face, near full, mocked her chagrin. Down
below in the courtyard the torches had been
extinguished and the giant rectangle was empty.

Or was it? Cyllan looked again, and realised that there
were figures in the court . . . but none of them was
moving. Each stood like a statue, as though a single
moment in their lives had been frozen and preserved.
They looked faintly ridiculous, some with one foot
raised in the act of walking, one with an arm held high in
some extravagant, arrested gesture . . . and the foun-
tain was no longer playing . . .

Instinct warned her in the split second before she
heard the softly emphasised sound of a latch clicking
behind her. She whirled round -

The outlines of a door which hung suspended in the
middle of the room were flickering out of existence,
vanishing even as she glimpsed them. He stood before
her, and with a flowering of panic she realised that she
faced something so far beyond humanity that the con-
cept threatened her sanity. Tall, gaunt, gold hair flowing
over his high shoulders, he could have been Tarod's twin
- but for the fact that there was no trace of mortality in
the beautiful, cruel features, that the smile on his lips
made a mockery of human knowledge and ambition. His
narrow, feline eyes were opalescent, their colour shift-
ing and changing in the deceptive Moonlight.

Cyllan backed away until her spine jarred against the
window-frame. She was struggling for breath, but there
was no air to fill her lungs. The being - demon or god,
whatever he might be termed - stepped with graceful
ease towards her, and as he moved, the outlines of the
room warped and twisted as though they and he could
not exist in the same space. Cyllan sensed a vastness

surrounding him, an alien dimension that clashed with
the natural laws of this world. He was here, and yet not
here - this was but one manifestation of an entirety
whose essence, if once glimpsed, would send her scream-
ing over the brink of madness. This was Chaos . . .

Propelled by a combination of terror, awe and a fear-
ful reverence, Cyllan dropped to her knees. 'Yandros



'Rise, Cyllan.' Yandros's voice was like silver, yet the
mellifluence only thinly disguised an implacable men-
ace. Shaking, she forced herself to obey, though all her
instincts protested, and he walked slowly in a circle
around her, his unhuman eyes critical and the small
smile still playing on his lips. At last he stopped before
her once more, and she felt his scrutiny like a physical
pain as he gazed down at her.

'So you've chosen to damn yourself by calling on me.'
Yandros spoke with careless amusement. 'I commend
your courage. Or your foolishness.'

Cyllan shut her eyes tightly and reminded herself that
Tarod had not feared this being. She had summoned
Yandros of her own free will; if he proved a harsh
master, she must take the consequences. With an effort
she forced herself to speak.

'I had no choice. They mean to kill Tarod, and I can't
help him.' Taking a grip on her fear she looked up into
his ever changing eyes. 'You're my only hope.'

The Chaos Lord bowed sardonically. 'You compli-
ment me. And why do you believe that it might be in my
interests to save a pledged servant of Aeoris?'

He was challenging her to prove herself; as perverse
as she might have anticipated . . . Cyllan licked dry lips.
'Because you once called Tarod "brother".'

Yandros continued to regard her for a few moments,
and she didn't dare to imagine what he might be think-
ing. Then he stepped forward, and laid a hand on her
head. She flinched inwardly from the cold touch of his
fingers, feeling her stomach turn over, but forced herself
not to give ground.

'And you are willing to jeopardise your very soul in

order to save him . . . that's a very noble sentiment,
Cyllan.' The silver voice was disdainful still, but some-
thing akin to affection had crept into the tone. 'It would
seem we chose well when we brought you to the Castle.'
Shocked, she stared at him uncomprehending. 'You -
you brought me - ?'

Yandros laughed softly; a sound that made her shud-
der. 'Let's say we were instrumental in your arrival.
Exiled we may be, but some of the forces that serve our
cause still remain in this land.'
Suddenly she understood. 'The Warp . . . '
'As you say: the Warp. Even Aeoris and his corrup-
tion-ridden brothers couldn't entirely rid the world of
their old enemy.' Yandros smiled. 'And when we also
find a mortal willing to serve us, our ambitions begin to
take form . . . and that pleases us.'

So she had been a dupe, a tool, manipulated by Chaos
from the beginning . . . Cyllan began to feel sick at the
thought of that implication and recalled what Tarod had
told her of the Chaos Lord's machinations. Yandros
wanted to challenge the rule of Order, to snatch the land
back into the maelstrom from which Aeoris had saved it
so many centuries ago. And he saw them both as pawns
in the greater game.

But however evil Yandros might be, whatever the fate
he planned for the world, Cyllan no longer cared. He
alone could help her to save Tarod from annihilation,
and no price was too great to pay for that.

The Chaos Lord regarded her, clearly aware of her
thoughts. At last, almost gently, he said,
'What is it that you ask of Chaos, Cyllan?'
She took a deep breath. 'Help me to save Tarod's life!'
He inclined his head. 'And how would you envisage
that I do it? Should I bring a legion of demons to raze the
Castle and consign its inhabitants to the Seven Hells?
Would you condone that, to save him?'
Cyllan met his searing gaze. 'If need be.'
'Ah; then you are worthy of Tarod.' To her astonish-
ment she saw respect lurking beneath the amusement in
Yandros's  expression  before  his  thin  lips  quirked

downwards. 'But, much as the thought appeals to my
sense of justice, it can't be done. We are in exile, Cyllan.
Our powers in this world are a poor shadow of what they
once were. I have been able to reach your mind and
speak with you - but I can bring you no direct aid.' He
smiled again, thinly. 'Only Tarod had the power to open
the way to us, and he chose instead to break the pact we
had made and turn his back on the old allegiance.'

Cyllan felt her throat constrict. Yandros's mercurial
nature was twisting again, offering her hope one minute,
despair the next. He had made no promise to help her
. . . could it be that, even now, he'd refuse?

She said, her voice unsteady: 'I can't deny that. But I
hope -I believe - that in spite of it, you won't abandon
him now.'

Yandros's look was enigmatic. 'You place a childlike
faith in our loyalty.'

'I have no other choice.'

The Chaos Lord considered. 'And if I am persuaded
. . . what would you have me do?'

She had thought, and she saw only one way. 'Kill me,'
she said harshly. 'Break the hold that the High Initiate
has over Tarod. When I'm dead, there'll be nothing to
stop him from taking revenge.' She hesitated, then her
eyes met his and she added with heartfelt emphasis,
'Please

'No.' Yandros held up a graceful hand, forestalling
her protest. 'To free Tarod by destroying you would be a
waste. I could do it - and would, if it served my purpose -
but there are better ways, and you're of more use to us
while you live. But understand this; if Tarod is also to
live, you must serve us, and serve faithfully. Look at
me.'

She had cast her gaze down, but now, at his bidding,
looked up again. Yandros's eyes had turned black, and
mirrored in them she saw images that made her recoil
with a deep-buried, atavistic horror. Havoc - a wild,
howling insanity of impossible colours, tormented
shapes, shrieking faces - the stuff of Chaos itself, roiling
from the implacable black eyes turned towards her,

ready to explode upon the world in insane
pandemonium.

'You see what you must pledge yourself to serve.'
Yandros's voice was cruel, unrelenting. 'Make your
choice!'

Panic seized her; the revulsion of a hundred genera-
tions who had sworn fealty to the peace of Order; the
inherited memories of thousands who had died to wipe
the plague of Chaos from the world; the horrors of
eternal damnation. To ally herself to this being would be
to betray all she had ever known . . . yet without
Yandros, Tarod would die . . .

Slowly, shaking violently, Cyllan dropped to one knee
before the Chaos Lord.

Yandros smiled. He had foreseen enough to confirm
the judgement he had made in sending the Warp that
had snatched this girl from her old life; in moving the
fanaani, who owed no debt to Order, to save her from
the sea; in manifesting a part of himself in answer to her
call. And if she succeeded in her task, she alone would
hold the key to Tarod's future . . . and the future of the
Chaos realm. She would be a valuable servant ...

There can be no turning back,' he said softly, with
satisfaction.

Cyllan didn't raise her head, but he saw her nod
almost imperceptibly before she whispered, 'What must
I do?'

'You must find the stone . . . and restore it to its
rightful owner.'

She looked up quickly. 'How can I do that?'

'By using the cunning and the guile that have already
stood you in good stead. We can help you - we have no
power to intervene directly, but our . . . influence . . .
may still be felt in the right quarters.' Abruptly the smile
faded from his expression. 'It must be done, Cyllan.
Only Tarod has the power to call us back to the world,
and then only when the soul-stone is in his possession
once more. But if the stone remains in the hands of these
worms of Order, they'll not rest until its essence is bound
and destroyed.' His proud, sinister face now held no

trace of kindness, but was cruelly venomous. 'If the
stone is destroyed, Tarod's soul will be destroyed with it.
And that is not what you want ... is it, Cyllan?'

'No . . . ' she whispered.

Yandros raised a hand, pointing at her heart. 'Then, if
you desire him to live, I charge you to return the Chaos
stone into his keeping.' His eyes flashed with a white-hot
fire. 'Don't fail me - for if you do, you'll lose far more
than Tarod's life. Your own gods damned you when you
called on Chaos for aid; but if you fail Chaos now, your
soul will find no comfort in our realm!'

His tone struck to the marrow of her bones; a chill
certainty that brought back the horrifying images she
had seen in his eyes. She couldn't answer; she was too
appalled by the enormity of the bargain she had made.

Yandros seemed to relent a little and his eyes quieted,
strange colours moving once more in their slanting
depths. 'Do your work well, and you have nothing to
fear,' he said more softly. 'And don't think that you're
entirely alone. There is one here in the Castle who will
help you. When you meet that one, you'll know.'
Abruptly he caught her left hand, turning it palm up.
'You cannot summon me again, Cyllan. I've answered
you this once, and I can do no more. But I leave you with
my blessing.' And with a gesture that seemed to mock
human courtesy, he kissed her wrist.

It was as though a burning brand had been touched to
her arm. Cyllan screamed with pain, jerking violently
backwards - and as she fell, a fire-hot blast of air ripped
through the room with a muffled, thundering explosion.
The walls bulged out, tortured by a force they could
barely contain - Yandros vanished, and Cyllan slammed
back against the window before slumping in a dead faint
to the floor.

The servant who ran to fetch Keridil received a tongue-
lashing for his pains, but the High Initiate had no choice
but to leave the small celebration taking place in his
rooms and follow the man to the Castle's South wing. He
had cut off the garbled explanation, aware only that the

girl from the Eastern Flatlands had somehow managed
to do herself some mischief in spite of his best precau-
tions, and as he hastened towards her room he felt sick
to his stomach at the thought of what might happen if she
died. They could keep the news from Tarod easily
enough, until the time came for his execution. But he
wouldn't go willingly to destruction unless it was proved
to him that she still lived and prospered. And if she did
not . . .

Keridil swallowed back the bile of fear as he
approached the locked door.

To his relief, his peremptory knock was answered by
Grevard. The physician looked irritable rather than
worried - surely a good sign, Keridil told himself
nervously.

'Ah - Keridil.' The physician scowled at him. 'I told
those damned fools there was no need to send for you!'

Keridil looked past him to the bed. Hard to make the
girl's figure out; she seemed to be unconscious, and a
white-robed woman whom he recognised as Sister
Erminet Rowald was tending her, dogged by two ser-
vants who seemed to be more of a hindrance than a help.

'She's alive?' the High Initiate demanded tersely.

'Oh yes; she's alive.'

'What happened?'

Grevard shook his head. 'I don't know. We thought
all possible precautions had been taken, but it seems we
were wrong.' He nodded towards the bed. 'One of the
servants found her huddled senseless in a corner when
he brought her food. I thought at first she'd collapsed
from malnourishment - you know how she's been refus-
ing to eat - but I changed my mind when I saw her arm.'

'Her arm?'

The physician shrugged. 'Go and look at it for
yourself.'

Frowning, Keridil crossed to the bed, nodding a brief
acknowledgement to Sister Erminet as he drew near.
Cyllan lay still and white-faced, and at first she seemed
unmarked - until Keridil saw that the left sleeve of her
dress had been rolled back, exposing a ferocious

crimson mark that ran from her wrist almost to the
elbow.

He looked quickly back over his shoulder at Grevard.
'That's a burn mark . . . '

'Precisely.' The physician grimaced. 'And if you can
explain how she came to have fire in her hands, you're a
better man that I am!'

'It's impossible. Unless she conjured it out of thin air -'

'Well, I've yet to hear a better theory. Does she have
any power?'

Keridil mused, then shook his head. 'I doubt it.
Besides, if she had a talent, the Sisterhood would have
snapped her up years ago; isn't that right, Sister
Erminet?'

The old herbalist eyed him enigmatically. 'Naturally,
High Initiate.'

'Then if she didn't inflict it on herself, who could have
. . . ' Keridil's voice trailed off as an unpleasant pos-
sibility occurred to him. Tarod. If the girl had somehow
contacted him, persuaded him to break the bargain, he
might have tried to use his power to kill her from a
distance, in order to save himself. And almost suc-
ceeded . . .

He turned on his heel. 'Grevard, is that demon Tarod
still under lock and key?'

'Of course.' The physician looked surprised.

'And have my instructions to keep him drugged been
followed to the letter?'

Now Grevard looked affronted. 'If you're suggesting
that I -'

'High Initiate.' Sister Erminet's voice cut in on
Grevard's angry retort, and Keridil turned to see that
she had straightened and was facing him, arms akimbo,
like an admonishing tutor. 'The Adept Tarod is at this
moment lying in his cell, oblivious to the activities of the
world around him. I administered the narcotic with my
own hands, and watched him drink it with my own eyes.'

Nonplussed, Keridil made a pacifying gesture. 'I'm
sorry, Sister; I didn't mean to imply negligence. And
Grevard -I apologise.'

The physician shook his head. 'It was a reasonable
enough assumption under the circumstances.'

Again, Erminet spoke up. 'There is, of course, one
other possibility,' she said indifferently. Both men
stared at her and she continued. 'It may not be a burn
mark at all. The stone of the walls is rough - if the girl
really wanted to kill herself, she might have tried to
graze her wrist to the point where the artery was
severed.' She smiled pityingly. 'She couldn't have suc-
ceeded, of course, but who can fathom the reasoning of
the desperate? And if she rubbed it hard enough, the
grazing could produce a mark very akin to a burn.'

Grevard looked sceptical, but to Keridil the old
woman's theory seemed as credible as any other. 'Thank
you, Sister,' he said. 'You may well have solved our
conundrum . . . but the question remains as to how we
keep her from doing herself further harm. She can't be
constantly watched - we haven't the servants to spare.'

'Perhaps I can be of use, High Initiate?' Erminet said,
as though the idea had only just occurred to her.
'Grevard has little need of me now that his list of emer-
gencies has been dealt with, yet he himself is still busy
enough. It would be no hardship for me to divide my
time between two patients.' She smiled ingenuously. 'I
believe I could ensure that this girl doesn't have the
opportunity for any further mischief.'

'I don't know.' Privately, Keridil wasn't taken with
the idea; he had caught much of Sashka's dislike of the
acerbic Erminet, although he had to admit that he could
find no fault with her skills. 'I feel we've already imposed
too much on your good offices, Sister, by detaining you
at the Castle this long. You must surely have more vital
work at your Cot?'

'Nothing that can't wait.' Erminet told him briskly. 'If
truth be told, sir, I find great satisfaction in being in a
place where I can use my skills rather than merely teach
them. I feel that I am being of practical help.' She
beamed at him.

Cornered, Keridil looked at the physician. 'Grevard?'

Grevard and Erminet had reached a tacit understanding

whilst they worked together, and the physician had
developed a respect for the old woman. 'If the good
Sister is willing to stay, I don't mind admitting that I'm
grateful for her assistance. Especially with Tarod . . . '
His face tightened perceptibly. 'Don't take me wrong; I
share the views of the entire Circle where he's con-
cerned. But it isn't easy to face a man and prepare him
for execution when I once knew him as a friend.'

Keridil's face remained impassive, though the physi-
cian's words went sharply home. 'Very well, then,' he
said, making the best of it. 'If Sister Erminet is willing to
take responsibility for both our prisoners, so be it.' He
bowed to the old woman. 'Thank you, Sister.'

She cast her eyes down modestly. 'An honour, High
Initiate.'

Grevard clapped Keridil on the shoulder. 'And now
you can return to whatever tedious business was inter-
rupted by this little drama!'

In the furore over Cyllan, he'd all but forgotten . . .
Keridil's face broke into a broad grin. 'It was far from
tedious, I assure you!'

'Ha!' Misinterpreting, Grevard burst out laughing. 'I
should have known! Your cheeks are as red as a Sunset,
my friend! Give the lady my personal apologies!'

Keridil held up both hands. 'Grevard, you've a mind
like a cesspit!' Then his expression sobered, though he
was still smiling. 'This news interrupted a celebration,
and - you may as well be the first outside her clan to
know, for the announcement will be public in the morn-
ing. Sashka Veyyil and I are to wed.'

Sister Erminet's head came up sharply, then as
quickly she bent back to her patient. Grevard stared at
Keridil in delighted astonishment for a few moments,
before delivering a punch to the shoulder that almost
sent the High Initiate to the floor.

'So you've finally asked her! Well done, Keridil, well
done! There'll be a celebration as great as the Inaugura-
tion itself!'

Keridil flushed again. Thank you. I appreciate your
good wishes.'

'You'll have the good wishes of the world, my friend,
make no mistake. A beautiful girl; beautiful . . . and a
just reward for you both after all that's happened. Your
father would have been very happy.'

The two men headed towards the door, still talking,
and Erminet paused to watch them go. Her bird-bright
eyes were unfathomable, but one corner of her mouth
was lifted in an expression that faintly suggested
contempt.

Chapter 13

When Cyllan began to sweat and struggle in delirium,
and scream out an alien-sounding name, Sister Erminet
bustled the serving-woman sent to assist her out of the
room, placating her with the assurance that this was only
to be expected in such a case and she could cope per-
fectly well. Once alone with her patient, she turned to
her collection of herbs and prepared a draught whilst
listening intently to the panicked ramblings from the
semi-conscious girl.

Yandros . . . she'd heard the name before some-
where, and recalled a connection with the condemned
Adept. And that tied in with her suspicions concerning
another apparently insignificant discovery she'd made in
this room. A bowl of fruit which had been broken and
pulped to no obvious purpose . . . and the fruit stones,
scattered in an apparently random pattern on the floor.
Stone-reading, she knew, was a form of geomancy pecu-
liar to the East - so it seemed that the girl had been
playing with fire, and - quite literally - had burned
herself.

