The Master
Book 3 of the Time Master Trilogy
by Louise Cooper
Version 1.0


Chapter 1

At this early season, the dense forests which covered
most of the western half of Chaun Province provided
scant shelter for any traveller. In places the Spring buds
had burst in isolated explosions of green, and on the
forest floor bracken and brambles were tentatively
showing new shoots; but, apart from the occasional
glowering bulk of a giant pine, most of the woodlands
trees were as yet leafless.

In a clearing not far from the forest's northerly edge, a
tall iron-grey gelding foraged disconsolately in the
undergrowth, the broken reins of its bridle trailing
behind it and catching on the briars. Its saddle had
slipped halfway round its girth and one loose stirrup
banged occasionally on a hind leg, making the animal
flatten its ears and snap at the unseen irritant while sweat
broke out on its withers. Though otherwise it seemed
calm enough, there were tell-tale flecks of foam around
its mouth and ringing the saddle like scum; and every
now and again the gelding would pause in its browsing
for no apparent reason and jerk its head up suspiciously,
alert for some imagined threat.

In the three hours since its extraordinary and terrified
arrival in the clearing, the horse had ignored the still,
slender figure lying sprawled across the protruding roots
of a giant oak. Strict training had conditioned it not to
leave its rider - whoever that rider might be - and seek
freedom; but until the rider showed signs of con-
sciousness, the animal had no interest in her. With the
terrors of the last few hours all but forgotten, it was
content to stay in the relative safety of the wood and
continue grazing until it should be called upon to move.

The girl, clinging frantically to the gelding's saddle as
they exploded out of the howling insanity that had
snatched them in its grip and hurled them here, had been
thrown from the animal's back as it crashed down,
screaming, among the undergrowth. She had slammed
against the oak's gigantic bole and fallen like a shot bird
to lie unmoving among the roots. Her face, half hidden
under a tangle of near white hair and the tattered hood
of a cloak, was drained and sickly, her lips bloodless;
and a bright scarlet stain had spread from her skull
across her forehead, mingling with other, older blood-
stains that weren't her own. But she breathed . . . and
at last, slowly, she began to stir.

As she returned to consciousness Cyllan had no
immediate memories of the events which had brought
her to the forest. At first, dimly aware that she lay on
hard, cold and damp ground, she thought herself asleep
in the hide tent which she'd called home during her four
years as an apprentice drover. But there was no claus-
trophobic sense of enclosure, no stink and bawl of mill-
ing cattle, no ill-tempered yelling from her uncle, Kand
Brialen.

Her droving days were over. A dream - nothing but a
bad dream. Surely, she was still in the Castle . . . ?

It was that thought which brought clarity back to her
mind like a hard slap in the face, and involuntarily she
jerked upright, her peculiar amber eyes opening and a
cry, a name, breaking from her throat before she could
stop it.

'Tarod!'

The gelding lifted its head and regarded her curiously.
Cyllan stared back, bewildered, knowing only that she
had never seen this place before. Hammers were beating
in her skull; with a gasp of pain she slumped back against
the tree trunk, and every muscle protested at the move-
ment, making her feel as though her body were on fire.
Her mind struggled frantically to assimilate the imposs-
ible evidence of her senses. Where was the Castle? What
had happened to Tarod? They'd found her in the stable
when she was trying to reach him, dragged her out into

into the black-walled courtyard where the High Initiate
waited; and then, as the Warp had come shrieking over-
head, Tarod had appeared -

The Warp. Suddenly, Cyllan remembered, and with
the memory came a sickness that clutched at her empty
stomach and made her retch, violently and uselessly,
doubled up against the tree's unyielding bark. She
recalled the confrontation in the courtyard, her own
escape - she had kicked the High Initiate full in the
stomach, bitten the burly man who held her - and her
precipitous flight when, trapped and beyond Tarod's
reach, she had taken the only chance she had and leaped
on to the gelding's back. She'd had some wild idea of
riding down anyone who stood in her path, forcing a way
through to Tarod, but the horse had panicked, bolted -
and careered out through the Castle gates, straight into
the path of the monstrous supernatural storm that raged
in unleashed chaos outside.

Cyllan shuddered as images of the horrors she had
glimpsed in the split second before the storm engulfed
her slid past her defences. The mountains, twisted to
impossible shapes and dimensions; the sea seeming to
rear in a titanic wall of water towering thousands of feet
to the ravening sky; wild, monstrous faces manifesting
from cloud and lightning, serpent tongues darting and
voices bellowing with insensate agony - then the black
wall had thundered in to meet her and she knew only
darkness and madness until she had burst in a howling
cacophony of noise and brilliance and buffeting pain on
to a scene that almost smashed her sanity with its sheer
normality. Then she was hurtling through the air - she
heard the gelding shriek as it fell - and the tree, solid,
real, uncompromising, obliterated her consciousness.

At last the spasms in her stomach faded and she pulled
herself to a less cramped position. She was alive - and
whatever her predicament, that in itself was cause for
sobering gratitude. Everyone in the land was brought up
from childhood with a paralysing terror of the Warps;
there wasn't a soul alive who hadn't heard the high, thin
wailing out of the far North, and seen the bands of sickly

colour marching across the sky, that presaged the onset
of one of the appalling supernatural storms. The Warps
were a legacy of Chaos, a last remaining manifestation
of the pandemonium that had once ruled unchecked in
the world before the rise of Order, and when they came,
terrifying and unpredictable, every man, woman and
child took shelter. Those who failed to find it had fervent
prayers said for their souls by the Sisters of Aeoris, and
left behind friends and relatives who knew that no trace
of them would ever be found. Legend had it that the
wailing scream which accompanied a Warp as it rode
across the land was the massed lamentation of all those
lost and damned, borne on the winds of Chaos.

But twice now Cyllan had survived the indescribable
horror of the storms; twice she'd found herself carried
across the face of the world by the maelstrom and left
battered and bruised, but alive, in some distant and
unknown place. If the legends were credible - and there
was enough gruesome evidence to prove their veracity -
then she should be dead, and damned to whatever hell
awaited the Warps' victims. Yet she lived . . . and the
knowledge of why she lived made her shiver as she
recalled the calculating and coldly invincible being who
had pragmatically chosen to offer her his protection.
Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who claimed kinship with
Tarod and whose machinations had sparked off the
whole ugly chain of events at the Castle of the Star
Peninsula, had answered her desperate prayers for help
when there was no other hope left to her. She remem-
bered the unhuman smile on his beautiful face when, as
she cowered before him, he had revealed his part in
preserving her life and bringing her to the Castle when
the Warp struck in Shu-Nhadek. As the grey gelding
plunged through the Castle gates and into the storm she
had screamed his name in a frantic, involuntary cry for
aid, and it seemed that again he had answered her.
Cyllan had no illusions about Yandros's loyalty or
patronage; he protected her because she was useful to
him, but should she fail in the task he had set her she
could expect no mercy from him. And she knew - as he

knew - that, now she had turned her face once from her
fealty to the ruling lords of Order, she would find no
forgiveness if she ever came to repent what she'd done.
In casting her lot with Chaos, she had irrevocably
damned herself in the eyes of her own gods.

Cyllan shivered again, and reached to the neck of her
grey dress, fumbling at the bodice until she drew out
something that lodged between her breasts. She hadn't
lost it in the wild flight from the Castle - and she felt an
odd mixture of relief and disgust as she looked at the
small clear, multifaceted jewel lying in the palm of her
hand and winking a cold reflection of the drab daylight.
The Chaos stone. A source of power and terror . . . and
the vessel that contained the soul of the man she loved.

Reflexively her hand closed over the stone, hiding it
from view. Torn between hatred of the jewel's nature
and the painful knowledge that without it he was
incomplete, Tarod had warned her of its influence; an
influence, he'd said, which corrupted and tainted any-
thing it touched, or anyone who possessed it. Bitterly,
she reflected how right he was. The stone had already
aided her to kill once, firing her with a demonic blood-
lust that made her revel in the act of murder. The
stigmata of that deed still remained, in the dried red-
brown stains that smeared her hands and clothes, and
she knew how easy it was to fall under that dark influ-
ence. Only Tarod could exert any control over the stone
- and he needed it, for without it he was bereft of all but
a fraction of his power. With the Circle, of which he'd
once been a high Adept, pledged to destroy him, his life
would be in danger until the jewel was in his possession
once more.

If, indeed, he was still alive . . .

It wasn't in Cyllan's nature to cry. Her harsh life had
taught her the futility of displaying any of the traditional
feminine weaknesses, but abruptly she found herself on
the verge of tears. If Tarod lived . . . The last thing she
recalled before the gelding had bolted was seeing him on
the steps by the Castle's main door, unarmed and
pressed by three or four sword-wielding Initiates bent on

cutting him down before he could retaliate. The Warp
had been howling overhead and she had seen no more of
him - but surely, surely even his diminished power was
enough to save him? He could have escaped from the
Castle - and if he had, he would be looking for her.
Though where he would begin, with the entire world to
choose from, was beyond imagining.

Cyllan forced herself to look at the stone again, grim-
acing as it shone like a malign, disembodied eye through
the lattice of her fingers. Then, carefully, she tucked it
back in the bodice of her dress, feeling it settle cold and
unyielding against her skin. However ambiguous her
feelings towards it, the stone was a talisman, her one link
with Tarod, and if such a thing were possible it would
call him to her. Yandros might not be able to lend her
direct aid, but the Chaos lord wanted the gem restored
to Tarod, and if that was her only hope of finding him
then she would do all she could to further Yandros's
aim. She closed her mind to any thoughts of what might
happen beyond that; all that mattered was that she and
Tarod should be reunited.

But a clearing in a forest in the gods alone knew what
part of the world was hardly the most auspicious starting
place for a search. In the short time since she'd regained
consciousness the light had perceptibly faded, telling her
that the weather was deteriorating. She had no food,
water or shelter, and no idea how far she might be from
the nearest village or even drove road. She couldn't
judge the time of day; it might be nearing dusk, and the
forest wasn't a safe place to spend the night - it was high
time she put aside her speculations and looked to the
more practical and immediate problems of survival.

She struggled to her feet, and the gelding raised its
head suspiciously. Brushing debris from her crumpled
clothes - her skirt was badly ripped at one side, she
noticed - Cyllan put two fingers in her mouth and gave a
peculiar, low whistle. The gelding laid its ears back; she
whistled again, and, reluctantly obeying the summons,
the animal approached close enough for her to take hold
of its bridle. As she retightened the saddle and checked

for broken straps, Cyllan was thankful, perhaps for the
first time in her life, for the four years she'd spent travel-
ling the roads on ponyback as an apprentice in her
uncle's drover band. The whistle was a trick she'd
learned early, and could command the most recalcitrant
animal; the gelding would give her no trouble, and she
was inured to long hours in the saddle. With Aeoris - she
mentally corrected herself, smiling wryly to cover her
unease - with luck on her side, she should make good
enough speed to the nearest habitation.

The harness was secure: balancing on a tree root to
gain height, Cyllan swung herself into the saddle. Peer-
ing up through the latticed branches of the trees she tried
to discern the lie of the lowering Sun, but the tiny
patchwork of sky above was overcast. She sat for a
moment, considering, then swung the horse's head in
what intuition told her was a roughly southerly direc-
tion. Most of the forest belts which crossed the western
and central parts of the land ran East to West; therefore
if she rode South she should reach the edge of the
woodland before long, and from there be able to pick up
a drove road without too much difficulty.

She didn't know, and didn't care to speculate, what
might await her on her journey. If Tarod had escaped,
word would soon be out and the hunt under way for him;
possibly for her too, though it was more likely that the
Circle would believe her dead. Somehow, she must find
him before they did . . .

She touched her heels to the gelding's flanks, and
urged it forward among the dense, waiting trees.

* * * * *

The singing that drifted faintly from the direction of the
main hall in the Castle of the Star Peninsula would have
been a delight to hear, had it taken place under less
dismal circumstances. The massed women's voices were
beautiful, their harmonies rising and falling on the light
evening breeze; but Keridil Toln couldn't for a moment

forget that the Sisters of Aeoris were singing a requiem
for the son of the man who sat opposite him in his study.

Gant Ambaril Rannak, Margrave of Shu Province,
listened to the choir with head bowed, one hand unmov-
ing on the stem of his wine cup. Occasionally he looked
up at the open window as though expecting to see some-
thing or someone, and Keridil glimpsed the momentary
glitter of suppressed rage in his eyes.

At last Gant spoke, quietly, calmly. 'The Sisters' sing-
ing is very moving. I appreciate the gesture, High Initi-
ate, on their part and yours.' He blinked; frowned
painfully. 'I only regret that their anthems can't bring
Drachea back from the dead.'

Keridil sighed. He had dreaded having to break the
news that the Margrave's son and heir had been mur-
dered while under his protection. Gant had arrived with
his wife and entourage only that day, rejoicing to hear
that Drachea had single-handedly thwarted the machi-
nations of Chaos and performed a great service for the
Circle. His son was a hero - but instead of sharing in his
glory, the old man had been greeted instead with the
shock of his bloody and ignominious death. Keridil had
anticipated ranting, lamentation, accusation; but the
Margrave's quiet, bitter grief had proved far harder to
withstand. The Lady Margravine had collapsed and now
lay in the Castle's best guest suite, tended by Grevard
the physician; but Gant had refused all offers of seda-
tives or calmatives, and instead, after seeing his son's
corpse, had requested a private interview with the High
Initiate.

Keridil had now told the full story of Drachea's death;
of how he had disturbed Cyllan, after her escape, in the
act of stealing the Chaos stone, and of how she had slain
him. He had wanted to confess to his own sense of
responsibility for the young man's murder, yet apologies
seemed grotesquely inadequate; all he could do was wait
for Gant to say whatever he wished to say. Knowing the
Margrave, Keridil had little doubt that he'd speak his
mind.

The singing faded on a final, poignant harmony, and

the Margrave nodded his head as though in approval.
Then he looked at Keridil again, and this time his eyes
were iron hard.

'Well, High Initiate. Only one question remains in my
mind. What is to be done to avenge my son's murder?'

Keridil glanced at the notes which he'd made earlier in
the day. Though it would bring Gant small comfort, he
could at least report that he hadn't been idle.

'I've already set matters in train, Margrave,' he said.
'You may have heard of the recent experiments carried
out in Wishet and Empty Provinces, with message-
carrying birds - '

'I've heard of it, High Initiate. In fact, I suggested that
the idea might be employed in the search for my son
when he first disappeared.'

Keridil flushed at the older man's tone. 'Indeed . . .
well, the early experiments were successful enough for
us to put the idea into practice here at the Castle. We
have a master falconer visiting us from Empty Province,
and his birds have proved reliable and far faster than any
relay of horsemen.'

Gant's eyes lit feverishly. 'Then you can send out - '

'I already have, sir. Three birds were despatched at
noon today, to carry word of what's happened here to
West High Land, Han and Chaun. As soon as they land,
more birds will leave for the other provinces. The news
should reach the furthest outposts tomorrow, and even
the High Margrave himself will hear of it within the day.'

Gant's eyes narrowed. 'And the girl - that murdering
little serpent . . . you've conveyed her description to
every Margravate? To every militia leader?' His fist
clenched involuntarily on the table. 'She must be found,
High Initiate, and she must be executed!'

The Margrave's single-mindedness was understand-
able in the circumstances, but Keridil had more than
Cyllan's whereabouts on his mind. Of the two people he
sought she was by far the less dangerous, and though he
was determined to bring her to justice he had more
urgent priorities. Nonetheless, he was well aware that
Gant must be handled with care; any hint that his son's

murder took second place to other considerations would
mean more trouble than Keridil could cope with at
present.

He said, 'Indeed we've circulated her description,
Margrave; and I'm confident that she won't be able to
escape the search for long - if she's still alive, which we
can only surmise. The militia are to be put on full alert,
and I've asked for the utmost co-operation from every
province. However, I must add that we're dealing with
something that could have even greater ramifications
than Drachea's murder.' He glanced up, saw the older
man's expression and continued with caution. 'You
know now what's happened here at the Castle recently,
how it came about, and who perpetrated it. That per-
petrator is still at large - and he's a thousand times more
dangerous than Cyllan Anassan. Please - ' he added
quickly as Gant seemed about to protest, 'I share your
anxiety to find the girl and punish her. But I dare not
neglect the search for Tarod. He's far more than just a
killer; he's an incarnation of Chaos.' He leaned forward,
intent. 'Margrave, you've seen and heard for yourself a
little of the havoc he's capable of wreaking. Can you
imagine what the fate of all of us would be if such a
monstrous power of evil were let loose on the world?'

Gant was silent, and Keridil knew his words had
found their mark. 'I don't want to cause undue alarm in
the land, especially not at this stage,' he added quietly.
'But I'd be failing in my duty if I didn't spread the
warning, and spread it fast. To be brutally honest, our
world could be facing a danger the like of which has been
unknown since the fall of the Old Ones. And I'm not
ashamed to admit to being afraid.'

Had he made a mistake in being so frank? The
Margrave's face had taken on a pinched, tight look, and
his gaze flickered uneasily to the window and back.

'High Initiate, I find it hard to believe - ' he coughed
to clear his throat as his voice cracked involuntarily, 'to
believe that the Circle, in which resides the power and
the sanction of Aeoris himself - ' He made the White

God's sign over his own heart but seemed unable to
finish the sentence.

Keridil sighed. 'I fervently wish that half the tales
which are told about the Circle's abilities were true,
Margrave, but the bald fact is that, whilst we might have
Aeoris's sanction, it would be folly to assume that we
have his power, or anything resembling it.' His expres-
sion hardened. 'That's a lesson I've recently learned
through bitter experience, and to pretend otherwise
would be to court disaster.' He clasped his hands
together, the knuckles whitening. 'Without the jewel I
told you of, Tarod's by no means invincible. But if he
should find that girl before we do, and recover the stone,
he'll regain his full power. And that means the power to
summon back the full forces of Chaos and darkness to
the world.'

'But surely no man can command such sorcery!'

'No man, no - but this isn't a man we're contending
with. Tarod is kin to Chaos; born of Chaos. Don't doubt
his capabilities, Margrave. I once made that mistake.'

Gant shifted uncomfortably on his chair, chagrined.
'This is far more serious than I realised ... I under-
stand your concern, Keridil, and I share it.' He made a
bleak attempt at a smile. 'Inasmuch as you have your
duty, I also have mine, and I accept that personal con-
siderations must take second place. How can Shu
Province aid you?'

Keridil gave silent thanks for the hard edge of innate
common sense which characterised the older man,
shored up by twenty years of rigid governorship. As well
as encompassing the largest and safest sea-port in the
land, Shu Province also boasted a strong and efficient
militia, and the Margravate's resources were among the
best to be found anywhere. Gant would make an invalu-
able ally.

He nodded. 'I'm grateful for your support, sir, and
your generosity - and I don't mind admitting I'll need all
the help I can find, especially in terms of manpower.'

'Indeed. But you must realise, of course, that once
word of this spreads, although you'll have that help from

every quarter you'll also be running the risk of spreading
panic throughout the land.' He bit his lip. 'Fear of Chaos
is deeply rooted in all of us, and the thought that it might
be summoned back . . . ' His shrug, masking a shiver,
was eloquent.

'I considered that, but I dare not minimise the peril
we're in,' Keridil said, recalling the hours of mental
torment as he struggled to assess the wisdom of the
decision he'd made. 'People must be told, Margrave. I
can't, in all conscience, keep back the truth.'

Gant inclined his head. 'Yes ... I see your dilemma,
and I think I must agree with you. However, to avoid
hysteria it may be necessary to impose certain strictures
over and above the laws of our land. In my own province
for example - '

Keridil interrupted him. 'I'll sanction anything you
consider advisable that falls within my own jurisdiction,
sir. And if the High Margrave's consent is needed, I'll do
my utmost to secure it.'

'Thank you. Speaking of the High Margrave . . . you
said that one of your message birds is bound for the
Summer Isle?'

'It is, yes.' The High Initiate hesitated, wondering
whether it would be advisable to confide fully in Gant;
then he decided that there could be no harm in it. 'I've
also sent word to the Lady Matriarch Ilyaya Kimi, at her
Cot.' He hesitated. 'You may as well know now, sir, that
I've asked the views of both on the possibility of calling a
Conclave on the White Isle.'

Gant stared at him, stunned. 'On the ... ' He
swallowed. 'Surely, Keridil, matters haven't come to
that!'

'They haven't, no: but they could. And if they do, we
might have no choice but to sanction the opening of the
casket.'

Gant made the Sign of Aeoris over his heart again.
His face had turned the unhealthy colour of putty, and
he tried not to think about the implications of what the
High Initiate had said. Every child was brought up on
the legend of the gold casket which had been Aeoris's

legacy to his world and his followers after the fall of the
old race, when Chaos was defeated and banished. The
casket was held in a shrine on the White Isle, a strange,
volcanic island off the coast of Shu-Nhadek, and
guarded by a hereditary caste of zealots who were the
only men allowed to set foot on the Isle's sanctified
ground. Only in a time of gravest crisis could the High
Initiate, High Margrave and Lady Matriarch of the Sis-
terhood of the Aeoris sail to the Isle where, in Conclave,
they might take the decision to open the sacred relic.
And if the casket should be opened, it would summon
Aeoris himself back to the world . . . No, Gant told
himself desperately; matters couldn't have reached such
a pass . . .

Keridil watched the changing expressions on the older
man's face, and could sympathise with his obvious dis-
tress. The thought of being forced to take a decision that
had not been faced for thousands of years was enough to
give him nightmares - but if it had to be done, he knew
he'd do it.