Cyllan's ranting had by now degenerated into word-
less mumbles, and when Erminet looked at her again her
eyelids were fluttering spasmodically. Consciousness
was returning . . . good. The old woman carried her
prepared draught to the bed, sat down and drew Cyllan's
head forward.

'Here, now. Drink this; it'll unlock your muscles and
calm your mind.' She held the cup to the girl's lips,
watched with satisfaction as a good mouthful went
down. 'That's the way . . . oh, Aeoris preserve us, girl,
you're spluttering it everywhere; look at that mess!'

Cyllan had gagged on the drink, but Erminet's involun-
tarily sharp reprimand seemed to pierce her clouded
mind. She batted feebly at the cup, then her eyes
opened.

They looked at each other, Erminet curious, Cyllan
hostile and wary. She had been dreaming monstrous
dreams, haunted by Yandros's coldly sardonic face -
and the shock of waking to find herself confronted by a
Sister of Aeoris dismayed her.

'Well, are you simply going to stare at me as though I
were your grandmother's ghost?' Erminet demanded.
'Or have you something to say for yourself?'

Cyllan lay back, but her gaze didn't leave the old
woman's face. 'Who are you?' she demanded huskily.

'Sister Erminet Rowald. I see they don't teach good
manners in the East,' Erminet retorted tartly.

Cyllan scowled. 'I didn't ask you to tend me.'

'Indeed not; but someone did, and so I'm here
whether you like it or no.' She brandished the cup.
'Finish your drink.'

'No . . . you're trying to drug me.'

She was as perverse and obstinate as Tarod, Erminet
thought, and sighed. 'It's nothing more than a simple
restorative. Here; I'll show you. I don't doubt my need's
greater than yours anyway!' She drank half the cup's
remaining contents and held it out once more. 'Now are
you satisfied?'

Dubiously, Cyllan took the cup from her and finished
the draught. It tasted pleasant enough; spiced wine with
a hint of honey and other, subtler flavours, and her
stomach was glad of it. Erminet, meanwhile, had risen
and crossed the room, her movements apparently
casual, and was stirring something on the floor with one
foot. Cyllan glanced at her - then felt her lungs constrict.
The stones . . .

'The old Eastern geomancy,' Erminet said musingly.
'I'd thought the technique was all but dead.' And when
Cyllan didn't reply, she smiled. 'So you're a seer, eh?'

'No!' The denial was too vehement, and Erminet saw
fear in Cyllan's eyes.

'There's little point in denying the obvious, child, not
when your guile doesn't extend to hiding the evidence!'
Abruptly, and to Cyllan's surprise, her tone softened.
'Just be thankful that as yet I'm the only one to have
divined your secret. The others all think you harmless
enough, despite the protests of that spoiled little
Margrave's son.'

'Drachea . . . ?' The word came involuntarily from
Cyllan's lips; her hostility wavering in the face of puzzle-
ment and a growing curiosity.

'Is that his name? Yes; the arrogant brat's still here,
and no doubt his proud father and the entire brood will
soon be on their way from the South to bask in his
reflected glory.' Erminet's voice was acid, and Cyllan's
confusion redoubled. Such harsh words, from a Sister of
Aeoris? She didn't understand . . .

Suddenly Erminet came back to the bed and stood
looking down at her. 'Who is Yandros?'

The change of tack caught Cyllan by surprise - as the
Sister had intended - and she couldn't collect her wits in
time to hide her chagrin. She swallowed. 'I've never
heard the name.'

'Oho, you haven't! So unfamiliar it is to you that you
called on it no more than a dozen times in your fever!'
The old woman bent closer. 'You babbled a pretty par-
cel of words while you slept, girl. If I was a suspicious
woman, I'd have sworn on my oath that they were a
litany designed to call up something better left
undisturbed!'

Oh, yes; the arrow had struck its target. Terror and
guilt flickered in Cyllan's eyes before she could hide
them. Then the peculiar amber gaze hardened.

'And if it was, Sister?' she replied venomously. 'Do
you see a legion of demons ranged around the walls of
this room? Do you see a supernatural army storming the
Castle gates to my rescue? Whatever I might have tried,
I failed!'

She was lying; Erminet knew it as surely as she knew
the Sun would rise tomorrow. 'Did you?' she said softly.
'Or does that wound on your arm tell only half the story?'

Cyllan frowned, then looked quickly at her left wrist.
The livid mark had been treated with a healing salve, but
its ferocity was undiminished. She flexed her fingers and
remembered Yandros's knowing, unhuman eyes as he
bent to touch his lips to her wrist. Excitement and a sick
fear churned in her - then it was real; it had truly hap-
pened . . . Chaos had answered her summoning . . .

Slowly she drew her arm close against herself, as
though to protect the scar the Chaos Lord had inflicted
from Sister Erminet's scrutiny. As odd, not quite
rational smile distorted her mouth.

'Whatever story it tells or doesn't tell,' she whispered,
'you can't change it. Not you, not Keridil Toln; no one.
It's too late.'

Erminet felt uneasy, and began to wonder if, in her
determination to see justice done, she had made a grave
error. She was in no doubt now that Tarod hadn't made
a second mistake by putting his trust in this girl. She
would do anything to save him, no matter what the
consequences to herself or anyone else, and such single-
minded devotion could be deadly. Tarod, they said, was
of Chaos - an accusation he hadn't denied. If it was true,
then it followed that he might have allies who also owed
their existence to that same evil; allies who could be
called upon in an hour of need . . .

She looked at Cyllan again and told herself that the
idea was nonsensical. Chaos was dead - if Aeoris had
failed in that task, her own Sisterhood would never have
been created to keep faith with the memory of such a
titanic victory. And the girl was no sorceress. She had a
seeing talent, but that was all. It was love that drove her;
and Sister Erminet empathised all too well with such a
motivation.

And so she had to decide between duty and con-
science. Stickler though she was, Erminet's code of
honour was peculiarly personal - and whatever the High
Initiate or her own Sisterhood might dictate, she had
given her word on one matter, at least. . .

She met Cyllan's angry gaze once more, and said
without any preamble, 'I have a message for you.'

The girl's defiance wavered, but she wouldn't allow
herself to ask the question that lurked in her eyes.

Erminet licked her lips. 'He said to bid you remember
your first visit to the spire . . . and that he took nothing
you were unwilling to give.'

She knew there would be a reaction, but was
unprepared for its nature. Cyllan froze, her mouth
opening as though trying to speak - then her body
heaved and she broke into agonised sobs, covering her
face with both hands and crying as though her soul were
tearing apart.

'Child!' Chagrin made Erminet forget her studied
acerbity, and she put her arms around Cyllan's shoul-
ders. 'Child, don't weep!'

Cyllan tried to push her away as a surge of fear and
grief and desperate longing overtook her. She had tried
to contain her emotions as best she could, knowing that
they were the worst form of self-torment; but Tarod's
words, so carelessly conveyed by this old woman, had
brought back all the bitterness of the memories which,
now, were all she had of him. Struggling to find an
outlet, her feeling could only express itself in two help-
less, futile and broken words.

'Oh, gods

Erminet cursed herself for not stopping to think of the
effect her lover's message might have on Cyllan. A
shared secret, a private jest between them - no wonder
the girl wept at the ugly circumstances under which the
message had been sent and delivered. She could easily
have wept with her.

'Cyllan, listen to me!' Her fingers pressing on Cyllan's
shoulders were rough, but she knew no other way to call
her out of the depths of her misery. 'You must listen!'

Cyllan drew a great, heaving breath. Her hands drop-
ped away from her face, and the eyes that stared into
Erminet's were wild with loathing.

'Why should I listen to you?' she retaliated fero-
ciously. 'You're no different from any of them! Tarod
has never harmed you, but you'll stand by and nod your
sage approval when they take him to the Marble Hall to

kill him won't you?' She was shaking from head to foot,
close to hysteria. 'And all the while you keep me locked
in here, and I love him, and I can't do anything to stop
this madness, and Tarod's going to die!'

Erminet, horribly moved by the outburst, gazed
steadily back at her and said, 'Not if I can help it.'

Her words took a moment to register, but when they
did Cyllan's face froze. 'What. . . '?

'You heard me.' Aeoris help me, she thought, what
have I said? She'd spoken on impulse, responding to the
girl's distress and to a discomforting and growing sense
of injustice in her own mind. When she left Tarod's cell
she had been angry - partly with herself, partly with him
for resigning himself to death so passively, but mostly
with the uncontrolled chain of circumstances which had
led to the condemnation of a young and vital life. Now
she understood Tarod's reasoning, and pitied both his
and Cyllan's plight. Romantic old fool that she was, she "
wanted to help them - and because of that quixotic urge,
had let her tongue run away with her. But she wouldn't -
couldn't - go back on her word.

She made as if to move back, but Cyllan's hand shot
out and locked on her wrist. Behind the shocked immo-
bility of her expression, Cyllan's thoughts were in a
turmoil of stunned astonishment, disbelief and hope.
This strange old woman had brought her a message
which could only be from Tarod's own lips - and that
must mean that Tarod trusted her. Sister Erminet didn't
want him to die . . . and Yandros had said that help
would come from within the Castle; that when it came
she would recognise it ...

'Sister -' Cyllan's voice was hoarse with desperation.
'Please - can you help us?'

Erminet stood up, pulling her arm free and suddenly
unsure of herself. 'I don't know . . . '

Cyllan twisted her hands together, hardly aware of
what she was doing. Almost in a whisper, she pleaded,
'You have the key to this room. You could let me go free

.

'No.' Erminet took a deep breath. 'I want to help you.

The gods know why, but I've taken a liking to your
Adept; I pity him, and I pity you. But it isn't easy - you
must understand that. I can't simply let you slip away
into the night. If it were to be known that I . . . ' she
faltered. 'That my sympathies were - against the tide -
I'd have no defence. And I value my life, albeit that I
haven't many more years left to me.' A trace of her old
tartness returned as she smiled. 'I've no wish to meet
Aeoris just yet - at least, not with such a deed on my
conscience.'

Cyllan subsided, fighting back her disappointment as
she acknowledged that Erminet was right. Besides, free-
dom alone wasn't enough. She had to have the Chaos
stone if she was to save Tarod and fulfil her pledge to
Yandros.

She bowed her head nodding. 'I'm sorry, Sister. I
thought - hoped . . . but I understand.' Through the
curtain of her hair her expression was intense. 'Will you,
then, answer me a question?'

'If I can.'

There's a stone . . . Tarod used to wear it in a ring,
and the High Initiate took it from him when he was first
captured.'

Erminet remembered the gem. She had seen it on
Tarod's hand at their earliest encounter; and rumour ran
that it contained his soul . . .

'I know it,' she said cautiously.

'Do you know where it is now?'

A snatch of conversation, overheard as she went about
her work in the early aftermath of Time's return . . . 'Yes
. . . ' said Erminet.

Cyllan's eyes lit feverishly. 'Tell me!'

'Why is it so important?'

Cyllan hesitated, then decided that she had no choice
but to tell Erminet at least a part of the truth. She
remembered Yandros's words, and said softly, 'Because
it must be returned to its rightful owner.'

If the tales concerning that gem were true, then to
reunite it with its rightful owner could bring ruin on
them all. Soulless, Tarod was formidable enough . . .

but with the stone in his possession he would be a far
more deadly adversary. Erminet had to be sure of what
she was doing. Chaos or no, that black-haired Adept
was a man of honour. If he gave his word that no harm
would come to the Castle through him, she would trust
that promise. Not the girl, though - she'd use the stone
against anyone, friend or enemy, who tried to thwart
her. And however just her motive, Erminet couldn't
take such a risk.

Aloud, she said, 'No. I won't tell you, Cyllan; not yet.'
And as the girl began to protest she held up a firm hand.
'I said, no. I don't trust you, girl. And I don't intend to
put my head on the execution block for your sake.' She
turned and began to gather up her philtres. 'But I will
see your Tarod again, and I'll speak with him. If - ' she
swung round, wagging an admonishing finger, 'and only
if he gives me his word that no harm will come to this
Castle through any aid I might give you, then I'll recon-
sider what you've asked of me.' She gave Cyllan a grim
but sympathetic little smile. 'I can do no more.'

It was so little . . . and yet it might be enough. Cyllan
met Erminet's gaze, and hope flickered in her odd
amber eyes.

The old woman smiled grimly. 'In the meantime, do
you wish me to give him any word from you? I've been a
go-between once; I might as well be one again. Besides,
he's as suspicious as you are - if I don't bring him some
word, he'll accuse me of keeping his message from you,
and I could do without bearing the brunt of his temper.'

In spite of herself, Cyllan couldn't help returning the
smile. 'Yes . . . say to him that the wound was quickly
healed.'

' "The wound was quickly healed".' Erminet repeated
the words to commit them to memory, then gave Cyllan
an old-fashioned look. 'Another cryptic riddle! No won-
der you two are so well suited; you're as bad as each
other for intrigue. Not that I care what your private jests
might mean . . . ' Then her expression softened. 'Don't
worry child. I'll tell him.'

Cyllan nodded, and the look on her face tore at

Erminet's heart. 'Thank you, Sister,' she whispered
almost inaudibly.

The tawny bird looked this way and that from its perch
on the master falconer's arm, surveying its audience
with something approaching disdain in its beady eyes.
The falconer - a swarthy, hook-nosed native of Empty
Province - leaned forward and whispered to the bird; it
screeched in reply, extending its wings, then settled.

The falconer glanced at the High Initiate and smiled
faintly. 'If your message is ready, sir . . . '

Keridil stepped forward out of the small crowd which
had gathered in the Castle courtyard. In one hand he
bore a single sheet of parchment rolled into a small, tight
scroll. The falconer took it, and with a deft hand
attached it to a looped thong that dangled from one of
the bird's legs, ignoring its attempts to peck his fingers.
His smile broadened to become a vulpine grin.

'Now we'll see if she's learned her lessons well.' He
whispered to the bird again, and again the creature
screeched, as though issuing a challenge to some unseen
enemy. This time it extended its wings to the full, and a
few of the crowd gasped in surprise at their span. The
falconer flung his arm high; the bird sprang, the great
wings cracking the air, and hung for a few moments
hovering some ten feet above his head. Then with a
speed that drew further astonished exclamations it
hurled itself upwards, arrowing into the clear, cold sky
until it was barely more than a dark speck against the
blueness. It hovered again - then it was winging away
South towards the mountains, vanishing in seconds
beyond the high Castle wall.

A ripple of spontaneous applause broke out from the
watchers, and Keridil clasped the falconer's gloved
hand.

'An auspicious beginning, Faramor.'

The swarthy Northerner's face wasn't designed for
expressing pleasure, and his answering smile was laced
with embarrassment. 'She's a long way to fly yet, High
Initiate. But if all goes as it should, the return bird

should arrive by the time the Sun sets tomorrow.' He
blinked as the tall, chestnut-haired girl who had stood at
Keridil's side for the small ceremony stepped up and
bestowed a dazzling if faintly condescending smile on
him.

'And then it will be no time at all before the whole
world has heard our good news.' She linked her arm in
Keridil's possessively. 'Isn't that so, my love?'

Keridil covered her hand with his fingers and
squeezed it. 'Certainly. You have our thanks, Faramor.'

As they moved away, the falconer was besieged by
eager questioners - mostly from the ranks of the
younger Initiates, Keridil noticed with amusement.
Assuming that this early experiment succeeded, he
thought, Faramor and his kind would have no shortage
of apprentices to learn the new skill.

The idea of using birds as messengers was something
that the High Initiate knew could prove to be a very
valuable asset to the Circle. Falconers from Empty
Province had been experimenting during his father's
lifetime, trying to train the ferocious birds they normally
used for hunting; but it had taken years and a great deal
of patience for this first apparent success to be achieved.
Now, Faramor's bird was winging its way towards
Chaun, where - in theory, at least - another falconer
would retrieve it and send his own bird back to the
Castle with an acknowledgement of Keridil's message.
From Chaun, he would also despatch other trained birds
to other provinces to spread the news carried by
Faramor's hawk. And if all went according to plan, the
announcement of the High Initiate's betrothal to Sashka
Veyyil would spread around the entire land in a matter
of days, rather than the weeks that even relays of the
fastest horsemen would need.

Keridil had chosen to broadcast this particular news
mainly to please Sashka, but also - more pragmatically -
because there could be no harm done if the experiment
should fail. But he had high hopes, for although much
depended on the birds' reliability, there was little else
that could go wrong. Hawks had no natural predators,

and they flew far too high to stray within the range of any
irresponsible archer on the ground. If Faramor's faith in
the idea proved sound, it would mean an unimaginable
change in the ability of all manner of people to commu-
nicate at long distance. The Circle could reach its own
Initiates in far-off parts of the world; Sisterhood cots
could maintain closer contact with one another; Mar-
graves in need of aid or advice would no longer suffer the
frustration and sometimes the dangers of waiting . . .
the possibilities were more than impressive; they were
astounding.

It was an innovation, and one that was sorely needed.
In the aftermath of his father Jehrek's death, Keridil had
promised himself that he would make changes at the
Star Peninsula. The Circle had stagnated for too long,
losing touch with the realities of the world beyond these
Castle walls to become little more than nominal
upholders of the gods' laws, with a diminishing active
role in the land's affairs. They had become figureheads;
and the danger with figureheads was that they could all
too easily turn into anachronisms. It was time - high
time - that such a downhill tendency was stopped,
before it got out of hand -

And suddenly Keridil felt sick as he remembered
where he had heard such words before.

'You have no good reason to exist!' In his mind he
could hear the silver voice with its edge of shattering
malevolence; see the cruelly unhuman face with its ever
changing eyes . . . Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who had
stood among the ruined statues of the Marble Hall and
smiled with pitying disdain as Keridil tried to bind him
with the Seventh Exhortation and Banishment, the
Circle's highest rite against recalcitrant demons. He
might as well have tried to topple the Castle with his bare
hands . . . and yet he recalled, with a shudder, the
awesome power that Tarod had conjured so effortlessly;
power enough to send the Chaos Lord back whence he
came . . .

'Keridil?' Sashka was gazing at him and frowning.
'Are you unwell?'

He had stopped walking, he realised, and was sweat-
ing profusely. Those memories . . . they always seemed
to ambush him when he least expected or wanted them.
This was supposed to be a moment for celebration . . .