'Margrave, I believe - and I hope - that the possibility
is very remote,' he said. 'But it must be borne in mind.'
He paused, then added: 'At dawn today, I made an oath
that I won't rest until Tarod has been found and
destroyed, and I promise you now that I'm as deter-
mined to see Drachea's killer brought to justice. I mean
to keep faith with both pledges, whatever the cost.'

For a few moments Gant deliberated, then, slowly
and with reluctance, he nodded. 'Yes, I understand,' He
looked up, his eyes bleak. 'And I like to think that, were
I in your place, I'd have the courage to make the same
decision.'

Full darkness had fallen by the time Cyllan at last urged
the grey gelding through a dense thicket and, to her
surprise, found herself clear of the trees on a ridge that
overlooked a narrow road. A treacherous but nego-
tiable bank led down to the track, which gleamed the
colour of old, pale bone under the night sky, and beyond
it the brooding mass of the forest stretched away again

into utter blackness. This was no main drove way, only a
small, neglected tributary which probably carried little
or no traffic: but a road was a road, and a blessed relief
after the nightmare of fighting her way through endless
acres of branches and undergrowth, with the super-
stitious fear of woods at night all too close to the surface
of her mind.

The gelding was uneasy, tired and becoming
rebellious, but Cyllan held it firmly still while she gazed
around and tried to get her bearings. A single cold star
hung far away to her right, but the familiar con-
stellations were being rapidly obscured by a heavy bank
of cloud driving in from what she guessed was the North-
West and bringing a chill, dreary wind. The horse
snorted and shook its head, smelling rain on the wind,
and a few moments later the first drops stung her face.

Unless she'd judged wrongly the road ran roughly
North to South, and she turned in the saddle to gaze
northward, where the pale ribbon vanished among the
folds of low hills. Far away in that direction - though
how far, she had no way of telling - lay the Star Penin-
sula, and the grim Castle where she'd had her last sight
of Tarod.

Was he there still? She didn't know how much time
had passed since the Warp snatched her away; if the
Circle had recaptured him he might now be dead . . .
She bit her lip hard, fighting down a powerful urge to
turn the gelding's head to the North and ride it to the
limits of its endurance until she reached the coast and
the Castle. That would be foolhardy - the Circle had
marked her as a murderess, and to ride back into their
embrace would be to court disaster. All she could do was
pray that Tarod was alive, free, and seeking her.

She pressed her heels to the gelding's flanks and set it
slithering down the steep bank towards the road. The
rain was falling more heavily by now and the animal
slipped several times on the wet grass; below, the track
had taken on a slick sheen. Reaching the bottom of the
slope Cyllan turned the horse southward, urging it
ahead, and as it settled into a steady, ground-covering

trot she pulled her cloak more closely about herself in an
effort to keep out the worst of the wet. To either side the
forest hissed as rain lashed the undergrowth, and the
night took on an unreal edge; black silhouettes of trees
flanking and looming with only the cold white ribbon of
the road ahead to provide a narrow, mesmeric focus.
The muffled sound of her mount's hoofs seemed to echo
her own heartbeats, and she began to feel an uneasy
prickling in her scalp, as though a sixth sense warned her
that some unseen shadow followed in her wake. She
shook the thought off, aware that it was triggered by
tiredness and the tricky illusions of the dark. Nonethe-
less, there were real risks in plenty on such a road as this,
and she couldn't - daren't-stop in this lonely stretch of
nowhere, at least until morning broke.

The gelding checked suddenly, breaking the hypnotic
rhythm of its hoofbeats and startling her back to
wakefulness. Even as she realised that she had been on
the verge of falling asleep in the saddle, another sen-
sation assailed her - a sharp stab of instinct that urged
her to look back over her shoulder. And this time, it was
no product of an overworked imagination. Her lungs
and throat felt stifled and, aware that she was having to
force herself not to shiver uncontrollably, Cyllan cau-
tiously turned her head.

There were four of them; black, formless shapes in the
gloom behind her, shadowing her track and slowly clos-
ing. For an instant a terrible image leaped into Cyllan's
mind - tales she had heard of ghouls and demons, dead
things that left their dismal graves to pursue the unwary
traveller - then, faintly on the wind, she heard a restless
metallic jingle as a horse chafed at its bit, and realised
that her followers were made of flesh and blood.

Brigands. Irrational fear had clouded her mind to the
threat of attack from a physical and all too human quar-
ter - but the mounted men now closing on her were real
enough. A woman riding a good horse alone at night
would be easy prey, and could anticipate nothing
beyond a slit throat, if she were lucky . . .

The gelding was dancing sideways, sensing something

amiss. It was possible - just possible - that she could
outrun her pursuers; though the thought that they prob-
ably rode fresh horses while her own mount was near-
exhausted chilled her to the bone. But she couldn't stand
and fight them - flight was her only hope of survival.

She held the gelding back, trying to calm it and give
the brigands the impression that she was, as yet,
unaware of their presence behind her. But they were
moving closer . . . now she could hear a faint after-echo
of hoofbeats that weren't those of her own horse. Care-
fully, she reached to her throat and with shaking, fum-
bling fingers unpinned the clasp that held her cloak. As
she did so she felt the Chaos stone dig sharply against her
breast, and the unwonted reminder of its presence
brought her a flicker of comfort. If Yandros, highest lord
of Chaos, watched over her, then surely he would aid
her if he could . . . She gathered up the reins, settled
herself more securely in the wet saddle, pressed her
thighs and knees as hard as she could against the geld-
ing's flanks; then gripped the unfastened clasp so that
the pin protruded from between her fingers -

The gelding sprang forward with a shriek of protest as
the clasp-pin jabbed through its hide behind the saddle
cantle. Cyllan crouched over its neck, clinging desper-
ately and precariously and praying that she wouldn't
lose her grip and fall. Behind her, new sounds cut
through the night; men cursing, the sudden thunder of
many more hoofs as the brigands spurred their mounts
into the chase. Cyllan lashed the gelding's withers with
the looped reins, screaming at it to gallop faster. It laid
its ears back, eyes rolling, but she felt the powerful
muscles beneath her bunch to greater effort. The road
ahead veered crazily, trees seeming to fly past them, and
she tried not to think of what might happen if some night
animal should suddenly skitter across their path.

Sweat laced the gelding's neck and flanks; sensing its
rider's fear it was racing flat out, but even so Cyllan
could hear the brigands closing on her. Her mount was
exhausted, the last of its stamina draining fast - its
utmost efforts wouldn't be enough to save her. Almost

sobbing with terror, she lashed it again and again, all the
while knowing that she had only minutes, at most,
before they'd be on her.

'Yandros!' The name broke from her throat in a crack-
ing scream, a last cry of defiance. Ahead, the corpse-
white ribbon of the track bent sharply, seeming to
plunge back into the forest, and a wild hope surged
suddenly in Cyllan. If she could reach the trees she might
still elude them - however slight, it was a chance!

The gelding careered round the bend in the track,
sliding dangerously - and then it was rearing and skid-
ding on the treacherous ground as the brilliant glare of
torches sprang out of the dark and rough voices shouted
a warning.

Cyllan felt the animal's hoofs sliding from under it;
she pitched forward, clutched wildly at a handful of
mane and somehow stayed in the saddle. Then the geld-
ing regained its feet, she saw a blade flash in the hot
light, heard someone swearing. Hands took hold of her
as the horse slithered to a halt and all but fell, and she
was helped from its back to collapse to her knees on the
sodden ground. Through her confusion she was aware of
other horses shouldering past her, back on to the road
down which she'd come; then at last she was lifted to her
feet and found herself looking into the astonished gaze
of a middle-aged man.

'Aeoris preserve us, it's a woman!' The words were
punctuated by the crackling and spitting of the torch
flames as the rain tried, vainly, to extinguish them. More
faces loomed, grotesque in the flaring glow, and some-
one made a great fuss of opening and proffering a small
metal flask. Cyllan accepted it gratefully, her throat too
dry for speech, and took a good-sized mouthful of the
warming, burning spirit.

There, now.' Concern laced the speaker's voice.
'You're safe now, lady. Our men'll catch those murder-
ing devils, and they'll hang by morning.'

A Chaun Province accent. . . Cyllan tried to express
her thanks, but her lungs were straining for air and still
she couldn't speak. Someone took her arm to steady

her, and another asked anxiously, 'Are you harmed,
madam? Can you tell us what happened to you?' The
deferential manner of his question made Cyllan realise
that the men had taken her for a woman of some quality.
Her clothes, together with the obvious good breeding of
the horse she rode, had created an impression that was
very far from the truth, and shock made her want to
laugh. She took a grip on herself, aware that she'd be
well advised not to disillusion them - to disclose her real
identity could be very dangerous. But it would be a hard
deception to maintain. She'd need to invent a plausible
story, and she felt in no condition for quick or clever
thinking now.

Dissembling, she made a pretence of being about to
faint - as most well-bred women would have done in
such straits - and instantly the men were solicitous and
apologetic, helping her to the side of the track and
insisting that she sit down. She smiled wanly at them and
whispered, 'Thank you . . . you're very kind.'

'It's nothing, lady - but what of your companions?
Surely you weren't riding alone?'

The idea was unthinkable to them, and Cyllan
realised that they'd also have seen the bloodstains on her
clothes, and the fact that her horse wore a saddle
designed for a man. She swallowed. 'No -I - there were
six of us. My. . . my brother and I, and-four servants.'
And, anticipating the next question, she added, 'One of
our pack-horses cast a shoe, and we were forced to make
camp for the night in the forest. We were attacked, and -
one of my brother's men died defending me.' She bit her
lip, hoping that the grief and fear she had tried to inject
in her voice was enough to convince them. 'In the con-
fusion, my brother threw me on to his horse and set it
galloping away.' She looked up at the questioner, her
amber eyes wide. 'I don't know what became of them
all . . . '

They believed her, at least thus far, and one said with
determination, 'We'll find them, lady, be assured of it!'

'If they live,' another commented under his breath.

'Quiet, Vesey.' The first speaker gave him a withering

look. 'The lady's suffered enough without your gloomy
predictions.' He turned back to Cyllan. 'We'll send
searchers out immediately, and in the meantime two of
us will take you to Wathryn town - it's but a short ride
from here.' He rose stiffly to his feet. 'Gordach, Lesk -
you'll act as escort for the lady. Take her to Sheniya Win
Mar at the High Tree tavern, and I'll join you there
later.' Holding out a hand to Cyllan he bowed cour-
teously. 'We'll have news for you by morning, madam; I
promise.'

Cyllan nodded slowly and thanked him, then let her
escort help her on to the gelding, which stood at the side
of the road with its head hanging in exhaustion. She
assured them she could ride unaided, but the older of the
two men insisted on taking the reins and walking at her
mount's head while the other rode by her side, short
sword drawn and resting across his lap. The circle of
torchlight fell behind, and Gordach - her younger com-
panion - assured her that they'd be in no danger without
light; the town was barely a mile away and besides the
rain was clearing; any time now they'd have one or both
Moons to guide them. He was a talkative youth and kept
up a flow of chatter as the horses plodded on. Cyllan
learned that her rescuers were part of a volunteer militia
formed by order of the Province Margrave in an attempt
to stem the rapidly increasing deprivations of the brig-
and bands. Every town of reasonable size had such a
force now, Gordach told her, and no less than fourteen
outlaws had been brought to justice and executed in
their own district alone. And now with this latest news
from the North there'd doubtless be yet more work for
them to do.

Cyllan's skin crawled uneasily and she said, 'Latest
news . . . ?'

Gordach smiled proudly. 'It was brought in by courier
only an hour before we left on our patrol, lady. We must
be one of the first towns, beyond the Province capitals,
to have word of it.' He paused for emphasis, then leaned
towards her and whispered confidentially, 'News from
the Star Peninsula!'

Cyllan's fingers tightened on the gelding's reins and
she buried her hands in the animal's mane lest Gordach
should see them shaking. Trying to keep her voice even,
she said, 'I've heard nothing of it.'

'No - if truth be told, none of us knows the details as
yet. The courier arrived exhausted, and his message
won't be broadcast till morning. But I believe,' Gordach
smiled at her again, clearly hoping to impress her, 'that it
concerns a dangerous killer who has escaped the Circle's
custody together with his accomplice!'

So the hunt was up . . . Cyllan licked lips that were
suddenly dry, and Gordach talked happily on.

'We'll learn the details at dawn, and hopefully we'll
have a description of the two. I've heard that the news
was brought from West High Land by messenger bird -
if that's true, then it's a wonderful innovation, for the
message must have reached our Margrave in hours
rather than days.' He shifted eagerly in his saddle, grip-
ping the sword across his lap, 'I hope the wanted man
comes to Chaun Province - we'd earn a great accolade if
we could be the ones to apprehend him!'

Cyllan didn't reply, and the man who walked at her
horse's head looked back over his shoulder.

'Hush your noise, Gordach. The lady's in no mood for
your babbling-begging your pardon, madam, but if he's
not told, the boy will rattle on until his tongue drops
out!'

Cyllan nodded, but still didn't trust herself to speak.
Gordach fell silent, and when she looked up again she
saw that they were nearing the town. The hunched
silhouettes of buildings showed against the sky ahead,
one with a soft halo of light glowing from a window
despite the late hour. As they approached, an unseen
watcher issued a sharp challenge out of the darkness and
Lesk answered gruffly. Halting Cyllan's horse he hur-
ried forward alone, and she heard a brief exchange of
words as her presence was explained before Lesk came
back and led the horse on. A man muffled in a heavy
cloak touched a finger to his brow politely as they
passed, and they rode on into the town.

Though not large by inland standards, Wathryn was
clearly a prosperous and busy place. Acres of forest had
been cut down as what had begun as a simple timber-
men's settlement grew, and Wathryn now boasted sev-
eral merchants' houses of impressive size, a justice
house where courts were held and local business con-
ducted, and a paved market square. Now though, all was
quiet, although Cyllan could hear the sound of a mill-
race somewhere near by where a small river had been
tamed.

'Almost there now, lady,' Gordach told her,
undaunted by Lesk's disapproving scowl. The horses'
hoofs echoed loudly as they reached the market square,
and now Cyllan could see a long, low building fronting
the square, with a stylised painting of a spreading oak
tree adorning its facade. A single light glowed in a
downstairs window, and Lesk stepped up to the door,
hammering on it with a heavy fist.

'Sheniya! Sheniya Win Mar! It's Lesk Barith - I've a
guest in need of your hospitality!'

A minute later the door creaked open, and a plump
middle-aged woman peered out, her eyes widening
when she saw Cyllan and her escort.

'Aeoris preserve us, what's this at such an hour? Lesk
Barith, have you lost your wits?'

Lesk explained briefly, while Cyllan sat mute on her
gelding trying to quell a rising sense of dread that threat-
ened to suffocate her. The news of her escape was
abroad, and there was a price on her head - by morning,
the townsfolk would be able to match her face and all too
distinctive hair to the description of the hunted mur-
deress. She desperately wanted to flee, turn her horse
about and run while she still could; but both she and the
animal were exhausted - to flee would damn her
immediately, and she couldn't hope to outrun a pursuit.
She had at least a few hours' grace - better to keep up
her pretence and wait for an opportunity to leave
unnoticed ... if the opportunity was to be found.

Sheniya Win Mar had by now heard the bare bones of
Cyllan's story, and her natural instinct took over from

indignation at the disturbance. She soundly berated
Lesk for keeping the lady waiting while he prated, then
as soon as the girl was helped down from her mount she
bustled forward.

'There now, madam, we'll soon have you warmed and
comfortable! What you must have suffered; it doesn't
bear thinking about - but you're safe now. Come; come
in, and let me find you the best chair . . . '

Cyllan heard the clatter of the gelding's hoofs as Lesk
took it away. She resisted the impulse to look back
longingly over her shoulder and, taking a deep and
nervous breath, allowed the tavern-keeper to lead her
inside.

Chapter 2

The hawk was hardly more than a speck against the
uneasy sky, a tiny shape arrowing its way eastward on
the prevailing wind. It was unlikely that any casual
observer on the ground would even have noticed it, but
the man who sat in the lee of a rocky outcrop on the
slopes of the hills bordering Han and Empty Provinces
had seen the bird appear over the horizon, and now
watched its rapid progress with narrowed green eyes.

Why the hawk should have aroused both his interest
and a measure of disquiet Tarod couldn't tell; but there
was something purposeful about its flight, as though it
travelled on some mission above and beyond the call of
instinct. And the fact that it had come out of the North-
West - the direction of the Star Peninsula - could well be
significant.

The bird was all but lost to sight now and he shifted his
position, stretching one leg to ease a touch of cramp and
leaning back against the outcrop. The morning was chill,
but as yet he was in no mood to resume his own journey;
he'd walked nearly all night and, as well as being phys-
ically fatigued, he needed time to consider his next
move.

Tarod had departed the Star Peninsula in a spectacu-
lar manner that he had no anxiety to experience again.
Before he left, he had sworn to Keridil that he had no
quarrel with the Circle; but he believed the High Initiate
would take no heed of his word. Keridil wanted revenge
for those who had died - and he also wanted the Chaos
stone. That gem lay at the hub of this whole ugly affair,
and Tarod had to force back the chilly mingling of
longing and loathing that always assailed him when he

thought of it. Much as he might prefer to deny the fact,
he needed the stone - it was a vital and integral part of
him, for it was the vessel for his own soul. And without it
he could only ever hope to be half alive.

But the stone was a curse as well as a lifeline, for it
shackled him to an inner self whose essence originated in
pure evil - and therein lay the dilemma which had
haunted Tarod since he had first discovered the gem's
nature. Yandros, Lord of Chaos, had awoken in him
memories of a past so ancient that it almost defied
imagination, and he couldn't deny that that past had a
terrible lure. Yet to acknowledge the stone's true power
and realise his full potential would be to turn his back on
all that he had ever held sacrosanct. He had been a high
Adept of the Circle, a chosen servant of the gods of
Order - Chaos was anathema to him. And yet he owed
his existence to those same malign powers . . .

It was a paradox he couldn't resolve, and now it was
further complicated by the knowledge that he also owed
his life to Yandros. Had it not been for the Chaos lord's
intercession through Cyllan, he would have been con-
signed to the grisly death ordained by Keridil, and the
stone would have fallen into the Circle's hands. That
wouldn't accord with Yandros's scheme - Tarod was
well aware that the malevolent lord still meant to use
him as a vehicle for his plans to challenge the rule of
Aeoris and the gods of Order, and Yandros believed
that, at the final test, the ancient affinities would defeat
any barriers Tarod tried to set against them.

He shivered inwardly at that thought, for he knew that
with the stone in his possession again it would be all too
easy to succumb to its pervasive influence. And though
he wanted to survive, the thought of surviving as a pawn
in Yandros's deadly game turned his blood cold.

Yet he dared not leave matters unresolved, and in the
wake of his flight from the Star Peninsula he had realised
that there was only one course of action open to him.
When the stone's nature had first been revealed to him -
and it seemed a long time ago now - he had pledged to
take the jewel to the White Isle far in the South, and to

give it into the safe keeping of the one entity powerful
enough to combat Yandros's power . . . Aeoris him-
self. The conflict with the Circle, and all that followed,
had made him doubt the wisdom of that decision, but
now he saw no other way open to him. He had served
Aeoris faithfully, whatever Keridil might say to the
contrary - only the White Lord himself could finally
resolve his terrible dilemma and relieve him of the
stone's burden.

But to reach the White Isle would be a fruitless
achievement unless he could find Cyllan . . .

Tarod's eyes narrowed with a sudden, sharp pain.
He'd been trying not to think of Cyllan, aware that in
spite of what his instincts told him he had no evidence
that she was still alive. When the Margrave's horse had
bolted into the maelstrom of the Warp with her on its
back, his wild despair had found an outlet in rage. But
now that his mind had had time to calm and reason, he
realised that if Yandros had manipulated events in his
own favour once, he could do so again - and Cyllan's
well-being was very much in the Chaos Lord's interest.
Intuition told him that Cyllan lived; and he believed
that, if she could keep her freedom, she would travel
South to Shu-Nhadek, knowing that he too would be
making it his goal.

But there would be dangers on the road, not least
from the Circle themselves. There must be a price on
Cyllan's head as well as on his own, and Keridil would
stint nothing in the search for them both. Cyllan had the
Chaos stone but it was of little value to her, while he,
without it, was seriously hampered. He had used all the
power he could muster to escape from the Star Penin-
sula, and the exertion of energy had been almost too
much for him - he had had to trust to his ancient affinity
with the Chaotic origins of the Warp and let it carry him
where it would, and while he had survived the experi-
ence it had utterly drained him. The Circle might expect
him to use his sorcery to discover Cyllan's whereabouts
and to transport himself instantly to her side; Tarod
knew that without the soul-stone his powers weren't up

to such a feat. He was little better off than a high-ranking
Initiate, and would need all his physical resources to
compensate for the loss of his sorcerous potential if he
was to find Cyllan before the Circle did.

He smiled wryly to himself, aware that as yet he'd
made a poor show of attending to his own physical
needs. He'd had no rest since his spectacular departure
from the Castle, and carried no food or water, nor any
coin to buy them with. Although some game inhabited
these sere hills and he was a passing fair shot with a
crossbow, he couldn't conjure a crossbow from thin air.
His only resources were the clothes he stood up in, an
Initiate's gold badge, and whatever small measure of
power might be left to him.