He took a deep breath. 'I'm fine, love. A chill,
perhaps.'

'You should take better care of yourself.' Sashka, who
was warmly wrapped in a fur-trimmed coat over her
brocade gown, glanced up at the icily clear sky. 'It isn't
Summer yet, but you haven't so much as a cloak about
you.'

He laughed, grateful to her for dispelling the darkness
at the back of his mind. 'You're not my wife yet!'

'I am in all but name.' Her answering smile was faintly
lascivious. 'And I know some very pleasurable ways to
warm you . . . '

Frayn Veyyil Saravin and his prim, rake-thin wife
were crossing the courtyard to intercept them, and
Keridil squeezed Sashka's hand in an admonitory warn-
ing. 'Hush! D'you want your parents to overhear us?'

Sashka smiled enigmatically. 'There are none so blind
as those who don't find it in their interests to see!'

They walked on, as the small crowd began to disperse.

The celebration to mark the High Initiate's betrothal
was to be an interim measure, a foretaste of the far
greater festivities amid which the marriage itself would
take place. Sashka wanted to wed as soon as practicality
allowed, but for once Keridil had refused to indulge her,
and at last, knowing when to exercise discretion, she had
given way.

Keridil hadn't confided his reason for the postpone-
ment to her, but it was strong enough to override any
other considerations. He wanted nothing more than to
marry Sashka now - but if he did, he would be haunted
by the spectre of Tarod, and that would be a hard ghost
to banish. Although he had reconciled his conscience
where his one-time friend was concerned, Keridil still
had occasional nightmares, and the thought of going
ahead with his marriage while Tarod still lived was

something he couldn't face. The death-rite had to be
prepared - the same gruesome ritual which had been
thwarted before - and, as High Initiate, he couldn't
escape the burden of carrying it out personally. It would
be impossible to prepare for his own wedding with any
pleasure while that prospect still hung over him . . .
especially in view of Tarod's own past involvement with
Sashka. But once Tarod was finally dead, the ugly taste
would fade and he'd be free to look to the future. It
wasn't guilt that motivated him, so Keridil told himself
over and again - it was simply expedient common sense.

And despite the shadow of the pending execution, he
was determined to enjoy the betrothal celebrations. In
two days there would be a banquet at the Castle, at
which the announcement would be officially ratified by
the Council of Adepts. Sashka had sent a fast rider to her
home in Han to fetch appropriate clothes and jewellery
for the occasion, and Keridil would present to her the
gold ring set with three huge emeralds that for centuries
had been worn by the High Initiate's consort. Since his
own mother had died giving him birth, the ring had been
locked away in its carved wooden box among his father's
possessions, and the thought that, after so many years,
there would again be a consort to wear it had delighted
the Circle, and the Council in particular.

There would, of course, be a good deal of disappoint-
ment mingling with the congratulations from certain
quarters. Since he reached adolescence Keridil had been
the focus of attention from every high-ranking clan with
an eligible daughter in the land, and recently had come
close - though unwillingly - to a match with the pretty
but vacuous Inista Jair, from a wealthy and influential
Chaun Province family. Jehrek Banamen Toln had
approved of the liaison, Keridil had dreaded it; though
had Sashka remained beyond his reach, he might well
have wed Inista eventually for want of any happier
option and because Jehrek had wished it.

But his father, he knew, would have approved of
Sashka. Suitable though Inista Jair might have been as a
daughter-elect, Sashka had the breeding and strength of

character to fit her perfectly for an exalted position. Her
beauty, her sophistication, her intelligence all promised
to win her many friends. No clan could take insult at the
thought that one of their own had been passed over for a
less favourable candidate.

Sashka's parents had joined them by now, and as they
reached the main doors Keridil excused himself and left
the others to continue on into the Castle while he turned
along the pillared walkway towards the library and the
Marble Hall. Reaching the door that led down from the
courtyard, he stood back to allow three servants, each
dragging a heavily laden sack, to emerge. The staircase
beyond was filthy with dust in which the prints of a
myriad feet could be seen, and Keridil eyed the bulging
sacks before speaking to the first of the three men.

'How's the work progressing?'

Sweating, the man straightened and touched a finger
to his brow respectfully. 'Well, sir. Perhaps another
three or four days, and it'll be complete.'

Thanks be to Aeoris, Keridil thought. He nodded,
smiled, and moved on down the stairs. A few more days,
and the seven black statues which had stood in the
Marble Hall throughout the Circle's history would no
longer exist ... it chilled his blood to think that, for
century upon century, the Initiates had believed those
seven titanic figures to represent Aeoris and his six god-
brethren, mutilated beyond recognition by the old race
when they transferred their allegiance from Order to
Chaos. That belief would have continued, had Yandros
not revealed, with careless malice, that the revered
images were those of Aeoris and his kin's seven dark
counterparts - the old, sinister gods of Chaos, carved by
their corrupt servants before the forces of Order sent
them to oblivion. Keridil had ordered the destruction of
the statues, and for two days now an army of the Circle's
higher Adepts - who were the only people allowed, by
ancient tradition, to set foot beyond the silver door- had
been toiling to break up the huge figures, reducing them
to rubble which servants then hauled from the Castle
and threw over the edge of the stack into the sea. When

the task was complete, a series of complicated rituals
would be required to purify and rededicate the Marble
Hall before the taint of Chaos could finally be
eradicated.

As he approached the library, Keridil reflected bit-
terly that the legacy Tarod had left the Circle would take
far longer to die than its perpetrator. Recent events had
taught the Adepts that the centuries hadn't diminished
the need for constant vigilance against the dark forces,
and it had been a hard lesson. The peace that pervaded
the Castle now was no more than a veneer; danger and
turmoil still lurked beneath the surface, and would con-
tinue to haunt them until both Tarod and the stone were
finally destroyed.

He entered the library vault, lost in his uneasy
thoughts. A few Initiates sat in isolated corners, study-
ing books or manuscripts, and muffled sounds drifted
from the distant Marble Hall as the Adepts went about
their work. Keridil headed towards the low door in the
alcove - then started as someone plucked at his sleeve.

'High Initiate . . . ' Drachea was standing at his
elbow, and Keridil tried to keep irritation from his
expression as he stared down at the young man. Grateful
though he was to Drachea for the service he had per-
formed - and he couldn't deny that without him, the
Castle's inhabitants would still be languishing in limbo -
Keridil couldn't help a growing dislike for him. Drachea
had begun to presume on the position in which he found
himself; he dogged Keridil's footsteps, bombarded him
with questions concerning his plans for Tarod and
Cyllan, and was too ready at the least opportunity to
offer his own opinion as to what should be done with
them. Only two days ago Keridil had come close to
losing his temper when the Heir Margrave had tried to
insist that Cyllan, too, should face execution as soon as
Tarod was despatched, arguing that a promise made to a
demon had no validity and that the High Initiate would
be right to break it for the sake of safety. Keridil, well
aware that Drachea wanted personal revenge on the
girl, had curtly reprimanded his temerity in questioning

the High Initiate's judgement, and the young man had
retired to his room to sulk.

Now though, the reprimand was apparently forgotten
as Drachea said, 'High Initiate, I wonder if I might crave
a few minutes of your time?'

Keridil sighed. 'I'm sorry, Drachea; I'm very busy -'

'I'll take no more than a moment, sir, I assure you!
I've been wanting to speak to you before my father
arrives from Shu Province, on a matter which is crucial
to my own future.'

He was going to prove persistent . . . resignedly,
Keridil waited for him to continue. Clasping his hands
behind his back, Drachea said, 'As you know, sir, I am
my father's eldest son, and therefore destined even-
tually to become Margrave of Shu. However, although
I'm very sensible of my position and my duty, I have for
some years felt that my aptitude lies in a different
direction.'

Keridil stroked his own chin. 'Our duty doesn't always
correspond to what we might desire, Drachea. Some of
the responsibilities of my own position are ones I'd
prefer not to have to shoulder, but - '

'Oh no; it's not the responsibility,' Drachea inter-
rupted him. 'As I said, it's a question of aptitude. I'm
sure that I could assume the Margravate without diffi-
culty; but I feel that in doing so I'd be . . .'He hesitated,
then smiled hopefully. 'Perhaps wasting a potential that
could be put to better use.'

Keridil looked at him. 'You know your abilities better
than I do, of course - I don't quite see how I can be of
assistance to you.'

'Ah, but you can, High Initiate! In fact, there is no one
else who has the authority to grant or refuse my request.'
The young man drew himself up into a formal stance. 'I
wish to ask, sir, that I might be considered as a candidate
for the Circle.'

Keridil stared at him, astonished, then realised that he
must have been a fool not to have anticipated this.
Suddenly all Drachea's dogged persistence was
explained - and, too, his anxiety to plead his case before

the arrival of Gant Ambaril Rannak, his father. The
Margrave, Keridil imagined, would not be pleased to
hear of his son's ambitions - and the idea of Drachea
qualifying as a Circle Initiate seemed more than a little
far-fetched. Though psychic analysis wasn't his forte,
Keridil was a shrewd enough judge of character to know
that the young man stood little chance of passing even
the lowest of the Circle's many inaugural tests.
Drachea's motivation had far more to do with self-
aggrandisement than with any desire to serve the gods;
and Keridil also suspected that his mind wasn't stable
enough to cope with the rigorous application needed to
become an Initiate. He seemed to think that his position
alone would qualify him for admission - and it would be
a hard task to explain to him why this was not so.

Keridil couldn't face that task in his present mood: he
had more important matters on his mind than one arrogant
youth's presumption, and it would do Drachea no harm
to remain in suspense for a while. Aloud, he said,

That's not something to which I can give you an
answer now, Drachea. As you've already admitted, you
have responsibilities - and of course, your father would
have to be consulted.' He smiled. 'I'd be failing in my
own duty if I were to interfere in his plans for you
without so much as a by-your-leave. And for a young
man in your place, it's a change that can't be undertaken
without a good deal of forethought.'

'I've thought about it, sir! In fact, I've thought about
little else since I was a child.'

'Nonetheless, you must curb your impatience.' Aware
that he'd have to offer the young man some sop, how-
ever small, if his own life wasn't to be made intolerable,
Keridil added, 'When your father arrives, I'll discuss the
matter with him. I'm sure he'll be agreeable to your at
least being interviewed by the Council of Adepts.'

Drachea flushed with pleasure. 'Thank you, High
Initiate!'

Keridil inclined his head. 'And now, if you'll excuse
me . . . ' He moved towards the alcove door, but
Drachea followed.

'Sir, I wonder if I might accompany you to the Marble
Hall?' he asked eagerly. 'I'd enjoy the chance to witness
the destruction of those monstrous idols!'

The High Initiate's face hardened. 'I'm sorry; that's
not possible. The Marble Hall is closed to all but the
higher Adepts.'

'But . . . ' Drachea looked affronted. 'I hardly think
such a rule applies in my case, sir. After all, it was in the
Marble Hall that I helped you to - '

Keridil had had enough. Well aware that he was about
to lose his self-control, he said sharply, 'One of the first
lessons that a Circle candidate learns, Drachea, is not to
question an order of the High Initiate.' He nodded
curtly. 'I'll speak to your father, as I promised, but I can
confer no further favours. Good day to you.'

He walked away towards the door, leaving Drachea
staring after him with a mixture of chagrin and indigna-
tion on his face.

Chapter 14

Sister Erminet unlocked the door of Tarod's cell and
paused on the threshold for a few moments to let her
eyes adjust to the gloom before securing the door behind
her.

'Adept. . . ?' Even as her vision improved there was
no sign of him. Then she saw a tall, gaunt shadow
leaning against the opposite wall.

Tarod raised a hand and ran his fingers idly over the
dank stone surface. 'There was a window here once, by
all accounts,' he said. 'You can feel the outlines of the
mortar where a new stone was used to block it.'

His voice sounded flat, remote. Erminet advanced
into the room. 'Doubtless it was filled in to protect the
food stores against rats.'

He smiled thinly at her and examined a smear of dirt
on his fingers before wiping his hand carelessly on his
shirt. 'Doubtless.'

Looking at him as he moved to slump down on the
heap of old sacks and rugs that was all this cell provided
by way of a couch, Erminet judged that his will - or what
remained of it - was rapidly fading. Despite their pre-
vious conversation, he seemed to have shrugged off all
hope in the same careless way that he shrugged off the
thought of his impending death. He was grimy,
unshaven, and his mind seemed to match his physical
state, giving her the uncomfortable feeling that, though
for the first time she had something concrete to offer
him, it might have come too late.

Tarod watched her as, too discomforted to say more,
she busied herself with her now familiar bag of
nostrums. Erminet was wrong in believing that he had

lost hope; but since her visit of the previous day he had
been savagely trying to crush the spark out of existence,
telling himself that to believe in miracles was a thankless
and fruitless exercise. The Sister might well have seen
Cyllan, and might well have brought a response to his
cryptic and very personal message; but beyond that
there could be nothing. Even to convey the message had
been a kind of cruelty; better if he'd given Cyllan the
chance to forget him now, rather than prolong her suf-
fering. And he, with the spark of hope firmly under
control, would drink the narcotic potion Erminet gave
him, and sleep away the hours, and move another day
closer to dying ... it didn't really seem to matter.

But the prospect of the death that awaited him trig-
gered off another chain of thought. Instinct told him that
something was afoot in the Castle, and though he had
neither the will nor, in his present condition, the ability
to discover its nature, imagination had led him to an all
too obvious conclusion. And even without a soul, he was
still human enough to dread it.

He said, hoping that his voice carried a convincing
degree of bored disinterest, 'There seems to be a good
deal of activity in the Castle.'

Erminet's bird-bright gaze fastened on his face. 'What
would you know about that?'

He shrugged, perversely pleased by her surprise. 'My
senses aren't dead yet.'

Her mouth pursed as though in disapproval. 'Well,
they certainly don't lead you astray. There's all manner
of upheaval - masonry being hurled around as though
the whole place were being rebuilt, experiments with
messenger birds . . . and of course preparations for the
banquet following the High Initiate's announcement - '
she stopped.

'Announcement?'

Erminet scowled. She hadn't intended to let that
slip . . . ' Of his betrothal,' she said with some
reluctance.

'Betrothal.' Tarod's dark eyebrows lifted slightly.
'Ah. And need I ask who - '

'You need not. Sashka seems to think that the name of
Veyyil Toln will suit her very well.' She watched him
intently to see how he would react, but his face was
impassive. Slowly, carelessly, he raised his hands and
studied them, then touched the ruined silver base of the
ring on his left index finger.

'A pity,' he said at last. 'Had circumstances been
slightly different, it might have been amusing to kill her.'

Erminet was shocked by the unhuman detachment in
his voice, and admonished uneasily, 'You shouldn't har-
bour such vengeful thoughts. They're unhealthy - and
the little bitch isn't worth it.'

Tarod's green eyes met hers, coolly candid. 'I've no
interest in revenge, Sister. It would simply be amusing;
nothing more.' He smiled. 'As it is, I wish them joy of
each other.'

'I wish I knew whether or not I could believe you.'

The smile widened slightly, but there was little
humour in it. 'Does it matter? I'd have thought the
consideration was academic.'

'It may not be,'

Even in the gloom the sudden awakening of a new
light in Tarod's eyes was unmistakable. He leaned for-
ward, and the hope which he thought he'd succeeded in
stifling came surging up again. 'You've seen Cyllan -'
His voice was a harsh whisper.

Now or never . . . Erminet's conscience was horribly
split between duty and instinct, but she'd known even
before she came here that instinct would win.

'Yes, I saw the girl,' she said, dropping her own voice
as if afraid of being overheard. 'I gave her your message.
It made her cry, but I gave it to her nonetheless. And I
made her a promise.'

Tarod waited silently for her to continue, and she
cursed his ability to keep his feelings so firmly under
control. He was making her task no easier . . .

'She wants the stone,' she went on at last. 'The stone
from your ring ... I wouldn't tell her where it's kept,
because I don't trust her.'

'What do you mean?'

Erminet looked at him candidly. 'I mean that I don't
trust her not to use any means at her disposal to free you.
She'd kill the entire population of the Castle if she could,
for your sake.'

Tarod laughed softly, and the old woman grimaced.

'Oh, I can sympathise with her feelings - but I won't
be a party to any wrongdoing. I could release her, but
she won't flee the Castle; not without the stone, and not
without you. And if I tell her where the stone is hidden,
she'll find it ... and she'll use it.'

Still Tarod said nothing, and Erminet prompted
uncomfortably, 'There's more to that stone than I know,
isn't there? Perhaps more than anyone knows, save you

»

He sighed, the sound echoing oddly in the dark room.
'I've never denied what I am, Sister Erminet; nor have I
denied the nature of the stone. Without it, I'm only half
alive; yet it's more than a receptacle for ... well, my
spirit, for want of a better word.'

'Your soul?'

'If you like. Whether it's an evil gem or not depends on
how you view such things. But the Circle can't control it,
even with me gone.' He looked up at her, and his eyes
burned intensely. 'Cyllan's right. I need it, if I'm to survive.'

It was what she had expected to hear, and Erminet
nodded with some reluctance. 'Then I'll ask just one
thing of you.'

'What is it?'

'Your word on a single question. Either you're a man
of honour, or I'm a fool - and I think I've learned sound
judgement in all my years. If Cyllan is released -
escapes, shall we say - and she retrieves that stone and
brings it to you . . . what will you do then?'

It was a question Tarod hadn't dared to ask himself
during his imprisonment. Once, he had held an idealistic
belief that the stone must be destroyed, even if it meant
his own annihilation - but the humanity that was so
paradoxically tied to the stone, and which had been lost
with it, had wiped that slate clean. Cyllan had added her
own influence, albeit one that he welcomed, and Tarod

no longer knew what his ultimate goal would be. All he
knew - and knew without a shadow of uncertainty - was
that he wanted to live.

He lowered his gaze. 'I'd become what I once was. I'd
be - complete.'

'Yes,' said Erminet. 'I know.' She wouldn't allow
herself to ask for the assurance she needed. It must come
from him, unprompted, or it would be worth nothing.