He shifted his position again and gazed up at the sky.
Behind a pall of restless cloud the Sun was marching
towards the low meridian of a northern Spring. The
wind was beginning to bluster as it backed to a more
northerly direction, and on the horizon, where the hills
rose higher and more barren towards the gloomy min-
eral mines of Empty Province, the cloudbank was
stained an ugly purple, presaging rain. He judged that it
would be several hours before the first squall reached
him, and in the meantime the change in the wind meant
that his rock alcove was better sheltered. He'd be well
advised to rest before continuing his journey; he was
close to exhaustion, and sleep was more imperative now
than sustenance. Besides, these bleak hills with their
old, deserted roads were a safer resting place than any
he'd be likely to be find once he reached the more
populous farmlands.

The rock made a hard and uncomfortable bed, but
Tarod settled himself as best he could, wrapping his
heavy cloak more tightly round his body. The wind,
gusting, moaned like a faraway voice from a half-forgot-
ten dream in his mind, and within minutes he was asleep.

Instinct roused him seconds before the sounds of hoofs
and heavy breathing impinged on the wind's lonely
mourning. His green eyes snapped open - and he found

himself staring at a monstrous silhouette that blocked
out half the restless sky. A strong, animal smell
assaulted his nostrils and he tensed with shock, not
knowing whether the apparition was mortal or some-
thing out of a chasm of nightmare.

A throaty laugh grated and the monstrosity moved,
splitting apart to resolve itself into the shapes of two
mounted - and indisputably mortal - men.

The sleeper wakes.' The accent was guttural, and
Tarod suspected that it had its origins in the far North of
Empty Province. He didn't like its overtones. 'Welcome
back to the world, friend. And isn't it an honour to have
such good companions to greet you?'

Behind Tarod someone sniggered, and he turned his
head quickly to see three more horsemen behind him.
The one who had laughed was a pockmarked, vacuous-
faced youth of 16 or 17; the others older men but no
more savoury, and Tarod realised that they were - could
only be - a band of brigands.

He sighed and leaned his head back against the rock,
closing his eyes once more. He had nothing about him
worth looting, so it was likely as not that these evil-
looking ruffians wouldn't give him much trouble; but
their unwonted arrival was an irritation.

The leader, a snake-thin individual festooned with a
bizarre assortment of stolen trinkets over a filthy fur
coat, sniffed loudly. 'Our friend doesn't seem to appre-
ciate our generosity in stopping to pass the time of day
with him.' He inched his horse forward and prodded at
Tarod with the toe of one boot. Tarod opened his eyes.
'On your feet, friend.'

Tarod stared at him. 'Are you addressing me?'

The youth sniggered again and the leader made a
mock bow. 'Your pardon, sir, if I gave offence! But I see
no one else to address.'

The other men laughed uproariously and their leader
grinned at the approbation. His horse inched closer still
and the others followed his example, so that Tarod was
tightly encircled.

'Maybe he's got a legion of demons hidden in his

pocket, Ravakin,' one suggested. 'Maybe that's who he
thought you were talking to!'

Ravakin smirked, showing a mouthful of decayed
teeth. 'Maybe he's got a horse and bags stowed up his
sleeve, more like it. Maybe he'd like to show 'em to us,
as a token of comradeship and goodwill.' For the second
time a toe prodded Tarod in the ribs. 'Come on, friend.
Where are your belongings?'

Evenly, Tarod said, 'You see them with your own
eyes, friend.'

'The traveller has a sense of humour.' Ravakin leered.

A heavy-set man beside him chuckled. 'D'you think
he'll be as entertaining with a fire lit under him?'

'He'll be a damned sight more talkative. No man in his
right mind walks these hills if he wants to stay alive - he's
got a mount somewhere. And he'll tell us where it is.' He
licked his lips. 'By the time we've entertained him a
while, he'll be begging to tell us.'

He obviously intended the words to sap Tarod's con-
fidence, and was chagrined when the black-haired man
only smiled faintly. Frowning, he gestured to the bur-
liest of his companions. 'Search him. See what he's got
about him.'

'Don't trouble yourself.' Tarod rose with a swift, lithe
movement that startled them. He threw his cloak back
and his voice was deceptively gentle. 'I have no coin, no
possessions, nothing that would interest you, gentle-
men. If you wish to search for a horse, do so with my
blessing. You won't find one, for I don't own one.'

The youth piped up in a voice that was only half
broken. 'He might be speaking the truth, Ravakin.
We've seen nothing, and you couldn't hide a worm in
these barrens -

'Shut your clatter!' Ravakin snapped viciously. 'He
hasn't walked without horse or provisions into the mid-
dle of nowhere! Amit, Yil - we'll give our friend here a
little lesson in neighbourliness to loosen his tongue.' As
he spoke he urged his horse forward so that its flank,
brushing by, knocked Tarod off balance. At the same

moment two of the others closed their mounts in, spin-
ning him back towards Ravakin, their hoofs kicking up
the dust in a choking cloud.

'Hold, Rav!' The sudden exclamation brought the
brigand leader up short. 'What's that under his cloak?'

'What?' Ravakin's sly, acquisitive eyes focused on
Tarod, but Amit, who had spoken, recognised the dis-
tinctive symbol before his leader did.

'Damn us all, Rav, he's an Initiate!'

'Initiate?' The leader gave him a scorching look. 'He
could be Margrave of the Seven Hells for all I care!' He
leaned forward in the saddle, and hot breath laced with
the odours of stale food fanned Tarod's face. 'Maybe
that's what we'll dub him. Our exalted friend, Margrave
of the Seven Hells. Come on, Margrave. You're going to
dance for us till we tire of you, and then we'll see about
relieving you of that pretty trinket if you've nothing
better to offer!'

Tarod said nothing, didn't move, and slowly, with
relish, Ravakin drew a long knife from his belt. His
thumb played on the hilt. 'Did you hear me, Margrave of
the Seven Hells? We're going to send you to your own
domain ... ' He reached out and, with practised
confidence, touched the point of the knife to Tarod's
throat, while two of his men started to whistle in crude
harmony. 'Entertain us, Margrave. Let's see you dance
to our tune!'

Tarod had stood impassive throughout the brigands'
taunting, but suddenly anger smouldered in him and
with it came a resurgence of another, familiar feeling.
He'd made no move to challenge his assailants, knowing
he was at a disadvantage and unsure of how much
power, if any, he could bring to bear against them. But
the anger had awoken other emotions, and he realised
that, weakened though he might be, he was still far more
than a match for such a gaggle of arrogant fools.

'Ravakin.' He spoke quietly but the abrupt change in
the tone of his voice made the brigand leader frown. The
knife-blade wavered, and with a contemptuous gesture

Tarod reached up to brush it aside. Ravakin's face red-
dened with rage and he would have struck out, but his
horse shifted back, sensing something that, as yet, was
beyond its master's comprehension. Green eyes met
Ravakin's faded grey ones, and the brigand leader's
gaze was held fast.

'I give you one chance,' Tarod said softly. 'Go about
your business - trouble some other traveller, and leave
me in peace. You'll have no further warning, Ravakin.'

Ravakin continued to stare at him for a few more
moments, then he threw his head back and bellowed
with laughter.

'A threat! A threat, from the Margrave of the Seven
Hells and no less a personage!' Reassured, his followers
joined in the laughter. 'No knife, no sword, not even a
stave about him, and he thinks to frighten me!' The
laughter died into a hiccup and Ravakin wiped his nose
and streaming eyes on his sleeve. Then his broad grin
abruptly changed to an ugly scowl and he said with harsh
contempt, 'Kill him.'

In their anxiety to ape their leader's every change of
mood, the men were still sniggering, and were slow to
react to the command. Before they could make a move,
Tarod's left hand shot out and clamped over the nose of
Ravakin's horse; and he spoke a single, alien word.

The animal shrieked and reared and Tarod only just
ducked aside in time to avoid its flailing hoofs. The
brigand leader let out a yell of astonishment that
instantly changed to a cry of terror as the panicking beast
bucked. He lost his grip and pitched sideways out of the
saddle, to land with a bone-cracking thump in the dust.
The horse bolted, and Ravakin's cry became a roar of
insensate fury as he tried to struggle to his feet, groping
for his lost blade. He was halfway up when appallingly
powerful fingers took him by the throat and forced his
head round at an agonising angle, until, twisted and
racked with pain, he stared into Tarod's ice-hard green
eyes.

The men who survived him could never even guess at
the nature of the horrors that Ravakin saw in that

moment; the illusions Tarod conjured were for him
alone, and they were born of an ancient, malevolent
power that delighted in torment. All they saw was the
dark and malignant aura that flickered into existence
about the man who, until moments ago, had been easy
and entertaining prey. Their horses whinnied and
reared, and above their noise came the sound of Rav-
akin's scream, an incoherent plea and protest as his
mind toppled over the brink of insanity. His eyes bulged
and his face turned purple; his hands clawed desperately
at the unnameable phantasms that bore down on him,
and among which the cruelly smiling face of the black-
haired stranger seemed to burn like fire. He twisted and
writhed, gargling as his tongue protruded like a bloated
serpent from his mouth - then the transfixed men heard
a single, sickening crack, as, one-handed, Tarod broke
Ravakin's neck.

The brigand band didn't wait to witness their leader's
final fate. Even as Tarod swung to face them, incensed
still by rage and anticipating attack from behind, they
were hauling their mounts' heads around and digging
frantic heels into the animals' flanks, spurring them
away and not caring where they fled. Their voices, shrill
with panic, goaded the animals on, and Tarod was left
staring after them as the blindness of fury slowly drained
away.

The brigands' voices and the thunder of hoofs were
lost to the soughing wind, and he reeled back against the
rock outcrop, suddenly drained and weak. Not two
paces away Ravakin lay, tongue out and round eyes
staring stupidly at a boulder a foot from his nose, and
Tarod looked down at the corpse with a surge of disgust.
To do what he had done had been sheer, wanton malefi-
cence. It would have been simple enough to kill the
brigand leader, without the need for such savage cru-
elty; and yet he had been unable to resist the temptation.
The power had flowed in him, and he had used it... he
looked at his left hand, and the ruined base of the ring
that he still wore on his index finger. Even without the
Chaos stone there was evil in him. With the stone

restored, how much harder would it be to fight such a
baneful influence?

On the heels of that thought came a barbed feeling
that he was indulging in self-pity. More important than
his well-being was that of Cyllan, who carried the Chaos
stone and had none of his powers to aid her. If he was to
find her, pragmatism dictated that he must waste no time
and use whatever resources he had to hand, whatever his
conscience might argue.

He straightened, moved to stand over the corpse, and
stirred it with one foot so that it rolled on to its back.
Ignoring the accusing, sightless stare, Tarod searched
Ravakin's body. As well as his short sword, the brigand
leader had carried a sharp and well-balanced knife in an
embroidered sheath, doubtless the property of some
earlier victim; and in a pouch under his coat were coins -
about fifty gravines in all - and a handful of small but
fairly valuable gemstones. Enough, at least, to enable
Tarod to maintain an image that would arouse no sus-
picion in the provincial towns.