A long silence ensued. Then, at last, Tarod said,
'Vengeance would achieve nothing, Sister. I don't crave
it - I like to think I'm above such emotions, even if that
sounds like arrogance. If the stone was in my possession
once more - ' Now he looked up again, and Erminet
read a terrifying message in his eyes. He could, if he
chose, destroy the Castle and all who dwelt within its
walls. He could erase them from the face of the earth, and
laugh off any power short of that of Aeoris himself that
tried to stop him. And that would only be the beginning

The fire faded from his look, and she let out her breath
with a sharp exhalation. 'If the stone was in my posses-
sion,' Tarod said gently, 'Cyllan and I would leave the
Star Peninsula, and neither you nor anyone else here
would ever hear of us again.'

'And what would you leave behind you?'

'The Castle. The Circle. As they are, with not a soul
harmed by my hand.'

Aware that she was at a crossroads, with no retreat
offered to her, Erminet said, 'Do I have your word on
that, as an Adept?'

'No.' He smiled. 'I'm no longer an Adept, Erminet.
But you have my word.'

She twisted her hands together, licked her lips and
wished that her throat wasn't so dry. That's good
enough for me.'

'Then -'

Erminet didn't let him say what he'd been about to.
'I'll tell her where the gem is kept,' she said, so quietly
that Tarod could barely hear her. 'And if I should forget
to lock the door of her room behind me, when the

good people of the Castle are sound asleep in their beds...'

He smiled. 'No one will ever know the truth.'

I hope not, Erminet thought, and nodded. 'There's a
banquet in two nights' time; it's probably the only safe
chance there'll be. She'll come to you then.'

He rose, but didn't approach her. 'I don't know what
to say to you. Thanks are so inadequate . . . '

'I want none. I've enough of a burden to carry without
your gratitude to add to it!' Erminet was near to tears
without knowing why, and to counteract the emotion
she raked him with a contemptuous glare. 'In the mean-
time, I'll bring you water to wash with, and a blade to
shave yourself. If you confront the girl looking as you do
now, she'll change her mind and I'll have risked myself
for nothing!'

It was the first time she had heard Tarod laugh unre-
servedly and wholeheartedly. When at last it subsided,
he said solemnly, 'I wouldn't have that, Sister. Not for
the world.'

Her cheeks reddened. 'So be it, then.' She glanced
down at her bag. 'I've prepared a further dose of the
drug that's supposed to keep you quiescent. I'll leave it
here — but I don't want to know whether you take it or
not.'

'If anyone chooses to visit me, they'll find me as
stupefied as ever.' Tarod smiled. 'You'll be seen to have
done your duty.'

Erminet nodded quickly. She poured the prepared
concoction, pressed the cup into his hands and made to
leave. At the door she paused. 'Ah ... I all but forgot.
She said to tell you that the wound was quickly healed.'

'Yes. I thought she might say that . . . bless you,
Sister Erminet. I'll never forget what you've done.'

She returned the look almost sadly, he thought.
'Good fortune go with you, Tarod.'

He listened to the heavy key turning stiffly in the lock,
and to the sound of Erminet's footsteps diminishing
along the passage. When all was silent again he let out a
pent-up breath, and felt a new strength flowing through

him. He had hope where there had been nothing - hope
of life, hope of a future. He could hardly yet believe it

Sinking down on to the heaped rugs again, Tarod
closed his green eyes and forced his muscles to relax, to
ward off the excitement that threatened to overtake
him. He must stay calm, expect nothing . . . the path
from this moment to freedom was still a long and haz-
ardous one, and rather than allow himself to indulge in
speculation, he'd be better advised to conserve his
energy lest some unforeseen trouble might occur. Even
without the Chaos stone he had power, and the Circle's
attempts to weaken him had had less effect than Keridil
hoped - but he was by no means invincible. He must
make contingency plans . . . and make them quickly.

Turning his head and opening his eyes again, he
reached for the cup which Sister Erminet had left. For a
moment he weighed it in his hand; then with slow delib-
eration he poured its contents on the floor. The liquid
mingled with the detritus on the flagstones, forming a
dark pool which gradually spread and faded as it soaked
into the porous stone. If need be, he could put on a good
enough show of stupefaction for the Circle . . . and he
needed all his senses intact now.

Settling himself as comfortably as he could, and aware
of the rapidity of his pulse which no amount of will could
control, Tarod closed his eyes once more as his mind
began to reach out tentatively towards the future.

Cyllan knew that some untoward event was taking place
in the Castle. Watching from her window - there was
little else to occupy her during the daylight hours - she
had seen the bustle of activity increasing since early
morning, and her first horrified thought had been to link
it with the High Initiate's plans for Tarod's execution.
But as the Spring day declined into a pleasant if chilly
Sunset, it became obvious that this was a celebratory
rather than a solemn occasion. People in their finest
clothes converged on the main doors from all parts of the
Castle, the tall windows of the main hall blazed with

light, and as darkness fell she heard faint strains of music
in the distance.

As the courtyard emptied, Cyllan left the window and
sat on her bed, relieved from her immediate fear yet still
fretting with impatience. It was three days since Sister
Erminet had made her promise; three days during which
the old woman had not been to visit her, and Cyllan's
initial hope was fast turning to despair and anger.
Surely, unless she was the victim of some complex
scheme or joke, there should have been word by now?
Several times during the agonising wait she had been
tempted to try calling on Yandros a second time, but
memory of his warning had stopped her. He had said he
couldn't come to her again . . . she had no choice but to
be patient. And to look to Aeoris for an answer to her
prayers was hardly appropriate . . .

The music was louder now, and it irritated her; in her
present predicament it seemed an intrusion and an
insult. The Castle revelled while she waited, fear and
uncertainty gnawing like rats at her stomach ... it
fuelled the anger that was growing inside her, made her
want to strike out, yet gave her nothing to strike against.
The tension she felt was almost unbearable - and when a
key turned unexpectedly in the lock of her door, she
jumped as though under the onslaught of a physical
blow.

Sister Erminet came in. Her face was pale and taut,
but she managed a quick, wry smile as she closed the
door quietly at her back.

Cyllan sprang up from the bed. 'Sister - '

Erminet put a finger to her lips. 'Quiet, child. There's
no one about, but no point in tempting the fates.'

Lowering her voice, Cyllan asked, 'What news do you
have of Tarod?'

'He's well enough, if not exactly prospering.' Erminet
paused, studying the girl's face. 'I gave him your reply to
his message, and asked for his word on the safety of this
Castle, as I said.'

'And . . . ?'

'He gave it.' Quickly, as though afraid of changing her

mind, Erminet unlooped one of the keys that hung from
her belt and held it out. 'This will unlock his door. I can't
take the risk of releasing him myself. And you'll find the
jewel in the High Initiate's study, locked away in a box
he keeps in his cupboard.' Her gaze wavered. There's a
banquet about to begin, to celebrate Keridil's betrothal
to Sashka Veyyil. I doubt if you'll ever have a better
opportunity to find the Castle deserted.'

Very slowly Cyllan reached out and took the key.
Then, catching Erminet completely by surprise, she sud-
denly and impulsively flung her arms round the old
woman's neck, hugging her tightly. She couldn't express
what she felt, but the mute gesture was far more eloquent
than any words. Flustered, Erminet extricated herself.

'Now, don't be so foolish!' she scolded, trying to cover
the fact that she was touched. 'You've a long way to go
yet, and this is no time to indulge in emotion.' She stood
back to study Cyllan critically. 'That gown, for example.
The colour's dangerously distinctive, and with your hair
it makes you too recognisable.'

Cyllan frowned down at herself. The dress was the
one that Tarod had given to her, and she didn't want to
relinquish it. 'They brought me fresh clothes,' she said.
'But I don't want them.'

Erminet, however, was adamant. 'Want or no, you'll
change your attire now, or look forward to being recap-
tured! Here.' She examined the garments which had
been left for Cyllan on Keridil's orders. 'This will do -
it's neutral enough.' She held up a dove-grey woollen
skirt with a darker long-sleeved top. For a moment
Cyllan seemed about to protest, then she shrugged her
thin shoulders and reluctantly slipped off the red gown.
While she changed, Erminet instructed her as to Tarod's
whereabouts and made her recite the directions twice
over to ensure she had memorised them, then finally
handed her a short black cloak with a hood.

'This will hide your hair well enough. Keep to the
shadows, and if anyone approaches you, walk the other
way as quickly as you can without drawing attention.
Are you ready?'

Cyllan nodded.

'Very well. I will leave first - I'm expected at the
banquet, and there might be comment if I'm late. When
all's quiet, make your way across the courtyard. It's unlit
now; safer than the corridors.' She gave her charge one
last look, then nodded. 'I wish you luck, child - even
more for my sake than for yours. Aeoris help us all if you
fail.'

Cyllan remembered her encounter with Yandros, and
smiled. 'I won't fail, Sister Erminet.'

She stood back, watching as the old woman opened
the door and peered out into the corridor. They
exchanged a last glance, Erminet smiled conspir-
atorially, then she was gone. Cyllan waited, counting
every painful heartbeat and hardly able to believe that
what had happened wasn't a dream from which she
would wake at any moment. Then, when she could hear
no sound beyond the door, she crossed the room and
slipped out into the passage. Erminet had disappeared
towards the main stairs; Cyllan paused to pull the cloak's
hood over her hair, then turned in the opposite direction
towards a secondary flight which would, she had been
told, lead her by a circuitous route to a side door of the
courtyard.

And as Cyllan hastened away, the light of one of the
wall-torches illuminated the rich velvet clothes and bril-
liant jewels of someone who stepped out of a side pas-
sage . . .

Sashka had been taking her time, despite her mother's
pleas, in preparing for what was to be her triumphant
night. She had changed her mind and her gown three
times before finally deciding what to wear, then had
spent an hour under the careful hands of a trusted ser-
vant while her hair was coiled and dressed. At last her
parents had been forced to leave without her, and she
had spent a few private and pleasant minutes luxuriating
in anticipation of the evening. She would be the focus of
all attention, elevated in a single night to a status that
every eligible woman in every province would envy, and
Sashka was determined to make the most of it. Let the

guests await her arrival - she'd make that much more of
an impression when she finally did grace them with her
presence.

At last, judging the moment to be right, she rose and
made to leave, scorning the proffered arm of her father's
steward and telling him curtly to stay behind and mind
his place. There would be a guard of honour waiting to
escort her to the main hall; she needed no one else.

And so she had left her suite of rooms and walked at
leisure towards the stairs. And, as she was about to
emerge into the main corridor, Sister Erminet had
walked briskly across her path.

Sashka instinctively drew back, irritated. She
despised Sister Erminet, and the thought of having to
walk with her and make at least an attempt to be civil
soured her mood. Fortunately, however, the old woman
hadn't seen her ... so she waited until the quick
footsteps had diminished before emerging into the
corridor.

It was sheer chance which made her pause as she
started towards the stairs, and look back over her shoul-
der. And she was just in time to see a small, cloaked and
hooded figure turning out of one of the rooms at the far
end and hurrying away.

Sashka frowned. Something about the figure struck a
chord in her memory, but she couldn't place it. Yet. . .
wasn't that the room where the Eastern girl, Tarod's
little drover slut, was kept? Sashka's instinct for trouble
assailed her, and she licked her lips speculatively. It was
a ridiculous idea . . . but it would take only a moment to
be sure.

Glancing about to make sure she was unobserved, she
picked up her skirts and ran along the corridor.

The door from which both Sister Erminet and the
mysterious figure must have emerged stood alone, and it
was closed. Sashka grasped the latch-ring, turned it,
pushed - and the door swung open.

The room was lit, but empty. Sashka's gaze took in an
unmade bed, a plate of food, half eaten - and a red silk
gown discarded over a chair. Remembering the one time

she had seen Cyllan, when Keridil had tried and failed to
talk some sense into her head, Sashka recognised the
dress immediately, and her heart began to pound suf-
focatingly. The slut had escaped - and Sister Erminet was
implicated!

A peculiar sense of elation filled Sashka. She could
raise the alarm now, and within minutes Cyllan would be
apprehended - but there might be more to gain by
waiting a while. She felt certain that Cyllan's disap-
pearance wasn't the result of a simple mistake on
Erminet's part; the old woman was involved somehow in
a deliberate plot, and Sashka felt certain that it might
spring from a desire to spite her personally. Yet without
direct evidence, she could prove nothing. Better, then,
if she bided her time for just a little while, until she could
trick Erminet into saying something that would damn
her when she was confronted with the truth. The ban-
quet would provide the perfect opportunity - it would
also provide as many witnesses as anyone could desire -
and she herself could secure the double triumph of
ensuring Cyllan's apprehension, and exposing a traitor
in their midst.

To aid and abet a minion of Chaos was a serious
matter . . . Keridil could surely no longer argue in
favour of clemency for the drover-girl, and the thought
that Sister Erminet might well suffer alongside Cyllan
gave Sashka a good deal of satisfaction. As for Tarod
. . . his hopes of escape would be thwarted, and he'd die
as Keridil intended. All in all, Sashka thought, a more
than satisfactory solution . . .

She turned quickly out of the empty room, closing the
door behind her, and made her way with unhurried
grace towards the main stairs.

Gyneth Linto, Keridil's steward, leaned to pour wine
into the two heavily ornamented silver cups that stood
together at the high table. It was more than thirty years
since these ancient chalices had been used to toast the
betrothal or marriage of a High Initiate of the Circle,
and Gyneth had insisted on taking personal charge of

this duty, despite the fact that some might think it men-
ial. A silence fell on the assembly as he completed his
task with a flourish and stepped back. Keridil met
Sashka's eyes and as one they raised the cups, touching
the rims together as the entire gathering rose. Every
gaze in the hall was upon them, and Sashka felt a thrill of
excitement course through her as, slowly and clearly,
Keridil spoke the formal words of the betrothal pledge.

'I call on Aeoris to witness this day that I, Keridil
Toln, High Initiate of the Circle at the Star Peninsula, do
pledge and bind to you, Sashka Veyyil of Han Province,
to be protector and provider to you from the day of our
marriage until my life's end.'

Sashka cast her eyes down, and her measured con-
tralto carried through the hall. 'And that I, Sashka
Veyyil, do pledge and bind to you, Keridil Toln, to be
helpmeet and comforter to you, from the day of our
marriage until my life's end.'

For a moment there was silence, as Keridil and Sashka
each held their cup out to the other, and both drank
from the other's chalice. It was a signal for the
assembled guests to follow suit, and every man and
woman raised their drinking vessels.

'Keridil and Sashka!' The toast was taken up, rippling
through the hall in a swell of sound and interspersed with
a few cheers from younger and bolder Initiates. Sashka's
beautiful face smiled beneficence on the crowd, and the
musicians in the high gallery began to play again now
that the small ceremony was over, while servants hur-
ried forward to begin serving food to the guests.

The feast was to be an informal affair. Since his
father's death Keridil had, by slow and careful degrees,
begun to make changes in much of the Circle's more
esoteric practice. Remembering from his own childhood
and adolescence the stultifying boredom of ceremonial
banquets - endless speeches, hours spent stiff and
uncomfortable on a hard bench, protocol demanding
that he speak only to his nearest neighbours - he felt the
use of too much ceremonial unnecessary, and was deter-
mined, as gently as possible, to persuade even the older

Adepts to his way of thinking. Tonight's celebration was
the ideal opportunity - it was very much his personal
festivity, had no direct link with Circle ritual, and he
would offend no one by dispensing with the more fam-
iliar formal traditions. And so, as the guests began to
eat, they also began to move and mingle around the hall,
and the swell of conversation and laughter almost
drowned out the subtle background of music. A steady
stream of people made their way to the high table to
offer congratulations to Keridil and Sashka, and among
their number was Sister Erminet, who approached with
a small group of Sisters who had arrived from West High
Land that morning. Faramor the hawk-master's experi-
ment had proved successful, and as a result Kael Amion,
the elderly Senior at the West High Land cot, had sent a
deputation of the women in her charge to the Castle to
bring her personal good wishes.

Sashka disguised her amusement behind an artificial
yawn as the Sisters approached. Erminet was smiling,
but her eyes betrayed her, and Sashka believed she
detected jealousy in their disdainful coldness. She
forced down a desire to laugh. If all went well, Sister
Erminet would have cause to regret her attitude before
too long . . .

'High Initiate.' Erminet clasped Keridil's hand. 'A
very gratifying occasion. On behalf of Lady Kael Amion
and the Sisters of West High Land, may we offer warm-
est congratulations.'

Sashka gave Keridil a faintly pitying glance as she
realised he was taken in by Erminet's unctuous manner.
He thanked the old woman with great courtesy, and
then Erminet turned to the girl at his side.

'My dear Sashka. This is a wonderful day for us all at
the Cot - the Lady is very proud of you.'

Sashka smiled sweetly. 'Thank you, Sister; I'm very
gratified by such praise.' Her voice oozed modesty, and
Erminet nodded and made to move on. But before she
had taken a step, Sashka added, as though the thought
had just occurred to her, 'Oh - Sister Erminet ... I
don't wish to raise an unhappy subject, but . . . ' Her

eyelashes flickered, though her gaze was steady, 'I
gather that you are now in charge of both the prisoners
held here at the Castle.'

Keridil frowned, surprised, but if Erminet was dis-
concerted she didn't show it. 'Yes,' she said evenly, 'I
am.'

Sashka smiled again. 'It's just that ... I'd so much
appreciate your assurance that all's well and there's no
danger of any trouble.' She reached out and took
Keridil's hand. 'I'm sure the High Initiate will think me
foolish, but I'd enjoy tonight so much more without the
fear that something might go amiss.'

Erminet hesitated. She knew full well that Sashka had
no fear of Tarod, Cyllan or any other living creature, but
couldn't imagine what her motive for such an uncharac-
teristic question might be. Keridil, however, came
unwittingly to her aid.

'My love, there's no need for any doubt,' he said,
smiling fondly at Sashka. 'I understand your feelings in
the circumstances, but I can give you my assurance,
there's not the smallest chance of any threat to our
happiness.' He looked up at the old woman. 'Isn't that
so, Sister Erminet?'

Erminet inclined her head. 'Indeed, High Initiate.'
She glanced at the auburn-haired girl. 'I looked in on the
girl Cyllan not half an hour ago, and the Adept - the
former Adept, I should say - a little earlier. Both are
secure - in fact, the girl was sleeping when I left her. You
have my assurance of that.'

Sashka smiled. 'Thank you, Sister. Your assurance is
all we could ask.'

When Erminet and the other Sisters had moved on,
Keridil said in Sashka's ear, 'It's not like you to be
nervous, love. Why are you so troubled?'

She gave a little shrug. 'Ohh . . . perhaps I'm super-
stitious, Keridil. Forgive me - I'll be well enough now.'

'Sister Erminet's more than capable.'

'I know.' Sashka smiled sweetly at him in the way she
knew could disarm him without a word spoken. 'Oh, I
know.'

Cyllan heard the strains of dance music as she ran on
silent feet through the maze of passages that permeated
the Castle like a warren. In trying to avoid the main hall
she had misjudged her own knowledge of the corridors,
and had taken two wrong turnings before finally emerg-
ing uncomfortably close to the double doors that stood
between her and the banquet.

Slipping into an alcove that masked her with its shad-
ows, she stopped to catch her breath and get her bear-
ings. Thus far, luck had been with her - she had
encountered no one in the courtyard, and the one
woman servant who had hurried past her as she crossed
the entrance hall had paused only to bob a curtsey to the
cloaked and hooded figure whom she had clearly taken
for a late-arriving guest. But luck, Cyllan knew from
bitter experience, had a habit of running out when least
expected. If she was to fulfil her task, she must tread
with the greatest of caution.

She had already made up her mind to steal the stone
from the High Initiate's rooms before she made her way
to the cellars where Tarod was imprisoned. In honesty,
she had to admit that she would only feel safe when the
jewel was in his hands; and while she might be no more
than an anonymous figure to anyone she chanced to
meet, he was known to the entire populus of the Castle
and would be recognised immediately should he be
seen.

The music, muffled beyond the heavy hall doors, was
a light, lilting dance tune, underpinned by a murmur of
many voices. The celebrations were at their height, and
Cyllan dared waste no more time. Peering cautiously in
both directions and seeing the corridor empty, she left
her hiding place and hurried away in what she hoped was
the direction of the High Initiate's apartments.

Her instincts proved true this time - and the outer
door was unlocked. She suffered an agonising moment
as she pushed the door fractionally open, half expecting
to be challenged from within - but the suite of rooms was
unlit and empty.

A box, locked in his cupboard, Sister Erminet had said

. . . Cyllan moved cautiously across the floor, skirting
the massive table that dominated the room, and found
the ornately carved cabinet a little to one side of the
fireplace. The handle refused to give when she turned it,
and swearing under her breath she began to search for
something that would force the lock. Her search was
hampered by the darkness, but she had nothing with
which to make a light even had she dared to. Groping
across the table she knocked over an inkstand which fell
with a crash, splattering its contents across table top and
floor. Cyllan froze, sweat breaking out on her skin, but
the noise brought no one to investigate, and after a
minute or so she resumed her hunt.

The table-top yielded nothing of any use, and it was
only when she turned her attention to the drawer set
beneath it that she found the knife. It was a wicked
blade, glinting like wet slate in the dimness as she drew it
from its sheath, but it would suffice well enough. There
was no time for finesse, and she gouged out the lock of
the cupboard in three fierce movements, wrenching the
door back and feeling inside for her quarry.

A glass bottle, a sheaf of papers . . . and the box.
Cyllan drew it out and put it on the floor, crouching over
it as she prised at the lid with her blade. Like the
cupboard it was locked, but it was made of soft pewter,
lead lined, and gave at her second attempt. She lifted the
lid ... and stared with a chilling fascination at what
confronted her.

The Chaos stone lay alone in the box, and it glowed
with an inner light of its own; a cold, dim radiance that
spilled on to Cyllan's hands and turned them ghostly
grey. For a moment she baulked at the idea of touching
it - but then she gathered her courage, reached into the
box, and her fingers closed around the gem. An unnerv-
ing sense of elation filled her as she felt its hard contours
against her palm; her arm tingled and, just for a brief
instant, she felt a heady sense of power, as though some
unnameable force had flooded her mind from the stone's
depths. She took a grip on herself - she was by no means
triumphant yet, and jubilation must wait - and hastily

shut the box, putting it back in the cupboard and closing
the ruined door as best she could. With the stone in her
left hand she picked up the knife once more. She'd keep
it, at least until both she and Tarod were safe . . .

Finding her way to the door, she bumped noisily
against a chair, but again the noise was insufficient to
raise an alarm. She waited until her heart stopped
racing, then eased the door open . . .

The passage awaited her, seeming brilliant after the
dark room. Cyllan stepped out -

And a figure moved across her path.

Cyllan's eyes widened in horror. She tried to dodge
back into the High Initiate's apartments, but it was too
late - he had seen her, stopped, recognised her as the
hood fell back to betray her distinctive pale hair - and
she found herself transfixed by the stunned stare of
Drachea Rannak.

Wo . . .' Cyllan croaked the word, her voice unrecog-
nisable even to herself. 'No . . . Yandros, no!'

Drachea too had sworn aloud, and his hand went
immediately to the short sword he had lately taken to
carrying. He had slipped away from the banquet, bored
and, he had to admit to himself, more than a little jealous
of the High Initiate, and had been pacing moodily along
the corridor at the very moment when, by sheer chance,
Cyllan had emerged with her prize. Now he faced her, and
as the initial shock which had frozen them both faded
Cyllan saw realisation and alarm dawning in his eyes.

'Gods!' The sword rattled from its scabbard. 'You
bitch, how did you - oh, no!' He brought the blade up in
a wild, slashing movement as Cyllan made a desperate
dive for freedom, and she reeled back against the wall to
save herself from its shearing arc.

'Oh, no!' Drachea said again, harshly. 'Not this time,
you demon - not this time!' And over his shoulder he
yelled, 'Help! Servants, here - quickly!'

The Chaos stone pulsed suddenly hot in Cyllan's
hand, and a storm of bitter ferocity surged into life
within her. Drachea had thwarted her once; he had
brought about Tarod's downfall - but not again! Never,

never again! Like a vision seen in the instant of a bolt of
lightning her mind pictured Yandros's proud, sardonic
face, and his eyes seemed to reflect the colourless radi-
ance of the gem -

Drachea started as her left hand came up, and a
sudden glare of light sprang from between her fingers.
On the verge of shouting the alarm again the words stuck
and died in his throat, and when he tried to draw breath
his lungs seemed to fill with ice. He swayed, staggered -
Cyllan took a pace forward, brandishing the stone like a
weapon, and her face illuminated by the gem's glare was
mad, insensate. Drachea tried again to yell out; his voice
broke in a cracking scream, and as the sound of it echoed
through the passage Cyllan sprang at him, the knife in
her right hand flashing up in a deadly stroke that took
Drachea in the stomach and sheared through to his
breastbone. His scream choked off into a bubbling howl
of pain and he doubled over, spinning around and
almost falling on his own sword. Seeing him down,
Cyllan's senses gave way to an explosion of rage and she
hurled herself on him a second time, the knife-blade
hurtling down and biting deep into his shoulder. She was
beyond all reason, driven by something she could
neither comprehend nor control; something that awoke
an insane, unhuman craving to kill, destroy, avenge -

A shriek that was neither her voice nor Drachea's cut
through the madness in her head, and she jumped back
as though jerked by a rope. Two servants, a man and a
woman, had come running in answer to Drachea's bel-
lowed summons, and had rounded the corner to be
confronted by the sight of what seemed to be a white-
faced demon, face and hands spattered with blood,
hacking with a gore-soaked knife at the struggling
Drachea. The woman fainted dead away and the man
stared at Cyllan, jaw gaping, gathered his breath to yell
at the top of his voice -

Sanity came back with a violent jolt. Drachea lay
between Cyllan's feet, dead or dying. The Chaos stone
was ice-cold in her left hand, the knife slick and slippery
in her right; her clothes a mess of new crimson stains. . .

Cyllan's stomach heaved, and, galvanised by nothing
more than animal instinct, she turned and ran. The
corridor veered crazily before her, and at her back,
diminishing yet thundering like drums in her head, she
heard the servant's high-pitched, frantic voice yelling a
desperate alarm.

Chapter 15

The music from the gallery was loud enough to mask any
commotion from beyond the heavy doors of the dining-
hall, and from slow and formal set pieces the players had
now progressed to lighter but more vigorous dance
music. A few couples had taken the floor already, and
the dancing would increase as the night wore on, con-
tinuing until the small hours when hot mulled wine and
biscuits would be served before the revelry ended.

At first, Keridil didn't notice the two men who
entered the hall and began to push their way urgently
through the throng towards him. He was making con-
versation with Sashka's father, while at the same time
privately reflecting on the success of the evening - and
only when Sashka touched his arm and said, in an odd
voice, 'Keridil . . . ' did he look up and see them
approaching.

The looks on their faces were enough to tell him
something was wrong, and as they reached him he rose
to his feet. Curious onlookers strained to hear the brief,
whispered conversation, but even Sashka was none the
wiser when Keridil hurriedly proffered his apologies and
strode out of the hall with the two men at his heels.

The servant who had raised the alarm was sitting with
his back against the corridor wall, face hidden in his
hands and shaking as though he had the palsy. A steward
crouched beside him, speaking in low, urgent tones,
while another man, grey-faced, was attempting to cover
a body with his cloak and hide it from view. There was
blood on the floor, on the wall, and spreading through
the cloak in a dark, ugly stain.

'Wait.' Keridil spoke to the man as he was about to

cover the corpse's face. The servant drew back, and the
High Initiate stared down at the victim.

He didn't need Grevard to tell him that Drachea was
dead. The young man's eyes were half open and sight-
less, and blood still trickled from his mouth, though
by the looks of it, Keridil reflected grimly, there must
be little enough in his body left to be shed. Whoever
had killed him must have attacked him as though pos-
sessed ...

Feeling sick, he signed to the servant to cover the
body once more, and turned to face the steward.

'Does anyone know who did this?' His voice was low
and dangerous.

The steward got to his feet. 'Pirasyn here witnessed
the whole thing, sir, and I think he recognised the killer.
But it's hard to get any sense out of him.'

Keridil nodded and squatted on his haunches in front
of the distressed man. 'Pirasyn. It's Keridil Toln. Listen
to me - you must help us, if you can. Try to remember
who it was you saw attacking the Heir Margrave.'

The man looked up and swallowed, and Keridil tried
to smile reassuringly. 'He'll be apprehended, never fear.
But we'll hunt him down all the quicker if you can
identify him to me now.'

Pirasyn swallowed again, then shook his head. 'Not
him . . . '

'Not whom?' Keridil was puzzled.

'Him.' the man repeated. 'Not him. Her. The girl-the
one who aided the demon. White hair. Yellow eyes.
And that face . . . ' He covered his eyes again and
started to sob.

A liquid sensation clutched at Keridil's stomach and
slowly he straightened up. Cyllan? It wasn't possible -
she was safely locked up! He'd had Sister Erminet's own
assurance not an hour since . . . But impossible or no,
he also had Pirasyn's testimony . . . and a terrible
intuition to add weight to it.

He swung round to the two men who had summoned
him. 'Get up to the room where, that girl's kept - check
that she's still there. And hurry!'

They left at a run, and as their footfalls diminished
Sashka appeared from the direction of the main hall.
'Keridil? What's to do?'

He went to her, catching her by the shoulders and
halting her before she could see the carnage. 'Love, you
shouldn't have followed me.'

She gazed levelly back. 'When you're pulled from my
side by some obvious crisis, do you expect me to sit and
meekly await your return? I want to be of help - please,
tell me what's amiss.'

Keridil sighed. 'I didn't want to expose you to this, but
. . . Drachea Rannak has been murdered.'

Her lovely eyes widened in shock. 'Murdered? Here,
outside your own apartments?'

The words brought him up short; it hadn't occurred to
him that there might be more than coincidence involved in
the location, but now he began to wonder. And if Pirasyn
had spoken the truth, there was one obvious motive . . .

He took a torch down from its bracket on the wall and
opened the door to his rooms - then Sashka heard a soft
oath escape his lips. She ran after him as he disappeared
inside, and found him staring at the detritus which
Cyllan had left. Spilled ink, scattered papers -

'Keridil, look!' she said harshly. The cupboard door-
the lock's been smashed!'

Keridil saw it, and ran across the room. He snatched
the pewter box from its shelf, and even before he opened
it the broken lid told him what he would find.

'It's gone,' he said.

The stone . . . ?'

Keridil nodded. The mystery was beginning to piece
itself horribly together, and as Sashka peered into the
empty box he said softly, venomously, 'Cyllan . . . '

'What?'

Briefly, he told her what Pirasyn claimed to have seen.
She had never seen him so angry before, though he did
his best to control the rage in him, and she made no
attempt to mollify him. Rather, she thought, it would
serve her purpose the better if his fury could be chan-
nelled ...

'Keridil,' she said as he was about to return to the
corridor, 'Keridil, I was thinking . . . '

'What is it?' He was more curt than he had intended,
but she seemed not to notice.

'About Sister Erminet . . . she told us that the girl
was safely locked away. She gave us her word on it. I
think she was lying to us.'

He frowned. 'I don't understand you. Whyever
should Sister Erminet lie?'

'I don't know. But . . . well, I thought I must have
been mistaken, but now I'm not sure.' And she told him
of the hooded figure she had seen leaving Cyllan's room
in Erminet's wake. As she related her story - though
making no reference to the fact that she had checked the
room herself - Keridil's jaw muscles tightened and his
hands clenched.

'If she's in league with them . . . ' he said at last.

'It's possible. Isn't it possible?'

He was struggling to be fair, not to let anger cloud his
judgement, but the evidence was hard to ignore. Sashka
wasn't a liar . . . and Cyllan could surely not have
escaped without help . . .

From outside the door he heard running footsteps,
and a voice calling his name. Quickly he took
Sashka's hand and led her out, in time to confront the
two men he had sent to check on the girl. They were
sweating and breathless, but their message was clear
enough.

'She's gone sir! The room's been left unlocked!'

Keridil's mouth set in a narrow line. 'Very well.
Organise as many searchers as you need, and make sure
each one is armed. Tell them to gather in the dining-hall
as soon as possible - we'll comb the Castle from end to
end until she's found! I want the main gates guarded -
oh, and set two men to watch that demonic lover of hers!
It's ten to one he's behind this, and that she'll try to
reach him. Whatever else happens, she mustn't succeed
in that! Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

Then get about it, quickly!' And as they hastened

away he turned to Sashka, his face grave. 'I'm sorry that
this has to ruin our celebration, love.'

She shook her head. 'It doesn't matter. The girl must
be found - that's far more important. But . . . what
about Sister Erminet?'

'Ah . . . yes. I wish I could be sure . . . '

Sashka nibbled at her lower lip. 'As yet, no one in the
dining-hall knows what's amiss, Sister Erminet
included. Perhaps if, before you break the news to them,
she could be - invited to repeat her assurance?' She cast
her gaze down. 'I know it's a devious thought, Keridil,
but if we do have a viper in our midst, surely a little
trickery is justified?'

She was right; and Keridil thanked the gods for her
common sense. 'Very well. It's a shrewd suggestion, and
we'll follow it. Though the gods know, I find it hard to
credit that she should be a traitor.'

Sashka shrugged. 'Erminet was always unpredictable.
At the Cot we lived in fear of her moods and fancies . . .
and besides, we should remember that as well as guard-
ing Cyllan, she's been responsible for tending to Tarod
these last days.'

'You mean that she might be under his sway? I hardly
think so - he's been kept drugged; I doubt if he can
control his own mind, let alone influence another's.'

'We may have underestimated him.'

It was possible . . . and it could explain Erminet's
perfidy.

'Well, there's only one way to be sure,' Keridil said.
'Let's return to our guests.'

Their entrance was greeted with relief and a great
many curious questions. Keridil soothed anxieties with
the promise of a full explanation, then sought out Sister
Erminet, who - suspiciously, it now seemed to him - sat
alone at a table and appeared disinterested in the furore.

'Sister Erminet.' He smiled as he approached her. 'I'm
sorry to intrude on you with a medical matter, but -'

She looked up quickly, and he thought he detected
relief on her face. 'Medical matter?' she said. 'Has
someone been taken ill?'

'In a manner of speaking. It concerns one of your
charges, and I'd like to clear up a little confusion.'

'Ah . . . ' said Erminet warily.

'The girl, Cyllan -I believe you said she was sleeping
when you left her; is that correct?'

People were gathering round them . . . Erminet
hesitated for a moment, and it was clear she was discon-
certed. 'Did I? Perhaps so ... yes, I believe she was.'

'And you did take care to lock the door behind you
when you left?'

Now the old woman's face was unhealthily pale, but
she rallied herself and smiled at him.

'Naturally, High Initiate. I have the key here at my
waist, as always.' She held it up, but her hand wasn't
quite steady. 'It never leaves my person.'

It was all Keridil needed. Leaning forward, he said
softly, but ferociously. 'Then can you explain to me,
Sister, how it was that Cyllan was able to leave her
locked room, and commit cold-blooded murder in this
Castle not fifteen minutes ago?'

The little colour that remained drained from Erminet's
face, leaving it the shade of dried cement. She tried to
rise, but her legs wouldn't support her, and her expres-
sion would have damned her without a word spoken.

'Oh, gods . . . she didn't. . . she couldn't have . . . '
She covered her mouth with one hand.

Keridil called forward two Initiates. 'Please conduct
Sister Erminet Rowald to her room, and see that she
doesn't leave until I send for her personally.' And to
Erminet he added, 'I believe, Sister, that you have been
guilty of an act which I would have thought unthinkable
for one of your calling. I hope you'll prove me wrong,
but I have very strong doubts. You'll have your chance
to speak when Cyllan Anassan has been apprehended.'
He nodded curtly to the old woman, and signed for the
Initiates to lead her away. Shocked silence fell on the
hall as they passed through the crowd to the door, then
Keridil picked up an empty wine jug and banged it down
hard on the table to call their attention. Every face in the
vast room turned towards him.

'My friends,' Keridil said, the anger still tingeing his
voice, 'I'm sorry to have to draw the evening's festivities
to a premature close, but I have a very grave announce-
ment to make, and I would appreciate the co-operation
of every able-bodied man and woman here tonight.'

Beside him Sashka sank on to a convenient chair, her
eyes cast down, and the faintest of smiles on her face.

*****

She was lost. Her terrified, headlong flight from the
scene of the grisly encounter with Drachea had taken
her deep into an unlit and remote part of the Castle,
where only endless black walls and silence confronted
her. Blind instinct had led her down twisting flights of
stairs and along narrow passages, until at last she was
certain that her pursuers - if pursuit there had been -
were left far behind. Then she stumbled to a halt, and
collapsed exhausted to the cold stone floor.