He looked up, and saw the dead man's horse standing
a short distance away, head down and watching him. It
had obviously been trained to stand when unmounted,
and once its fear had receded it obeyed that training.
Tarod raised a hand and snapped his fingers, uttering a
low, guttural sound. The horse pricked up its ears and
approached, uncertainly at first then with greater con-
fidence as he added a silent, mental command to the
gesture. It was a good animal, a big-boned and powerful
bay; no brigand in his right senses would use anything
but a strong and reliable mount, and Ravakin had been
an expert in his own nefarious way. The horse stood
passive while Tarod examined its two saddlebags. In
them he found more coins, a woman's bronze and enamel
necklace and matching bracelet, and a supply of food -
dried meat and slabs of a naturally fermented fruit; the
rations of a man who travelled light but needed good
sustenance. There was also a wine-skin, three-quarters
empty but useful for carrying water, and Tarod drank
the remainder of its contents and ate one of the dried

fruit slabs while he checked the animal's harness, buck-
led the sheathed knife on to his belt, and finally swung
himself into the bay's saddle. As the animal raised its
head and snorted, eager to be away from the outcrop
with its smell of death, Tarod pulled the necklace and
bracelet from the saddlebag and dropped them on to
Ravakin's body, where they fell with a small, cold clink.
The brigand's followers wouldn't dare to return here;
with luck, the corpse would be found by men from the
Empty Province mines and it was possible that these
ornaments would eventually be returned to their rightful
owner, if she still lived.

He looked over his shoulder. The rain clouds were
little more than a mile away now, but he believed the bay
could outdistance them. Turning the animal's head
South, he urged it into a canter along the rough track.

Cyllan woke to see the ghostly glimmer of false dawn
casting the small window of her room at the High Tree
tavern into pale relief. She turned over in the soft bed,
huddling deeper under the plentiful blankets, and for a
few minutes simply stared at the window until her
awakening senses had fully returned. Then, alarmed,
she sat up.

She hadn't intended to sleep for so long. Although it
was still night, the faint shining in the East told her that
morning wasn't long away, and she had planned to be far
from Wathryn before anyone else was abroad.

She slipped out of bed, wincing as her entire body
protested. The fall she'd taken had battered her badly,
and the full extent of the bruising was only now starting
to make itself felt. To make matters worse, she'd grown
unaccustomed to long hours in the saddle during her stay
at the Castle of the Star Peninsula, and the ride -
especially the flight from the bandits - had given her
muscles further punishment. No matter; she must still be
away. In the wake of what the youth, Gordach, had
unwittingly revealed to her last night, she didn't dare
stay in this town a moment past the dawn.

The air was bitterly cold, and Cyllan wrapped one of

the blankets around herself before padding to the win-
dow and kneeling to peer out. She had been too tired last
night to take in anything but the barest details of her
surroundings; all she remembered was a market square
and the plump, astonished face of Sheniya Win Mar
when her escort brought her to the tavern door. The
innkeeper had bustled her into a long, low room where
brass and pewter gleamed in the light of a banked fire,
and had brought her warmed towels and a dry robe,
vastly too big, in which she had sat dazed on an
inglenook seat while a bowl of hot stew and a cup of wine
were set before her. Sheniya had fiercely rebuffed Lesk
Barith's attempts to question her guest, and once the
man had disconsolately gone the innkeeper lost her
initial sense of awe at housing such a lady - Cyllan smiled
wryly at the memory - under her roof, and had kept up a
stream of comments and reminiscences and opinions,
which enabled Cyllan to eat her food and say nothing.
Sheniya, it transpired, was a widow whose two sons had
long departed the nest, and she had an ample streak of
motherliness which she now lavished on her guest in full
measure. At last, having twice almost fallen into the fire
from sheer fatigue, Cyllan was bundled up a flight of
steep, narrow stairs and helped into bed in the tavern's
best room, Sheniya departing with a final, anxious
injunction that she should be roused instantly should the
lady find herself in need of anything.

Cyllan stared out over the deserted market square,
and thought that what she needed was her horse, sad-
dled and provisioned, and a good head start on the
pursuit that would ensue when the news from the Star
Peninsula permeated through to the High Tree tavern.
As yet, so Gordach had said, only a few local dignitaries
knew the nature of the message brought by falcon from
the Circle's stronghold, but when its full content became
common knowledge she would be in danger. Keridil
Toln must have given a description of the girl who had
escaped the Castle after killing the Margrave of Shu's
son, and her distinctive hair and eyes would be enough
to damn her at a glance. She couldn't hope to maintain

the hastily concocted story she had told to her rescuers;
in the chaotic aftermath of the chase it had served well
enough, but it wouldn't stand up to further investiga-
tion. If she was to keep her freedom - and, she reminded
herself grimly, her life - she must flee, while she still had
the chance.

She was about to move away from the window when a
shadow that moved suddenly at the far side of the square
arrested her attention. The stabbing glow of a lantern
flared between two buildings, and a man, yawning and
wrapped in a heavy cloak, appeared, crossing the wet
flagstones towards a monolithic stone slab that stood
alone at the square's centre.

Cyllan had seen Law Stones in every small town she
had passed through during her harsh years as a drover.
They were erected in market-places, harbours, any-
where, in fact, where people congregated; and on their
pitted surfaces were displayed documents of vital
importance to the inhabitants. News of the death of any
one of the land's three leaders, or of the province's own
Margrave, would warrant display on the Law Stone, as
would any new edicts passed by the Court of the High
Margrave on Summer Isle . . . any information, in fact,
that was intended for the attention of every man, woman
and child in the district, or in the whole world.

She licked lips that were suddenly dry as she watched
the man stop by the Law Stone and take from under the
folds of his cloak a rolled piece of parchment and a short,
blunt-headed hammer. Moments later the dull, staccato
sound of the parchment being nailed to the Law Stone
cut through the night quiet. The coincidence was too
strong - that notice could only concern herself and
Tarod. And when dawn broke, a drum would be
sounded in the market square to summon all within
hearing to the Stone, where the details of the notice
would be read aloud to the townsfolk, so that no one
would miss the important news.

Not for the first time, Cyllan cursed her own lack of
learning. She could neither read nor write, and so if she
wanted to find out what the notice contained she must

wait for dawn and the official announcement. But she
didn't dare wait. If, as she believed, the parchment
contained an edict from the Star Peninsula, the province
militia would have been alerted long before the general
notice was posted, and by now the hunt must be on.
Chances were that the men who had saved her from the
brigands had already been given her description, and
realised whom they had rescued. The militia might come
for her at any moment - she must go, and go now.

The watchman, still yawning, had completed his task
and was walking away, his lantern bobbing like a will-
o'-the-wisp. Cyllan's eyes were now better adjusted to
the dark and she looked round her room. To her
immense relief, she saw the clothes in which she had
arrived at the tavern laid out neatly over a chair, cleaned
and dried. Sheniya Win Mar had been better than her
word; she'd promised the dry garments for the morning,
but it seemed that her guest's apparent status had been
an incentive to complete the task before retiring to bed.
As she discarded the blanket and began to dress, shiver-
ing, Cyllan reflected wryly that the past few hours had
given her an undreamed-of glimpse of what life as a lady
of quality must be like. People hanging on her every
word, eager to do her bidding and wait on her ... it was
a pity, she thought with some irony, that she hadn't been
able to savour such treatment to the full. Now, with the
full might of the Circle probably roused to find her, it
was unlikely that such an opportunity would ever come
her way again.

Carefully, she reached under her pillow and drew out
the Chaos stone, trying not to be drawn by its solitary,
winking eye. She thrust it into her bodice - it was a pity
that the long, full skirt and jerkin were so impractical for
a speedy, stealthy exit, but there was no help for it - then
dragged her fingers quickly through her pale hair, and
tiptoed to the door.

The inn was silent. No tell-tale sliver of light shone
from under any door, and the steep stairwell lay in
darkness. Praying that she wouldn't miss her footing,
Cyllan crept down the stairs, freezing once with heart-

stopping terror when a settling joist creaked somewhere
in the depths of the old building. After what seemed a
small eternity she reached the lower floor, and the heavy
door that stood between her and freedom. The door
bore a massive bolt, and it was too much to hope that the
bolt could be drawn silently. It slid back with a grating
rasp, protesting at long need of oiling, and Cyllan's teeth
clenched agonisingly together as she listened for an
answering stir from upstairs. But no sound came; She-
niya Win Mar, it seemed, slept on. At last, knowing she
dared wait no longer, Cyllan eased the door open and
slipped out into the early morning.

The cold struck her instantly; the windless, bitter cold
of early Spring. In the Castle of the Star Peninsula she
had had no need of shoes, and the cut-down men's boots
she had once worn were long lost to the sea. Now, as the
chill of the market square's stone paving struck up
through her soles, she would have given almost anything
to have them back, and, too, the cloak that had gone last
night during her desperate flight from the brigands. No
matter; she must do without - there were more urgent
considerations.

Teeth chattering, she moved along the front wall of
the tavern, keeping a wary eye on the deserted square,
until she reached a side alley. Through an arch she could
just discern the outline of low buildings behind the inn,
which logic dictated must be the stables. She was half-
way to her goal . . .

Thankfully, it seemed that Sheniya Win Mar kept no
stable lad, nor any of the ferocious geese which many
farmers used as popular and efficient guardians, and
only a continuing silence greeted Cyllan as she
unlatched the stable door and glided inside. Dark shapes
moved uneasily and she saw the white of a rolling eye;
instinctively she made a low, soft noise in her throat, a
sound her uncle had taught her to use in calming nervous
animals. The horses subsided, and she heard a soft,
contented blowing of breath.

There were only three of them in the stables; a sway-
backed black mare, a shaggy pony, and the big iron-grey

gelding. Harness was ranged on hooks high on the wall;
she recognised her own by the mud - and sweat-stains on
the leather, and set about saddling the gelding. A swift
check told her that the animal had been well fed and
watered; giving the saddle-girth a final tug to check its
security, she backed the gelding gently out of its stall and
turned it towards the door. As they emerged, the ani-
mal's hoofs rang loudly on cobbles, striking vivid blue
sparks, and in consternation Cyllan brought it to a halt,
staring up at the dark bulk of the tavern. For a moment
she thought her luck had held - then a lamp flared in an
upstairs window, and seconds later the curtain was
pulled aside and a pale, indistinct face looked directly
down at her.

Cyllan felt bile clogging her throat as she stared,
appalled, at the face. She heard - or thought she heard;
she could never be certain - a voice calling out, and it
snapped her out of the initial shock so that instinct took
over. She reached up, grabbed at the saddle, and heaved
—her foot, flailing, found a stirrup and with a frantic kick
she sprawled astride the gelding's back. It pranced side-
ways; she gathered up the reins, still struggling to right
herself, then drove her heels hard into its flanks.