Slowly the broken fragments of what had happened
were beginning to form a coherent recollection, as the
blankness of stark fear was succeeded by a peculiar
calm. She had killed Drachea. In dark moments as she
sat alone in her locked room she had often craved the
chance to take vengeance on him, and her imagination
had run riot. Now the fantasy had become reality, and
the reality was bloody and ugly and shocking. Yet she
couldn't feel remorse . . . her hatred of Drachea was
too strong, the desire for retribution too great.

With an inward shiver she remembered the Chaos
stone coming to life in her hand, the blazing glare of cold
light that had transfixed Drachea where he stood. The
stone had given her the opportunity she needed to strike
- and it had also fed on her hatred, focusing it into a lust
for destruction and mayhem that had eclipsed her
reason and turned her into a savage assassin. The stone
was quiescent now, nestling in her left hand. Her fingers
ached from gripping it, and she had to prize them open
in order to look at the gem where it lay in her palm. It
seemed nothing more than a simple jewel, yet her flesh

tingled as she felt an echo of the sensations it had
awoken in her. She was beginning to understand Tarod's
ambiguous feelings, part loathing and part need,
towards it ... he was right; it was a deadly gem. And
now she realised why Yandros had agreed to aid her.

Quickly, half afraid that the stone might affect her
further if she continued to hold it, she thrust the jewel
into the bodice of her dress. Her hand came away
smeared with crimson, and she realised that she was
spattered from head to foot with Drachea's blood. The
sight of it brought a lurch of physical revulsion and for a
moment she thought she would be sick; but the spasm
passed as cold logic took over once more.

What was done was done, and right or wrong she
didn't regret it. Drachea was dead - no one could survive
such a savage attack - and she had kept her freedom, at
least for the moment. But the hunt would already be up,
and the chances were that her identity was known. She
couldn't hope to evade capture for long while she
remained in the Castle confines, and once she was
caught there would be no second chance, and no
reprieve this time. She would die, hanged or more likely
beheaded, and Tarod would die too.

She had to reach him. She had to give him the Chaos
stone, and plead with him to use it, if necessary, to save
them both. Without his strength and power to aid them,
the net would close and they'd be lost; they needed the
stone, however deadly it might be.

Unsteadily Cyllan got to her feet, smoothing down
her dress and ignoring the stains. The knife she tucked in
her sleeve, unwilling to relinquish it lest she should need
it again. Luck — and Yandros - had been with her once,
but she dared not rely on them a second time. If she
could keep to the Castle's unpopulated corridors until
she found her way to the cellars where Tarod was
imprisoned, well and good - but she would kill again if
she had to, to reach her goal.

She pulled the hood of the short cloak up over her hair
once more, and set off along the passage.

Cyllan had no way of telling how much time had passed
before, at long last, she reached a place where steep
stairs led down into the Castle's foundations, and knew
she was close to her goal. From Sister Erminet's instruc-
tion she recognised the way to the storage cellars and
began to hasten down the flight, until a sudden uneasy
intuition made her pause. It might have been imagina-
tion, or a deceptive echo from somewhere, but she
fancied she'd heard a sound from below, as though a
foot had shuffled on stone. Holding her breath, and
thankful for the dark clothes which helped her to merge
with the shadows, she advanced a cautious pace, then
another, until she reached the foot of the stairs. Here a
narrow tunnel crossed her path, and, flattening herself
against the dank wall, she peered round, holding the
cloak hood close against her cheek.

Tarod was in the third cellar along, so Sister Erminet
had said. And there, outside that very door, were two
men. One leaned against the wall, hissing softly through
his teeth while he whittled at a small piece of wood with
the blade of a vicious-looking knife; the other sat gazing
at the tunnel roof, seemingly lost in his private thoughts.
But their apparent lack of attention was belied by the
long-bladed, powerful sword that each bore at his hip.
They had been set to guard the cell, and Cyllan knew
that she had no hope of avoiding them should she try to
reach Tarod.

Slowly and quietly she withdrew back into the dark-
ness, her mouth dry with fear and anger. She was too
late - the hunt was up for her, and she should have
known that Keridil's first action would be to set a guard
on Tarod's cell. They must by now have discovered that
the Chaos stone was missing, and that would be enough
to redouble their efforts to find her. Silently she cursed
herself- by losing her way she had wasted precious time,
and the High Initiate had thwarted her. Despair tied her
stomach in knots of fury and frustration - she had to get
word to Tarod somehow, let him know that she was free,
for until he could be certain, he'd do nothing that might
jeopardise her. But the chance was lost. She couldn't

even reach one of the storerooms and hide there in the
hope that the guard might change and Tarod be left
unattended for a few minutes; the instant she stepped
out from the stairs she'd be seen and apprehended. And
she couldn't remain here, indecisive - she was too
exposed; all it would take was one man to start down the
stairs from above and she'd be trapped. And after what
had happened to Drachea, they'd probably run her
through without a second thought . . .

Wraithlike, she turned and crept away up the stairs,
back in the direction from which she'd come. Her mind
was gnawing frantically at her predicament, but she
could see no possible answer. Yet she had to find a way-
she had to ...

A small shape moved across her path and she started
violently, biting her tongue and almost losing her foot-
ing on the steep flight. The shape, too, paused, then
raised its head and uttered a soft, querying cry. Cyllan's
thundering pulse slowed as she recognised it for one of
the telepathic cats that inhabited the Castle. She had
already encountered two on her way here, felt their
tentative probing into her mind. Their telepathy was a
little like that of the aquatic fanaani, though of a lower
order, and as she was about to move on past the creature
Cyllan felt the delicate strands of its thoughts penetrat-
ing and mingling with her own. She hesitated - and
suddenly, in her inner vision, she saw a blurred image of
Sister Erminet's face. The cat mewed, urgency in its
tone . . .

'What is it, little one?' Cyllan whispered, afraid that
the echoes of her voice might carry to the tunnel below.
'What are you trying to tell me?'

She had bent down, and the cat reared on its hind legs,
crying again. Cyllan's heart started to pound and she
crouched, trying to steady her thoughts and open her
mind to the creature's attempts to communicate.

'Tell me, little one, 'she said softly.'I'm listening . . .'

The Imp, Sister Erminet's adopted pet, knew that it
had found the one it was seeking. It had left the old
woman's room by its usual route, through the window

and along a dizzying maze of incredibly narrow ledges to
the ground, then, following instructions which it only
barely comprehended, had headed for the cellars.

It was only the fact that the cat liked the Castle's
underground rooms with their plethora of unexplored
crannies and fascinating scents that had persuaded it to
carry out the mission with which it had been entrusted -
that, and the unmistakable urgency in its human friend's
attempts to communicate. It had been curled asleep on
her bed when she returned, and had resented being
disturbed. But a combination of determination and
blandishment had won through, and the cat's curiosity
was aroused. The old woman wanted it to find someone,
and the creature's mind formed a picture of another
human, coloured grey and pale yellow, and of amber-
hued eyes that were just a little like its own. And the
cellars ... it liked the cellars. And so when finally the
old woman had refused to feed it, and refused to speak
to it any more, it had reluctantly padded across the
room, sprung up to the window-ledge, and slipped away
into the night.

Now, it had found the object of its search, and
immediately it sensed a mind with which it could com-
municate far more easily than it had ever done with
Sister Erminet. And that mind needed help of a kind
which, the cat understood smugly, it alone could give. A
hand reached out towards it, stroking its hard little head,
and the human began to project an image of someone
the cat knew . . .

Cyllan didn't comprehend the cat's connection with
Sister Erminet, but she understood enough of its nature
to grasp at this slender hope as a drowning man might
clutch a driftwood spar. She couldn't reach Tarod - but
the animal could. No one would think to stop a cat if it
passed by on some secret exploration. And if she could
make it understand the message she wanted it to convey,
and persuade it to find its way to Tarod, there was a
chance - more than a chance, she prayed fervently - that
Tarod would pick up enough of that message from the
creature's strange, capricious mind to realise what was afoot.

She dropped to her knees and gazed into the cat's
eyes, opening her thoughts to its mental scrutiny. It was
curious; that was a good beginning. She projected an
image of Tarod's face and saw its whiskers twitch with
interest, then tried, though whether the cat could under-
stand such human concepts she didn't know, to ingrain
in it the idea that she was free.

'Tell him . . . ' She mouthed the words silently to
reinforce her urgent thoughts. Tell him, little one. I am
free. I am free!'

The Imp closed and opened its brilliant eyes in a long,
slow blink. If the gesture meant anything, Cyllan
couldn't interpret it. Then it uttered its peculiar little cry
again, tail flicking - and before Cyllan could stop it or
speak to it again it had turned and loped away, melting
into the darkness, and was gone.

She sat back against the wall, not knowing what to
think. She couldn't judge whether the cat had under-
stood the message she had tried to instil into its mind;
and if it had, whether it would choose to convey it or,
with the perversity of its kind, would be distracted by
some new interest and forget its mission. But she silently
thanked Sister Erminet for her ingenuity and kindness in
sending the creature to her. It was a slender chance, but
it might succeed . . . and it was all the more imperative
that she should find a hiding place where she would be
safe until she knew whether the cat had reached Tarod
with its message. If it did, he would find her. Somehow,
he would find her . . .

The stairway was silent, the deep shadows still. Cyllan
rose to her feet and began to climb again, alert for the
smallest sound or sign of movement. If she could find a
sanctuary before dawn broke she could wait in safety, at
least for a while, and soon enough she would know. The
waiting would be torment . . . but now, at least, the
spark of hope had been rekindled.

Tarod woke from an uneasy sleep with the echo of a
dream in his mind, and for a moment his senses were

confused. Then, as his vision cleared, he remembered
where he was.

He hadn't intended to let himself sleep . . . tonight
was the night of the banquet, and Sister Erminet had
told him that it was her one opportunity to release
Cyllan. Yet there had been no word; and he surmised
that by now the night must be well advanced. There
were so many possible pitfalls in Erminet's plan that he
feared something might have gone wrong, and the fear
gave him a sharp, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Tense, he rose, flexing stiff muscles, and paced as far as
the cell's confines would allow, railing against the lack of
a window that prevented him from seeing the sky and
judging the hour.

An empty cup stood on the floor - Erminet had main-
tained the charade of bringing him the regular dose of
the drug ordered by Grevard, to avoid arousing suspi-
cion - and in the gloom he kicked it over, so that it rolled
noisily across the bare stone. As it came to rest, a hiss
sounded from the shadows where the cup lay, and Tarod
swung round, his green eyes narrowing. Something
moved - and a small, silver-grey cat emerged from
behind a pile of discarded sacks. Its coat was streaked
with dust and there were cobwebs on its whiskers. It
paused, then looked up at him and mewed what sounded
like a resentful protest.

'Imp . . . ' Recognising the creature, Tarod spoke
softly, squatting down and holding out a hand. The cat
approached with caution and sniffed his fingers, then
suffered him to brush the offending cobwebs from its
face, shaking its head and sneezing. Then it sat down
and, infuriatingly, began to wash itself.

Tarod watched it speculatively. Pitted though these
ancient walls were with cracks and crevices, it was no i
mean feat for even such a small and agile animal to find
its way through from the next cellar; and he suspected
that the cat must have some ulterior motive for paying
him a visit. In the past, he had had a way with most
animals that enabled him to influence them; the most ill-
tempered horse had been malleable to his will, and the

telepathic cats - though less easy to command - were
very receptive to his thoughts. Whether he still
possessed those skills he didn't know . . . but he had
already sensed an urgent imperative lurking in the cat's
mind which, perversely, it was choosing to ignore, and
he had no time to waste in waiting.

'Imp.' This time his voice was less cajoling, and the cat
looked up quickly, pink tongue protruding slightly from
its mouth. Tarod focused his mind, relieved to find that
much of the old steel sharpness was there only waiting to
be unlocked, and held the creature's gaze. Its slit pupils
dilated to black orbs and he searched its alien con-
sciousness, seeking the motivation which had brought it
to him.

An image: distorted but recognisable . . . an old,
wizened face that abruptly shifted and became younger,
startlingly familiar. A pale nimbus that was the cat's
concept of human hair; eyes with an amber-gold light
to them . , . and a sensation; not a word, not even an
idea, but a fundamental, primal emotion. Freedom.
Freedom . . .

The cat was trying to tell him that Cyllan had escaped.

Tarod felt his pulse rate quickening until he could
hear the rhythm of his own blood in his ears. If he had
interpreted the creature's consciousness rightly, and if
the message it brought was true, then why had Erminet
sent the cat to tell him? His cell was unguarded, or so he
believed - the old Sister had said that Cyllan would have
the key and would come to him.

He straightened, uneasy. Something was wrong.
Even if Erminet had secured Cyllan's release - and he
didn't entirely trust the confused images in the cat's
mind - something was preventing her from reaching
him, and until he could be sure she was safe, he dared
make no move. Moreover, without the soul-stone he
was still vulnerable. Freed from the influence of the
narcotic, he had regained his full wits and much of his
former strength, but he didn't know how far his powers
would extend. Certainly he was by no means the sor-
cerer he had once been . . .

He looked at the cat again. It hadn't resumed its
interrupted wash, but was still staring at him, doubtless
picking up the surge of emotion that was running
through him. As their gazes met it yowled, loudly, and
he crouched down again.

'Quiet, little Imp.' His hand reached out and caressed
its head as he mentally calmed it. 'I understand you. But
it isn't enough. I dare not - ' And he stopped, as a key
grated in the lock of the cellar door.

The Imp hissed, and darted into a corner out of sight.
Tarod turned, still half crouching, taken by surprise as
hope and suspicion vied for precedence - then the door
swung open and he was staring into the face of a burly
man with an Initiate's badge at his shoulder.

'Aeoris!' The word broke out between the Initiate's
clenched teeth. 'Brahen, here! This devil's supposed to
be unconscious, but - '

He got no further. Tarod had no time to make a
conscious decision, and instinct, coupled with a sudden,
violent resurgence of the anger he had spent so many
days trying to quell, took over. In one swift, fluid move-
ment he was on his feet and his left hand came up in a
gesture as familiar to him as breathing, summoning and
focusing a power that swept from the depths of his
consciousness like a striking Warp. Light glared crimson
in the cell, throwing walls and roof and piled debris into
stark and shocking relief, and as the bolt struck him the
Initiate shrieked, his body a mad silhouette of flailing
limbs in the bloody instant of the lightning flash. Dark-
ness crashed down as the glare vanished, and Tarod had
time to glimpse a huddled, motionless shape on the floor
before a flare of poorer, natural light danced in the
doorway as the second guard snatched up a torch and
ran in from the passage.

By the flickering light of the brand he held, the surviv-
ing guard saw a sight which made his stomach churn in
fear. His companion lay broken like a discarded doll by
the cellar wall; while Tarod - who should by rights have
been lying senseless on his pallet - stood like a dark
angel of death, his eyes glittering and murder in his look.

Stunned, and incapable of thinking clearly or wisely,
the guard brought his sword rattling out of its sheath.
Tarod tensed like a hunting cat - he was unarmed, and
the bolt of energy he'd conjured had sapped him; there
was no time to rally himself for a second. Instead, he
sprang.

The Initiate hadn't expected such an attack, and he
brought his sword up clumsily, hampered by the blazing
torch in his other hand. So fast that he had no time to
react, Tarod's right hand shot out and snatched the torch
from him; then with a savage swing of his arm he slashed
the burning brand across the man's face. The guard
howled in agony and spun around, dropping his sword
and clapping both hands to his eyes. Tarod knew the
blow had been enough to disable him, but the fury had
taken hold and was unstoppable. He snatched up the
sword - it was a heavy weapon, deadly in strong hands -
and as the guard staggered yelling in a crazy zig-zag
across the floor, Tarod swung the sword as a woodsman
might swing an axe. A jarring shock ran through his
arms and shoulders as the blade bit flesh and bone, and
the Initiate's body crashed, decapitated, to the floor.

Tarod's breathing was harsh against a silence broken
only by an unpleasant liquid sound as the corpse's blood
drained away on to the flagstones. He let the sword drop
with a clashing echo and backed towards the door,
unmoved by the sight of the two dead men. At his feet
the torch blazed sporadically; he stamped the flame out
and darkness returned to cloak him.

He had broken his promise to Erminet. The thought
occurred to him in a detached way, and he regretted it.
Not the deaths of the two Initiates - he had no illusions
about their willingness to kill him, if he hadn't struck
first. But he had given his word that he would harm no
one, and he didn't like the necessity of going against it.

Yet the thing was done . . . he'd gain no advantage
by feeling remorse now. Quietly he moved out into the
passage, closing the cellar door behind him. This place
was too deep in the Castle's bowels for the guard's
shouts to have been heard, and for the moment it

seemed unlikely that he would encounter anyone else.
Well and good; it gave him the time he needed. The fact
that Keridil had set men to guard him where before
there had been none proved that something had gone
awry with Erminet's scheme, and he guessed that
Cyllan's absence had been discovered and the alarm
raised. Were the Circle still searching for her, or had she
been recaptured? She was unfamiliar with the Castle's
maze of rooms and corridors, and Tarod knew that she
couldn't hope to evade a full-scale search for long. He
had to find her - and, with or without the stone, he had
to get her out of the Castle.

Erminet, he thought, was his best hope. If the hunt
was up for her, Cyllan would be too frightened and too
preoccupied for him to reach her mind and guide her.
But Erminet might know her whereabouts.

Tarod knew every stick and stone of the Castle, and
could make his way through it without encountering one
of Keridil's search parties. He also, for the time being,
had the advantage that as yet the Circle was unaware of
his escape. If he could reach Erminet before the two
dead guards were discovered, the odds in his favour
would increase . . .

He started to move noiselessly away along the pas-
sage, then hesitated and, on an impulse, turned back
and re-entered the cellar. The smell of blood made his
nostrils flare as he stepped through the door; he avoided
the headless corpse and moved to stand over the Initiate
he had blasted. The man was dead enough, but the body
relatively undamaged, and Tarod bent down to unfasten
the hide cloak the guard had worn as a protection against
the damp cold of the cellars. Beneath it, an Initiate's
badge gleamed gold; he unpinned it and fastened it to his
own shoulder, smiling faintly as he realised how long it
had been since he wore a similar emblem. Then he cast
the cloak around himself-it was hardly a disguise, but it
made his black shirt and trousers a little less distinctive -
and left the cell to its silence and the stench of death.

Chapter 16

Tarod emerged from the maze of passages below the
Castle by a route known only to the more adventurous of
those who had grown up within its confines. The court-
yard was dark, but the Moons had set and in the East the
stars were beginning to fade, telling him that dawn was
little more than an hour away. For a moment he stayed
hidden among the leaves of the overhanging vine which
grew rampant over the ancient black walls, savouring
the sweetness of clean air after his confinement. Then he
cautiously moved out of the vine's shelter - and hastily
stepped back again as a nearby door opened and three
armed men came out. They passed by only three paces
from where he stood motionless, but though he hoped to
overhear something that would give him a clue to how
Cyllan fared, they didn't speak. As soon as they were
gone, Tarod moved away, keeping to the deep shadows.
He didn't know where Erminet's room was located, or
even if she would be there, but guessed that she would
have been assigned one of the guest suites normally
reserved for more senior Sisters in the East wing.

As he crossed the now empty courtyard towards a
small door that led to another of the minor and little-
used passages, he realised that there was indeed
unprecedented activity in the Castle. Although lights
blazed from the main hall there were no sounds of a
celebration in progress, and the sporadic flicker of
torches from various windows on the building's different
levels suggested that many people were moving about.
He smiled, faintly amused by the thought that Cyllan
had caused such a furore and ruined Keridil's celebration,
then, gaining the door, slipped inside and headed for a

flight of spiral stairs that would take him to the guest
wing.

It seemed that the search wasn't concentrated in this
section of the Castle; logical enough, as Keridil would
have no wish to alarm his guests unnecessarily, and
Tarod reached the corridor he wanted without encoun-
tering anyone. The Sisters' rooms were at the far end,
and the only way to reach them was to walk the length of
the lit passage in full view of any casual observer who
might emerge from one of the other suites. Tarod cast
the hide cloak back enough to expose the purloined
Initiate's badge, then, trying not to think of what he
might be forced to do if challenged, stepped out into the
corridor.

He was halfway along when a tell-tale gleam of light
from a side passage ahead made him stop in his tracks.
There was no chance to turn, nowhere to hide himself-
and a moment later a girl of some sixteen years or so
hurried out of the passage and, seeing him, squealed and
almost dropped the lantern she was carrying.

'Oh!' Her eyes widened as she stared up at him, then
her surprise matured into alarm as she recognised the
Initiate's badge. She tried to bow after the fashion of the
Sisters, but it was a clumsy and inexperienced attempt.

'Oh, sir -I beg your pardon! I was returning to Sister
Erminet; I wasn't neglecting my post, sir, but the Sister
very much wanted another light, and there was no one
else to send because they're all so busy searching . . . '
Her garbled apology tailed off under Tarod's steady
scrutiny and she blushed scarlet, stammering out, 'I'm
sorry, sir . . . '

Tarod had seen the gauzy white veil that covered the
girl's hair, and realised that she was a Novice in the
Sisterhood. He had never set eyes on her before . . .
and she hadn't recognised him. Aware that he might
turn this to his advantage, he nodded curtly. 'No one
would chastise you, Sister-Novice, for obeying the
orders of your senior . . . you are, I presume, under
Sister Erminet's tutelage at West High Land?'

'Well ... I was to have been, sir. But of course, I

doubt if I will be now, after what's happened. I came
with the party conveying the Lady's congratulations to
the High Initiate.' Gaining confidence, she smiled at him
shyly. 'I've only been a Novice for two months, sir, and
I'm very grateful for such a privilege.'

After what had happened . . . Unwittingly, the girl
had given away the truth, at least in outline. Tarod said,
'I'm glad you're sensible of it, Sister-Novice. But I hope
you're also aware of your duty. You seem very young
and inexperienced for such a responsible task.'

The girl reddened again. 'There was no one else, sir.
What with the search for the prisoner who escaped . . .
but I understand what I must do.' She looked up at him,
hoping for approbation. 'I've not let anyone see the
Sister without authority, as I was told.'

'Indeed. And what else were you told?'

Fortunately for him, the child was naive enough to
think that she was being tested. As though repeating a
catechism, she said, 'Not to engage in conversation with
the Sister, sir, on any matter other than her immediate
needs. I. . .' She hesitated. 'I was told she has betrayed
the Sisterhood and the Circle, sir. And that she is to be
questioned and possibly . . . tried.'

Gods; so they'd discovered what Erminet had done
. . . Alarmed, but keeping his face expressionless,
Tarod said. 'That's knowledge you should keep to your-
self, Sister-Novice. I want to hear of no gossiping among
the other girls, do you understand me?'

'Yes, sir.' The girl licked her lips nervously. 'Should I
return to my post now?'

The child was easy enough to dupe; he could think of a
way to get rid of her once he was face to face with
Erminet. Aloud, Tarod said, 'You should; but I want to
see for myself that the Sister is still where she should be.
If all's well, count yourself lucky - and don't desert your
duties again, whatever the reason!'

'No, sir. I'm sorry, sir . . . ' In an agony of shame and
terror, the girl made another inept bow and hastened
away along the passage, the lantern shaking in her hand.
She stopped at the furthest door, fumbled inexpertly

with a key, and at last persuaded it to turn in the lock. A
soft glow spilled out, and Tarod gestured curtly for the
Novice to remain where she was while he entered the
room.

Erminet lay on her bed, asleep. Glancing over his
shoulder to make sure that the girl hadn't misun-
derstood his order and followed him, Tarod crossed the
room and bent over her, lifting her hand.

'Sister Erminet . . . '

There was no response, and the hand hung limp in his
grasp. Intuition told Tarod the truth before he looked at
her face. She was smiling, a small, secretive smile, and in
a peculiar way she looked younger, the lines on her
cheeks smoothed and her skin waxy. And on the table
beside her bed stood several phials from her collection
of potions, a wine flask, and an empty cup.

Tarod spun round, all caution forgotten, and his
voiced barked out, 'Sister-Novice!'

The girl ran in, alarmed by his tone. 'S-Sir . . . ?'

Tarod pointed to the small vanity table in one corner.
'Fetch that mirror! Quickly!'

She almost dropped it in her haste, and as she stum-
blingly approached Tarod snatched the glass from her
hand and held it in front of Sister Erminet's face. The
mirror's surface remained clear while he counted his
own heartbeats; seven, eight, nine ... He flung the
mirror aside, hearing it smash on the floor, and the girl's
squeak of fright fired him with contempt and loathing.
He turned on her and, in a voice low and savage with
grief, said, 'Do you know what you've done?'

The girl was shaking like a leaf, one hand to her
mouth. 'She isn't . . . she can't be, sir, I - I was only
gone for a few minutes!'

'And a few minutes was enough! She's - she was a
herbalist, a skilled herbalist! And you deserted her for
long enough for her to take her own life!' He advanced
towards her, hardly knowing what he was doing, and as
he approached the girl gave a cry of distress, picked up
her skirts and ran, darting out of the room like a
frightened animal. Tarod stopped, listening to her

running footsteps, his fists clenched at his sides so that
the nails dug in to his palms. Then, shaking, he turned
back to the bed.

'Erminet . . . ' He sat on the coverlet and took both
her hands, as though his voice and his touch could bring
her back to life. But her eyes remained closed, and the
fixed little smile was frozen on her face.

She must have known what she was doing . . . and
she must have chosen a drug that would act too quickly
for anyone to save her. He took a shred of comfort from
the thought that she must have felt no pain, but had died
peacefully and by her own will. But that didn't change
the cruel fact that she had died because of him.

Tears stung his eyes, and he squeezed the old
woman's bloodless fingers until his grip all but crushed
them. Erminet had been a true friend, putting aside duty
for a more personal loyalty. And this was her reward
. . . Her deception discovered, she had known what her
fate would be if she was convicted of abetting him, and
had chosen to do the Circle's work for them, to give
herself the dignity of dying, if die she must, in her own
way and in her own time. And her death, the cruel
needlessness of it, fuelled Tarod's hatred of Keridil and
the Circle, and their warped idea of justice. If he could
avenge her - but she wouldn't want that. She had made
him promise to harm no living soul in the Castle, and he
had already broken that pledge by killing two men.
There must be no more. He owed her that, at very
least.

Tarod realised that some time had elapsed since the
Novice had fled from the room, and knew that he must
go, if he was to avoid being found when the girl returned
with help. The Circle would understand quickly enough
when she described the black-haired Adept she had met
in the corridor, and the hunt would be redoubled as they
sought him, too. He had little fear of recapture, but it
would be a grim irony if Cyllan were found before he
could reach her and Erminet had died in vain.

He folded the old Sister's hands across her breast,
then bent to kiss her forehead gently. His left hand still

rested on hers - he raised it, then made a small gesture
over her heart. The gesture was a blessing, but no bless-
ing that had ever been given by a servant of Aeoris.
Then he rose to his feet, and swiftly and silently left the
room.

The High Initiate received the news of Sister Erminet's
suicide with chagrin and distress - and also, reluctantly,
with the acknowledgement that her action was positive
proof of her guilt. But when he heard, from the tearful
Sister-Novice, of the mysterious Adept whom she had
encountered and who couldn't be found, the pieces of an
ugly puzzle fitted together all too well.

Of the four men despatched to check on Tarod, the
youngest was violently sick when he saw the carnage in
the cellar and the other three had difficulty controlling
their stomachs. Keridil heard their reports in the privacy
of his study, thankful that he had at last persuaded
Sashka to retire to her parents' suite until morning.
There could be no sleep for him - especially now that
Cyllan wasn't the only enemy they had to contend with -
but at least she had been spared this . . .

'I want the search intensified,' he told Taunan Cel
Ennas, who was the Circle's most experienced swords-
man, as they stepped out of the Castle's main entrance
and stood at the top of the sweeping steps in the sickly
first light of dawn. 'Double the guard on the gates, and
make sure they're not opened for any reason without my
authority.' He hunched his shoulders and stared about
him at the towering black walls, which seemed suddenly
oppressive. 'The gods know there are enough crannies
in this damned place for them to hide in. But we'll find
them, Taunan. We'll find them, if we have to take the
whole Castle apart stone by stone!'

Taunan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in an
attempt to clear his vision. Despite his tiredness he knew
Keridil was right; there could be no rest until their
quarry was run to earth. He only wished he could share
the High Initiate's certainty that they would succeed.

'It's easy to forget that we're not dealing with an

ordinary man, Keridil,' he replied wearily. 'Tarod has
the cunning of Chaos, and a good many of its powers.'

'Not without the soul-stone,' Keridil reminded him.
'And we know that's in the girl's possession.'

Taunan grimaced. 'And if they should find each other
before we find them . . . ?'

'We can't afford to let that happen. We must
apprehend one of them - and I don't care which - before
they have the chance to meet. If we fail in that, the gods
alone know what the consequences might be.' Keridil
squinted up at the lightening sky. 'I've called a meeting
of the higher Adepts in an hour, to discuss what occult
methods we can call on, but before that I -' He stopped,
his eyes narrowing.

'Keridil?'

The High Initiate took hold of Taunan's arm, and his
voice was dry with unease when he spoke. Taunan . . .
look

The older man followed his gaze. 'What is it? I
don't - '

'Look to the North. And listen.'

Taunan sucked in a sharp breath as he understood,
and stared beyond the towering bulk of the North-
ernmost spire. It seemed that another dawn was break-
ing in the far distance, challenging the true dawn in the
East; the grey arc of the sky was tinged with a pale, sickly
spectrum of colour that seemed to be shifting, moving,
like a vast, dim, slowly turning beam of light. The wind
was fresh in off the sea, but underlying its faint susurra-
tion was another sound, far off - a thin, unearthly wail as
though, hundreds of miles out beyond the coast, a hur-
ricane was raging and speeding in towards them.

The bands of colour in the sky were intensifying
slowly but surely, and even as the two men watched a
vivid slash of orange flickered across the heavens like a
scar, followed by another, smaller streak of harsh blue.

'It's going to be a bad one . . . ' Keridil said quietly.

Taunan nodded, his throat dry. Even protected as
they were by the Maze which held the Castle in a frac-
tionally different dimension from the rest of the world, a

Warp was a terrifying experience; and Keridil was right;
the flickering colours in the sky presaged an abnormally
powerful storm. Taunan forced down the mind-numb-
ing terror of these weird and deadly phenomena which
he shared with every living man, woman and child, and
tried to smile.

'I'd defy even Tarod to try to flee the Castle during a
Warp.'

Keridil glanced at him in surprise, then his face
relaxed and he, too, smiled. 'You're right . . . and
perhaps it's the first time in history that the Warps have
been to our advantage!' He looked up again, and shiv-
ered. 'Come on. Let's go back inside. Advantageous it
might be, but that doesn't mean I want to watch it
coming.'

From her hiding place in a storeroom that adjoined the
Castle's stables Cyllan saw the first threatening changes
in the dawn sky, and felt the faint vibration beneath her
feet that presaged the onset of the storm. The thick
stone walls blotted out the sounds of the approaching
Warp, but couldn't protect her from the primordial fear
that turned her stomach to water as, through a narrow
window, she watched the bands of colour growing
stronger, marching out of the North. Sick with fright,
she crawled into a dark corner and pulled the cloak hood
over her head, but she couldn't escape; though sight of
the coming horror was blotted out, the vibration
increased until it seemed to permeate her bones and
beyond them to her soul.

She wished she had chosen another hiding place.
She'd tried to reach the North spire, thinking that per-
haps Tarod, if he too was free, would look for her there,
but in trying she had almost run across one of the search
parties and only a chance piece of good luck and quick
thinking had saved her. She'd fled to the stable wing as
the nearest sanctuary, and since then hadn't dared to
emerge.

Now, even without the Warp to imprison her here, the
coming of dawn had made it too dangerous for her to

move. If anything the search seemed to have intensified,
and though she hoped it might be a sign that Tarod had
escaped, it did nothing to help her immediate predica-
ment. He'd never think of searching here for her, and
when a few minutes ago she had tried to focus her mind
and reach him subconsciously, her own thoughts were
too confused by fear of the Warp to allow her to
concentrate.

A door at one end of the storeroom led directly to the
stables themselves, and beyond it she could hear a res-
tive stamping and snorting as the Castle's horses sensed
the approaching horror. Cyllan left her corner and crept
towards the door, reasoning that, now of all times, no
one in their right mind would have need of a horse, and
the company even of animals would be better than the
terrors of solitude when the storm struck. She tried not
to glance at the window as she went, but couldn't help
seeing the strange play of sickly light over her hands and
clothes. Swallowing the bile which rose in her throat and
threatened to choke her, she pushed the door open a
crack and peered through.

Tall, dim shapes moved in the gloom beyond; brown
and grey and warm chestnut; one black with a wild,
white eye. The nearest horse, a big bay, saw her and
stamped back in its stall, ears flattened; she slipped
through the door and approached it, speaking softly to
pacify it. These Southern-stock beasts were more kindly
tempered than the shaggy little Northern ponies she had
ridden as a drover, and the bay quietened quickly under
her hands, nudging at her as though grateful for human
company. Cyllan passed down the line, talking to each
animal in turn and glad of the chance to divert her mind
from what was happening outside. At last the horses
began to settle a little, and she reached the end of the
line. Here straw bales for fresh bedding had been piled
in a corner, and she sank down on them, pulling the
cloak tightly around her body. She could do nothing but
wait until the Warp had passed . . . shivering, she
hunched deeper in to the straw and tried not to think
about the storm.

The spectral bands of blue and orange and green that
advanced across the sky were rapidly changing to dark,
evil-looking shades of purple and livid brown when a
man burst from the watchtower by the Castle gates and
pelted head down across the courtyard. He took the
wide steps three at a time, burst through the main doors
just as a surprised servant was about to set the bars in
place, and skidded to a halt, gasping for breath.

'Where's the High Initiate?'

The servant, nonplussed, gestured towards the
dining-hall, and the man raced away.

Keridil was eating a hasty breakfast which his stew-
ard, Gyneth, had persuaded him to take, when the
gateman came running in.

'Sir!' the man croaked, his lungs heaving, 'Riders! A
party, coming across the causeway - '

'What?' Keridil got to his feet, pushing his plate away.
'Now, of all times? Damn it, the Warp's about to strike!
Who are they?'

The gateman shook his head. 'Don't know, sir. But
there's a herald with them, and a retinue - '

Keridil swore. He had enough to worry him without
strangers needing sanctuary from the Warp at this last
moment, but he could hardly leave them outside to face
the coming horror. He turned on his heel and shouted at
a servant who was putting up the hall's shutters.

'Leave that! Find Fin Tivan Bruall and tell him to get
to the stables to take in new horses!' And to the gate-
man: 'Can you get them through in time, do you think?'

The man peered out at the dangerous sky. 'Just about,
sir, if they don't fall foul of the Maze.'

'Pray they've been here before, then - and hurry!' The
man left at a run, and Keridil followed, swallowing back
his terror of stepping through the doors and seeing the
Warp in its full spate. As he approached the entrance he
could hear the high, screaming note that accompanied
the storm, like damned souls howling in agony, and he
shuddered before, taking a deep breath, he forced him-
self to walk out on to the steps.

The Castle gates were already opening, swinging

ponderously back with what seemed to Keridil agonising
slowness. Overhead the sky raged and its insane colours
tainted the walls and the flagstones, staining Keridil's
skin so that he and the men who had followed him out
looked like ghastly apparitions. The Warp would hit
them within two or three minutes, and though in the
Castle they were safe enough from its power, no reason-
ing on earth could stand against the sheer animal terror
of being beneath one of the supernatural storms as it
came shrieking overhead.

Now the gates were fully open, and he could see the
approaching party. They had crossed the causeway from
the mainland, but were having difficulty controlling
their horses, which reared and plunged as the riders
attempted to guide them across the darker patch of
sward that marked the Maze. But at last the leading
horse was through, and the others followed, kicked into
a desperate gallop that brought them clattering and
thundering under the great arch and into the courtyard.

Seven men - and three women. Keridil's heart sank as
he recognised the tall, slightly stooped figure dismount-
ing from the sweating iron-grey gelding while two Initi-
ates ran to help him. Gant Ambaril Rannak, Margrave
of Shu Province . . . Drachea's father.

He started down the steps, the Warp momentarily
forgotten in the face of this unexpected and unwelcome
arrival. But before he was halfway down, a commotion
from the stables made him turn. Someone shouting, his
bellow audible above the mindless yell of the storm -
and a woman's high-pitched scream of protest.