The noise of the big horse careering out of the alley
was enough to rouse half Wathryn town, but it was too
late for any attempt at stealth. Cyllan had been seen - all
she could do was ride for her life. She crouched over the
gelding's neck, shrilly urging it on and lashing at it with
the looped reins; they raced out across the market
square, missing the Law Stone by a hair's-breadth, and
pounded towards the road. Ahead, a break in the clouds
showed a glaring, green-purple sliver of light where the
Sun would rise; Cyllan swung her mount's head to the
right, cutting away from the road and turning south-
ward. She expected at any moment to hear the sounds of
pursuers, but none came; they reached the trees beyond
the town, and still there were no distant hoofbeats echo-
ing behind them. At last she allowed the gelding to halt,
and turned in the saddle, looking back.

Wathryn town slept on. Whether Sheniya Win Mar

had recognised her erstwhile guest or whether she
thought herself the victim of a horse-thief, she hadn't yet
roused help - and that was enough to give Cyllan the
start she needed. Ahead lay the great arable plains of the
South, and finally, Shu Province itself, where, if he still
lived, Tarod would seek her.

If he still lived . . . Cyllan touched the place where
the Chaos stone nestled, and softly murmured a prayer
that was not directed to Aeoris. Then she settled herself
more comfortably in the saddle, and urged the gelding
on into the shelter of the trees.

Chapter 3

'Keridil?' The tall, patrician girl had entered the room so
quietly that he'd been unaware of her presence until she
moved out of the shadows to where the High Initiate
stood by the window. He turned, startled, then smiled as
she reached up to kiss him.

'You look tired, my love.' Her voice was warm with
concern. 'You should take time to rest for a while - the
world won't stop turning while you sleep.'

He smiled again and put an arm about her shoulders,
hugging her. 'In a while. I'll sleep in a while.' He nodded
towards the window where the day was brightening.
'We're still waiting for the first of the messenger-birds to
return. They've taken longer than I'd have liked; I
hoped that their news would be disseminated
throughout the provinces by now.'

Sashka sighed faintly. 'Then there's still no word of
Tarod's whereabouts?'

'Nothing. We've tried to trace him by magical means,
of course; and the Seers of the Sisterhood are using all
their skills. But I know Tarod of old - if he doesn't want
to be found, it could take more than our Adepts are
capable of to locate him.'

'You'll find him.' She spoke with such venom that
Keridil was momentarily taken aback to hear a hatred
that matched his own. 'You'll find him, Keridil. And
when you do - ' The nails of one hand dug into the
opposite palm as she clenched her fingers together.
When Tarod was recaptured, she would savour his lin-
gering death. Twice now he'd thwarted the Circle; she
was determined this time not to be cheated of her
pleasure in his final demise. And maybe she would

indulge herself by seeing him one last time, to remind
him that he had once touched her and known her and
loved her ... A small, pleasurable shiver ran the
length of her spine, and Keridil, noticing, said solic-
itously, 'Cold, love?'

'No . . .' She let one hand stray to his hip and pressed
closer against him, aroused by her own thoughts and by
memories from the days before Keridil had replaced
Tarod in her affections. Then, unbidden, the image of
another girl's face focused in her mind; small, plain,
angular, framed by unkempt, silver-fair hair - and a cold
shaft of anger destroyed the burgeoning desire. She
moved away abruptly towards the window, her fists
clenching again, and said, trying not to betray her feel-
ings, 'And what of that peasant girl?'

'Cyllan Anassan?' Keridil watched her, aware of the
turmoil in her mind and trying to quell a stab of suspicion
as to its cause. 'He'll be looking for her; I've no doubt of
that - and she has the Chaos stone. It's imperative that
we find her before he does.'

Sashka hunched her shoulders like some predatory
bird. That wasn't what I meant. I know you'll capture
them, Keridil - I know it. But when she's brought back
to the Castle - what then?'

He didn't answer immediately, and she turned her
head to regard him. He returned the look, his doubts
still not entirely allayed, and said at last: There's a price
on her head now, not just for abetting Chaos but for
Drachea Rannak's murder. In all conscience, I couldn't
decree anything else. But in all conscience, Sashka,
neither do I like the idea of executing a woman.'

Sashka's eyes narrowed. 'Even a woman who killed a
Margrave's son and heir in cold blood?'

'Even that.' There was a slight edge to Keridil's voice
as he added, 'Couldn't you kill, Sashka? Wouldn't you,
for something you truly believed in?'

'If she believes in Chaos, she deserves nothing better
than death!'

'I didn't say she believes in Chaos,' Keridil replied

evenly. 'I don't think she does. But she believes in
Tarod.'

His expression warned Sashka just in time to control
her reaction, and she realised that the words were a
challenge. If she argued, if she showed emotion or
anger, Keridil would suspect the truth - that much of her
hatred of Cyllan was rooted in jealousy. She herself had
spurned and betrayed Tarod in favour of the High Init-
iate, but the knowledge that Tarod's feelings had like-
wise turned to someone else was almost more than she
could tolerate. Especially so when that someone was a
common peasant-drover with neither beauty nor breed-
ing in her favour. Now, of all times, she mustn't allow
Keridil to so much as glimpse the truth . . .

Her face composed, she paced slowly across the room
towards him and laid a hand on his sleeve. Her fingers
traced a sensuous pattern on his arm. 'You're right, of
course,' she said softly, conciliating and thankful that
she now knew her lover well enough to reveal what she
wished to reveal, hide what she wished to hide. 'It is hard
to condemn out of hand. If, for instance, I were defend-
ing you - '

He laughed at the idea, but the tension faded. 'I hope
there'll never be need for that!'

She cast her eyes down and raised his hand to her lips
to kiss it, her tongue licking lightly at his skin. 'Still, if
such a time were ever to come . . . ' Her teeth nibbled
at his fingers. 'If you needed me ... ' She let the
ambiguous suggestion hang unfinished and was gratified
after a moment to feel his arm slip around her waist and
pull her towards him.

'If -' Keridil began, then stopped at the sound of a
commotion in the courtyard. He swung round towards
the window, looked out -

'A bird! One of the messengers has returned!' His
hold on her changed its nature and he kissed her quickly,
nothing more than a salute, before releasing her
altogether. 'Love, forgive me - I must see what it
brings!' And before she could speak he ran from the
room, the door banging behind him.

Sashka stared at the door, then spat out a curse which,
from the lips of a girl of gentility and breeding, would
have made her mother faint dead away.

The hawk was from Southern Chaun. Keridil recognised
the distinctive seal of the Matriarch herself, Sister Ilyaya
Kimi, as he pushed his way through the gathered
onlookers. The Castle's falconer detached the message
from the bird's leg and gravely handed it to him, while
the bird fluttered its wings and settled on its master's
wrist, tired but still ready to lash out at anyone who
made an unwary move. Keridil walked a discreet dis-
tance away, and as he broke the seal on the tightly rolled
parchment he saw Gant Ambaril Rannak approaching
through the small crowd.

'High Initiate.' The Margrave had witnessed the
hawk's arrival from his window, and his tired eyes were
hungry and haunted. 'There's news . . . ?'

'A letter from the Matriarch of the Sisterhood.'
Keridil didn't unroll the parchment, despite the other
man's obvious eagerness. 'I think it unlikely that she'll
have tidings of our fugitives. I'm sorry.' He tried to
soften the words with a sympathetic smile. 'The moment
we do hear word of Drachea's assassin, I'll send for you.'

Gant nodded, swallowing his disappointment and
remembering, with an effort, that letters sent between
two of the land's three prime rulers were no concern of a
mere provincial Margrave. 'Of course . . . thank you,'
he said. 'When I saw the bird, I simply wondered . . . '
He straightened his shoulders a little. 'I'll return to my
wife.'

Keridil walked with him to the main door, then, as the
Margrave climbed the stairs to the upper floors, he
hurried back to his study. Sashka rose from his chair as
he entered.

'What is it?' There was a keen edge to her tone.

'A message from Sister Ilyaya Kimi.'

'The Matriarch?' For a moment Sashka's eyes
widened; as a Novice in the Sisterhood she had been
taught to revere their supreme head as little less than

wisdom incarnate, and, however exalted she might be as
the High Initiate's betrothed, the habit died hard. As
Keridil sat on the edge of the table and opened the
letter, she made no attempt to look over his shoulder as
she might otherwise have done, but watched, tense,
while he read in silence. And within moments she knew
something was amiss.

Keridil read the crabbed, curlicued script with its over
elaborate phrasing several times, half hoping that he had
failed to interpret the words correctly. But there could
be no mistake; the question that he had raised with such
trepidation had been answered.

Ilyaya Kimi was now in her eighties and infirm, but
her mind - barring her eccentricities and a tendency to
fits of petulance - was as sharp as ever. Receiving the
High Initiate's message, she had seen immediately the
danger inherent in spreading the news of Tarod's escape
- although she agreed wholeheartedly with Keridil's
belief that the truth couldn't be withheld. Briefly, and
with an insight that made him shiver, she outlined her
view of the hysteria which could take hold throughout
the provinces once the alarm had been raised. Chaos
was every man and woman's ancestral nightmare, a
legacy from a past that, though long forgotten, refused
to die. And there was, she stated, only one course of
action which, in her view, the High Initiate must take.

Keridil let the hand holding the parchment fall to his
side, and rubbed at his eyes with the thumb and fore-
finger of the other. He wished to all the gods that his
father, Jehrek, were still alive. Jehrek had had the
wisdom and judgement that sprang from years of experi-
ence, and his son desperately needed that wisdom now,
to help him. If only he hadn't died . . . And something
in Keridil's soul turned black as he remembered that it
was Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who had taken the old
man's life . . .

'Keridil?' He had all but forgotten Sashka's presence
in the room, and looked up with a start, as though a
ghost had spoken. She was watching him, dark eyes
wide, one hand reaching tentatively towards him.

'Keridil, what is it? What does she say?'

Jehrek was no longer here to help him . . . but
Sashka would. And however wrong it might be to con-
fide in anyone outside the Circle, however strongly the
Council of Adepts might disapprove, Keridil needed to
share this burden with her.

He took hold of her hand and said, quietly, 'Sister
Ilyaya Kimi has formally asked me to call the Conclave
of Three.'

Sashka stared at him, stunned. She understood, he
knew; but now that the first words were out he had to
speak the rest. 'She asks me to inform the High Mar-
grave, and to begin the preparations. He paused, then:
'She confirms what I feared most, Sashka . . . that our
only hope of defeating Chaos is to sail to the shrine on
the White Isle, and open the casket of Aeoris.'