'High Initiate!' The stentorian voice of Fin Tivan
Bruall, the head horsemaster, was filled with triumph as
he and one of his stable boys dragged a struggling,
hooded figure towards the steps. 'We've got the murder-
ing little bitch! We've got her!'

A howl from the sky, as though the Warp answered
Fin's news with a furious protest of its own, drowned out
all other sound, and Keridil swung his arm in an urgent
gesture towards the main doors. 'Get those people
inside! It's about to strike!'

The Margravine and her two maids were screaming in
terror, their male companions faring little better. They
stumbled up the steps, while several more Initiates
braved their fears to take charge of the panicking horses
as Fin and his boy dragged their captive towards Keridil.
The High Initiate glimpsed Cyllan's bloodstained
clothes and her stark white face, grotesquely distorted
by the whirling spectrum reflecting from the sky, saw her
mouth twist in a shrieking snarl though he couldn't hear
the curse she spat at him. Then an instant later the sky
turned blue-black, like a monstrous bruise, and red
lightning spat across the heavens as the wail of the storm
swelled to a howling crescendo.

'Get to shelter!' Keridil's cry was lost in the cacophony
as a ferocious wind shrieked out of the North and the
Warp came thundering overhead. Fin kept his wits suffi-
ciently to hang on to Cyllan, hauling her bodily up the
steps and cuffing her with a powerful fist when she
started to struggle again. Keridil turned, started ahead
of them - and stopped dead.

The voice of the Warp dinned in his ears, the insane
sky blotting out the rising Sun and plunging the court-
yard into chaotic darkness. But enough light flickered
from the violent streaks of colour exploding across the
face of the storm for him to see the tall, gaunt figure that
barred his way to the doors. A tangle of wild black hair
streamed in the gale, and the face, illuminated by a
violent explosion of green and crimson overhead, was
demonic. An appalling memory of Yandros, Lord of
Chaos, smashed into Keridil's brain - this apparition
was the Chaos lord's dark twin, and a hideous premoni-
tion of his own nemesis stunned him into immobility.

But if he was paralysed, Cyllan wasn't. She redoubled
her efforts to escape Fin's grip, and her voice sounded
shrilly above the Warp as she screamed, 'Tarod!'

Her cry broke the thrall that held Keridil. He sprang
back, darting down the steps to where Cyllan struggled,
and snatched his sword out of its scabbard. Tarod came
after him - then froze as Keridil stopped a pace from
Cyllan, whose arms were now pinned by the horsemaster,

and touched the point of his blade to her heart. The High
Initiate's face was wild with fear of the storm and the
fury aroused by this confrontation; Tarod knew that if
he made a single untoward move, Keridil would run
Cyllan through.

The other Initiates in the courtyard had by now
realised what was afoot and, leaving one of their number
to manage the Margrave's frightened horses as best as he
could, came running to Keridil's aid. They were all
armed, and Cyllan feared that without the stone Tarod
couldn't hope to defeat them. She had to reach him -
had to, whatever the risk -

Keridil was taken completely by surprise when, with a
violence born of desperation, Cyllan brought one foot
up and out in a savage kick that took him full in the
stomach. He went down, losing his grip on the sword,
and Cyllan twisted around to bite Fin Tivan Bruall's
hand with all her strength. The horsemaster yelled and
she kicked out again, backwards this time, breaking
away from him. Her momentum sent her staggering
down the steps; she turned with the agility of a cat as
Tarod started towards her -

Three Initiates blocked her path, while two more ran
at her from behind. Cyllan snarled like an animal, saw
Tarod grappling with the first of her three assailants, and
realised that the trap was closing around her. Over the
shriek of the Warp she heard his voice.

'Cyllan, go! Run - get away from them!'

The High Initiate was on his feet, advancing - Cyllan
turned and ran, hampered by her skirt and almost falling
as she reached the foot of the steps. And suddenly she
was in the midst of a group of milling, panicking horses,
half of them running free while one young Initiate strug-
gled to keep the others under control. A tall grey shape
loomed across her path; she cannoned into the Mar-
grave's gelding and reflexively clutched at a stirrup to
stop herself from falling.

'Stop her!' She heard Keridil's yell behind her, and
the gelding whinnied piercingly. Cyllan didn't pause to
think - she reached up, gripped a handful of the animal's

mane, and sprang. She landed half over the gelding's
neck and frantically jack-knifed herself into the high-
pommelled saddle, hanging on grimly as the beast
reared in frightened protest.

'Tarod!' Her cry was lost in the cacophony overhead.
Tarod!'

He saw her, but couldn't reach her; two men were
attacking him and in the chaos he could barely defend
himself, let alone spare time for any other consider-
ation. His mind roiled - power was surging in him,
fuelled by the insanity of the Warp, but it was wild,
uncontrollable, he couldn't grasp it. He evaded a wildly
swinging blade and his left hand locked on his assailant's
wrist, twisting, crushing - he felt a bone snap, but the
second Initiate was coming at him again

'Tarod!' Cyllan's cry this time was a shriek of alarm as
Keridil, who had regained his own blade, ran at her with
Fin and another man at his heels. The gelding reared
again, almost unseating her, and snatching at the reins
she pulled the animal into a side-stepping buck as the
High Initiate lunged towards her. The blade missed her
thigh by a hairsbreadth and instead sliced a shallow but
ferocious gash along her mount's flank.

The gelding screamed. It arched its body, lashing out,
then, panic stricken, it bolted. Sparks scattered from its
hooves as it careered across the courtyard, instinct driv-
ing it to escape the Castle which it saw as the source of its
terror. Cyllan crouched precariously in the saddle, haul-
ing on the reins but to no avail - the horse was heading
for the main gates, and the gatekeeper had deserted his
post to help his fellows. The gates still stood part open,
and the gelding galloped under the yawning arch, bolt-
ing straight for the sward and freedom.

Cyllan saw what lay ahead of her, saw the whirling
chaos of black light and impossible colours that tore the
world apart beyond the Maze. She glimpsed the tortured
crags of the mountains twisting in on themselves,
moulded by the Warp to hideous illusions, and in terror
she flailed at the gelding, struggling to stop its headlong
flight before it was too late.

The horse raced across the Maze - and the scream that
tore from its throat as it emerged on the far side was
shredded by a howling roar as the full force of the Warp
hurtled at them like a monstrous tidal wave. Cyllan felt
as though her body were being torn apart - darkness
shot with livid silver fire erupted in her face, and agony
smashed through every nerve before the world exploded
in oblivion.

Keridil staggered to his feet, dazed by the force with
which he'd hit the ground when he flung himself clear of
the gelding's flailing hooves. As Fin Tivan Bruall ran to
help him, he stared towards the gates and the maelstrom
beyond, and his face was grey with shock.

'Aeoris. . .' He made a sign over his heart. 'Fin, she-
she-'

Fin didn't answer him. He was looking over his shoul-
der to the steps, and what he saw alarmed him. Tarod
stood motionless near the top of the flight, and it was
obvious from his rigid attitude that he, too, had seen
Cyllan's appalling fate. One of his attackers lay at his
feet, hunched and moving feebly. The other was backing
slowly away down the steps, his sword half raised as
though to protect himself from something no other man
could see, and he was terrified.

Fin gripped Keridil's shoulder. 'High Initiate . . . '

Keridil turned, buffeted by the screaming wind, and
his face tightened. Then he started to run, stumbling
towards the frozen tableau on the steps. Taking their cue
from him, the remaining swordsmen gathered their
courage and closed in ... then Tarod turned his head.

If he had ever been human, Keridil thought, his look
now gave the lie to it. Tarod's face was demented, and
his green eyes burned with an unholy light. His lips
moved and he mouthed a word, though in the racket of
the storm Keridil couldn't tell what that word was. Then
he raised his left hand - and the High Initiate felt terror
strike to the depths of his soul.

She was gone. Tarod fought against the knowledge, but

couldn't deny it; it had happened, and he'd been unable to
prevent it. She was gone - the Warp had taken her, and
hurled her into whatever unimaginable nightmare waited
beyond its borders. She might be dead, or alive and
trapped in some monstrous limbo . . . he had been so
close to her, and again he'd lost her. And the grief that
devoured him, far greater than the grief he'd known at
Themila Gan Lin's death, or Erminet's, was the catalyst
that finally woke the power in him to its full flood. Cyllan
was gone, and all he could think of was revenge. For her
sake he wanted to kill, ravage, destroy anything and
everything in his path. And the focus of his blazing hatred
was one man - his one-time friend. His betrayer. His
enemy . . .

As he gazed like a transfixed animal into Tarod's eyes,
Keridil felt Fin Tivan Email's presence at his side. It was
small comfort.

'I tried to stop her.' He barely recognised his own
voice.

The corners of Tarod's mouth lifted in contempt, but
he stayed his hand. 'You tried to kill her.'

'No-' And the protest died as Keridil realised Tarod
wouldn't believe him. He had one chance, he thought;
just one. Distract him long enough for the other Initiates
to move in and take him unawares. It was a slender
hope, and the thought of what Tarod might do if the
gamble failed turned his stomach to water.

'We've both lost, Tarod,' he called above the gale.
'You see - she took the Chaos stone. So now your soul's
gone forever . . . ' He licked his lips nervously. 'I don't
think even you can prevail against us without that.'

Tarod's eyes narrowed to ferocious slits, and Keridil
saw that the other men had, as he'd hoped, taken advan-
tage of this brief respite to close in. One of them made a
sudden clumsy move; Tarod's head snapped round -

'Take him!' the High Initiate yelled, goaded at the
same moment by a sudden despairing premonition that
his warning was too late. 'Take him, before - '

His words cut violently off as a titanic flash of blood-
red light exploded outwards from where Tarod stood. It

coalesced into the form of a gigantic broadsword, twice
the height of a man and glowing with a ferocious fire of
its own, which Tarod held balanced in both hands as
though it weighed nothing. One of the Initiates made an
inarticulate noise and staggered back. Lit by the flaring
glow of the supernatural sword Tarod's face was a mask
of pure malevolence - then he swung on his heel and the
blade shrieked in a whistling arc that cut down the two
nearest swordsmen before they could jump clear. Blood
spattered Tarod's face and arms as the two severed
bodies pitched to the ground, and as he came face to face
with Keridil once more, the incandescent sword glowing
with a savage hunger in his hands, the High Initiate
recoiled in sick horror. He had sent two Adepts to their
deaths - the others now drew back, their gazes locked on
the monstrous blade - and by the light spilling from the
sword he saw his own nemesis in Tarod's unhuman eyes.

For a moment the howling thunder of the Warp
seemed to abate, and in the comparative lull Keridil
heard the slide of Tarod's foot on stone as he began,
slowly, to advance. The blade pulsed, shimmered,
blinding him — then without warning a blast of raw,
uncontrolled power slammed into him like an invisible
fist, knocking him backwards so that he sprawled on the
flagstones. So fast that he had no time to react, Tarod
sprang down the steps towards him - and as the daze
cleared from his mind, Keridil found himself staring at
the monstrous, glittering sword only inches from his
face.

He bit hard into the flesh of his cheeks, willing himself
not to give way to the panic that threatened to engulf
him. The philosophers said that, when death stared him
in the face, a man recalled the events of his life in a rapid
flow of dreamlike images. Keridil had no such experi-
ence - his mind froze to a blank fugue and he could only
stare helplessly at the blade and the silhouetted figure
beyond.

From the corner of his eye he saw one of the surviving
Initiates make a convulsive move in his direction, and he
flung out one arm in a warning gesture.

'Stay back!' The man hesitated, then obeyed, and
Keridil let his breath escape slowly between his teeth.
When he spoke, he was surprised to find that his voice
was steady.

'Get it over with.' The storm was rising again, but he
knew his adversary heard him well enough. 'I'm not
afraid of dying. Have done with it, Tarod.'

Tarod stared down at him. The sword in his hand
didn't waver, but the madness in his mind was giving way
to a clearer, colder reason. He could destroy Keridil.
And if the blade once touched him, the High Initiate
wouldn't merely die; for the sword was a lethal man-
ifestation of the very essence of Chaos, a focus for the
power that flowed through him. Keridil wouldn't merely
die: he would be annihilated. It would be a just ven-
geance; a fitting retribution for Cyllan's fate . . . yet
Tarod held back.

She might be living still. A Warp had brought her to
this Castle; he himself had survived the hideous
onslaught of such a storm when he was no more than a
child. And if she were alive, he could find her . . .

To destroy Keridil would gain him nothing. Too many
people had already died in this unhappy affair; to add
one more to the toll would be a bitterly futile gesture,
and a further betrayal of his oath to Sister Erminet. He
didn't want revenge. Reason argued that the High Initi-
ate wasn't wholly responsible for what had happened,
and now that the insanity which had possessed him had
passed, the desire for vengeance had gone with it. All
that mattered was finding Cyllan.

Keridil's eyes widened in surprised confusion as
Tarod raised the glowing, threatening blade until it no
longer menaced him. He stared up at his enemy, sus-
picious and uncertain, not daring to acknowledge a
spark of hope. Tarod gazed back, and the contempt in
his green eyes was suddenly mingled with pity.

'No,' he said softly. 'I won't take your life, High
Initiate. Enough blood has already been spilled here.'
He renewed his grip on the sword and its brilliant corona
flared up until Tarod stood wreathed in bloody light.

Overhead, the sky howled and spat a web of silver
lightning high above the Castle spires, and Keridil felt a
charge of energy jolt through him as the Warp renewed
its fury.

'If Cyllan lives,' Tarod said, and despite the roar of
the storm Keridil heard every word as clearly as though
it were spoken within his skull, 'I'll find her. And if I do,
I promise you that you'll hear no more of me.' He smiled
thinly. 'Once, you refused to accept my word, and you
betrayed my trust. I hope by now you've learned a lesson
from that mistake.'

Keridil started to sit up, moving slowly, watching the
blade in Tarod's hands. He didn't speak; his throat was
too dry; but his eyes were venomous. Then Tarod raised
his face to the screaming sky, as though communing with
the storm's diabolical power. The Warp answered with a
howling, shrieking crescendo, and Tarod's figure
seemed suddenly to catch fire, black brilliance shot
through with sparking silver blazing to life about him.
The sky erupted in a rolling bawl of thunder, and an
explosion of white light blasted the courtyard, making
Keridil yell out in pain and terror as the colossal flash
seared his eyes. He fell back, flinging an arm up to
protect his face, struck the flagstones, sprawled -

There was silence. Dazed, Keridil lowered his arm,
blinking at the dancing after-images which clouded his
vision. Then, as his sight cleared, he realised with a fresh
shock that the Warp was gone. The watery grey light of a
natural dawn filled the courtyard; Eastwards the sky was
streaked with the first faint rays of the morning Sun,
while somewhere beyond the stack a seabird cried with a
plaintive, mewing sound. And Tarod had vanished, as
though he'd never existed.

Painfully, the High Initiate climbed to his feet. Every
bone, every muscle, every fibre in his body ached; his
limbs shook, and when a hand took hold of his arm he
leaned gratefully against Fin Tivan Bruall's burly sup-
port. The horsemaster's face was pallid, his mouth set;
Keridil looked beyond him at the ragged circle of Initi-
ates who were approaching uncertainly.

'Keridil?' Taunan Cel Ennas was the first to speak.
His gaze flicked to the bodies of the two men Tarod had
killed, then he looked away quickly.

Keridil couldn't bring himself to look at the corpses.
He said tightly, 'Have them covered and taken inside,
Taunan.'

'What -' the other man began to say, then changed his
mind, shaking his head helplessly. The half-voiced ques-
tion, what happened?, was too obvious, yet unanswer-
able. He turned and stumbled towards the steps.

Others were emerging from within the Castle now,
and among them Keridil saw the anxious face of
Drachea's father. All this, and now he had to face
explaining the death of the Margrave's son and heir . . .
He shook his head savagely to clear it, but a cold, angry
bitterness remained. Behind him he heard a clatter of
hoofs as the milling horses were recaptured and led away
towards the stables, and - aside from the two dead men
on the ground - the sheer normality of the scene made
him feel sick. He should have ignored the demands of
protocol and tradition; he should have shrugged off the
opinions of those who insisted that he make a ceremony
out of Tarod's death, and simply killed him without fuss
or formality when he had the chance. Now, he had other
deaths on his conscience. Drachea Rannak, Sister
Erminet, the two guards in the cellar, two more here in
the courtyard ... He remembered the pledge Tarod
had made before vanishing, and cold, cynical disgust
filled him. He'd no more trust the word of that creature
of Chaos than he'd trust a poisonous snake. While Tarod
lived, the Circle and all it stood for were imperilled: he
had to be destroyed. But how many more lives would be
lost before this affair was finally over?

And Keridil's blood ran cold at the thought that fol-
lowed: if it ever would be over. If the Circle could prevail
against Chaos . . .

He had been moving towards the main doors, but
abruptly he stopped. He felt steadier now, and his mind
was as clear as a knife blade. Tarod had bested him - but
Keridil's heart and soul craved retribution. And for the

sake of the Circle, of the whole world, he'd take it or die
in the attempt.

He looked up at the sky, which was brightening by the
moment, and let the full flood of his bitterness and anger
wash over him. He fingered the gold badge at his shoul-
der, the double circle with its diagonal lightning flash;
and spoke so softly that the attendant Fin couldn't catch
his words.

'I'll destroy you, Tarod,' Keridil whispered with sav-
age intensity. 'By Aeoris and his six brethren, I swear I'll
find you, and I'll destroy you. Wherever you are, how-
ever long it might take, I won't rest until I've erased your
taint from the face of our world!'

As though in answer to the High Initiate's oath, the
first vivid ray of the Sun touched the top of the Castle
wall, casting a pool of light down to the courtyard.
Keridil felt a peculiar sense of peace steal over him - the
peace of knowing that he had spoken from his heart, and
set himself on a right and just course which, come what
may, he would see through to the end. He had the
resources of an entire world at his hand; the power of the
Circle and of the ancient gods it worshipped. Against
such strengths, Chaos couldn't hope to triumph - and it
was Keridil's sworn duty to see it crushed and destroyed.

They were watching him still, the silent little group in
the doorway. Keridil hunched his shoulders, realising
that he was cold. Then he began to walk purposefully up
the wide, sweeping steps to meet them.