*****

The townsfolk who had gathered in the small square
fronting the justice house of Vilmado were too intent on
their own business to pay much attention to the auburn-
haired stranger who rode in on a shaggy, unkempt pony
with another trailing resentfully behind her. The after-
noon was waning, the Sun slanting in a blood-ruby glow
that cast long shadows, and an irritable wind had risen
from the North-East, biting through clothing and
reminding everyone that Summer was still a long way
off.

Cyllan halted beside a low, shambling row of roofed-
over market stalls and slid from the leading pony's back,
slapping its nose hard as it tried to bite her. There
seemed to be a meeting in progress in the square; a man
in official regalia stood on the steps of the justice house,
flanked by others wearing hastily assembled military
garb and carrying an assortment of weapons. The official
was speaking to the crowd, occasionally stretching out
both hands in a calming gesture as his restless listeners
began to shout in reply, but Cyllan was too far away to
hear what was being said. She turned to the first of the

covered market stalls, where a tall, thin woman stood
arms akimbo, frowning at the throng.

'What's to do?'

The stallholder stared down her long nose, her look
unfriendly. 'Enough to disrupt my trade and send me
home with an empty pocket, that's what.'

She didn't seem anxious to elaborate, so Cyllan
asked, 'Is there an inn near by which might have a room
free?'

'An inn?' The woman stared at her again, making no
secret of the fact that she was assessing the stranger and
contemptuous of what she saw. 'Try the Two Panniers.
That's where drovers and their like usually go.' She
nodded towards a narrow alley. 'At the far end of that
street.'

Cyllan thanked her and led the surly ponies away.
Dank shadows closed round her as she entered the alley,
and the smells of the lane gutter mingled with the barely
more appetising odour of soured food. She found the
Two Panniers easily enough - not prepossessing, but it
fitted the image she now presented - and tied the ani-
mals to a ring in the crumbling wall. Then, on the verge
of stepping over the threshold, she paused as fear
clutched at her stomach and made her queasy.

What if she were recognised? Two days had passed
since her flight from Wathryn; chances were that the
Circle's message concerning her escape had by now
spread throughout the land, and the crowd at the justice
house were even now being told of the servant of Chaos
with a price on her head. She'd been safe enough on the
road, encountering no one but the occasional band of
drovers and one small tithe-caravan, but here in a town
she was dangerously exposed. And if she should be
suspected -

She checked the train of thought, sternly telling her-
self she was being foolish. She couldn't hope to avoid
every town and hamlet on her journey southward; she
needed to mingle with people if she was to hear any
rumour of Tarod or clue to his whereabouts. Besides,
she reminded herself, Keridil Toln's search was for a girl

with long, pale blonde hair, riding a well-bred grey
gelding. An auburn-headed drover in charge of two
surly ponies would merit no more than a single glance.

The thought gave her courage; but nonetheless her
legs felt weak as she pushed open the rickety door of the
Two Panniers and stepped inside.

The tavern-room was empty but for a gangling pot-
boy, who looked up as she entered. His eyes took in a
plain girl in a man's cut-down trousers, hide coat and
riding boots, her red-brown hair twisted into a rough
knot at her neck. She smiled tentatively; he grinned
back.

'Avnoon.'

Cyllan glanced round the room, took in the sluggish
fire, the empty tables. There was a smell of food,
thankfully more pleasant than the stinks outside. She
approached the bar and said, 'I'll have a mug of herb
beer, and a platter of meats and bread if you have them.'

The potboy nodded. 'Got plenty. Twill be crowded
when that there meeting's done in the square.' He was
still looking at her and her skin began to crawl - until she
realised that his scrutiny was hopeful rather than sus-
picious. He grinned again. 'Got some fresh spiceroots,
too; new harvest. I can get you a plate of 'em to go with
the meats.'

'Yes - thank you.'

He hurried round to usher her to a table near the fire,
then, remembering his master's constant exhortations,
his face clouded. 'You got the money?' he asked.
'Innkeeper says I can't serve no one without the money.
Quarter-gravine.'

Cyllan felt in her belt-pouch and pulled out a coin.
The lad took it, bit it, then nodded his satisfaction. 'I'll
fetch your order.'

As he loped away, Cyllan leaned her head back
against the rough wall and closed her eyes, letting the
fire's small but welcome warmth suffuse through her. So
far, so good - she was safe to rest awhile and ease her
hunger. And, for a time at least, the new disguise would
serve her.

The drover-band with whom she'd bartered to
exchange the Margrave's gelding for some old clothes,
two broken-down ponies and ten gravines in coin had
asked no questions, content to spit and close palms on
the deal. Cyllan knew she'd sold the horse for under half
its value; the ponies were all but worthless, and the
gelding would fetch a good forty or fifty gravines from
the right buyer, but the fact that the bargain had been so
much to their advantage would ensure the drovers'
silence. Her uncle had conducted enough shady business
in his time for Cyllan to know the ways of drovers all too
well; there'd be no danger there. She'd bought the hide
coat and boots from a travelling clothman, and had
completed her disguise in the woods the following morn-
ing, when she stripped the young, copper-brown bark
from a bellflower bush, pulped it in the water of a small
pool and, gasping at the cold shock, washed her hair
thoroughly with the mixture to stain it auburn. The
coloration wasn't permanent; she'd have to hide her hair
from the rain and the bark's effects would wear off
within a week or so, but until then it would suffice.

She'd made good progress thus far - barring her close
brush with disaster in Wathryn - but she knew that as she
advanced further into the well-populated South the
journey would become ever more dangerous. She was
now, as far as she could tell, in the borderlands between
Chaun and Prospect provinces, and the land was becom-
ing kinder; flat, arable country crossed by major drove-
roads, but without the dense forests of the North to
provide concealment. Last night she'd camped on open
ground beside a tributary of one of the great western
rivers, only summoning the courage to light a fire when
the night became too cold to endure without; during the
previous day she'd widely skirted two hamlets, and had
forced herself to ride into Vilmado this afternoon simply
because to avoid it would have meant a wide and difficult
detour. And the further South she rode, the more towns
she encountered, the greater the risk of being captured.
She had to find Tarod - but she'd heard no word of him,
and still had no idea where in all the world he might be.

Last night, warmed by her fire but unable to sleep
through fear of being caught unawares by brigands or
even a local farmer, she'd tried to use her own simple
form of geomancy to make contact with Tarod. But
without her precious bag of stones the attempt was a
failure, and even with the pebbles Cyllan doubted if she
would have fared any better. She didn't have the skill for
such a task, and now even her hope that Tarod would
use his own powers to find her was waning. If he had
tried - if he was capable of trying - then she hadn't the
psychic wit to hear him.

At last she had taken the Chaos stone from its hiding
place and looked at in the flickering glow, turning it over
and over in her hands and feeling it pulse as though it
had a life of its own. Gazing into its multifaceted depths,
she'd imagined that it became an eye staring back at her,
and that beyond the eye she could glimpse an echo of
Yandros's smile ... or Tarod's. But the illusion lasted
only a moment, and after that the stone was dull again.
Later, as dawn broke, she had roused from an uneasy
doze thinking she heard a faraway high, elemental
scream that heralded the coming of a Warp - but that,
too, was an illusion. Yet, she told herself, if Yandros was
trying to aid her in her search, he would surely -

Her thoughts were interrupted by the potboy's return.
He placed two plates and a brimming mug on the table
before her, then hovered, shifting from one foot to the
other and clearly hoping to strike up a conversation.
Well, she could lose nothing by talking, Cyllan thought;
taverns like this were the source of a good deal of well-
informed gossip, and potboys renowned for their
willingness to repeat what they'd heard to anyone pre-
pared to listen. But before she could speak an encourag-
ing word, the sound of feet tramping down the alley
outside drew their attention. There was a rumble of
rough voices, a pony - probably one of her own -
squealed, then the door burst open and a dozen or so
men came in, with a few women following behind.

The man who headed the group - short but brawny,

and sweating despite the East wind - stopped and
glowered at the potboy.

There's two ponies tethered outside. What did I tell
you about letting any dirty rag-tag use my hitching ring
without so much as a by-your-leave?'

The potboy flushed scarlet and jerked a thumb at
Cyllan, though he was too mortified to speak. The
innkeeper stared at the girl, whom he hadn't noticed
before, then grunted. 'Yours, are they?'

'Mine.' Cyllan had met too many belligerent tavern-
owners in her time to be cowed by the man's manner.
She smiled without humour. 'And I've paid for my
food.'

The innkeeper grunted again, a tacit acceptance and
as near to an apology as she'd get from him. The potboy
said, 'Shall I draw you some beer, master?'

'No.' The innkeeper glowered at him. 'You're to get
along to the justice house. They want every able-bodied
man or lad who wasn't at the meeting, and they want 'em
now. I'd say you count as able-bodied, even if you're not
able-brained.'

One of the women - around Cyllan's age but black-
haired, her mouth painted crimson and her arms fes-
tooned with cheap bracelets - laughed shrilly, and the
potboy flushed again. 'At - at the justice house? Now?'

'Now! You're not deaf as well as stupid, are you? Go
on; move those spindle shanks!'

The lad bolted, and the moment he was out of the
door one of the men slammed and bolted it behind him,
then, to Cyllan's surprise, quickly made a sign against
evil. The innkeeper's wife, meanwhile, had hastened
behind the counter, but instead of drawing ale for the
company she was rummaging in a store-cupboard.

'Here,' she said, emerging at last with something in
her hands. 'Hang this at the door, Cappik.'

Her husband stared at her. 'Don't be ridiculous,
woman!'

'No, no; let her be, Cappik, Can't do any harm, after
all, can it?' another of the men argued.

With a shrug the innkeeper gave way, and the woman

hung what she carried on the bar of the door. Cyllan
recognised it as a charm-necklace - a crudely fashioned
string of small beads, with tiny scrolls of paper tied at
intervals into the string. Her grandmother in the Eastern
Flatlands had had one, though they were rare now; each
scroll had written on it a prayer to Aeoris, and the
necklace was intended as a powerful amulet against
demonic forces.

As the woman looped the necklace over the door-bar,
the atmosphere in the tavern-room underwent a change,
as though her small gesture had brought into focus
something which no one had previously been willing to
admit or face. Tension flowered from nowhere and
became palpable; the men stared silently at the slowly
swinging necklace, and Cyllan's psychic senses instantly
picked up the cold taint of fear. She said nothing, merely
continued eating, while the landlord's wife poured ale
for the men with a good deal of unnecessary noise and
bustle. The sounds were intrusive against the quiet back-
drop; even the brash girl had fallen silent. Finally mugs
were passed around, and the beer seemed to revive
flagging spirits, for talk broke out again though it was
low-pitched and desultory. Cyllan tried to concentrate
on what was being said, but could only catch the occa-
sional word - until a footfall by her table made her look
up, and she saw the innkeeper standing over her.

He grunted by way of preamble, then said, 'Just came
in today, did you?'

Cyllan nodded. 'No more than an hour ago.' Her
pulse quickened, but she gave no outward sign of her
unease.

'It'll be dark in a couple of hours. Where do you mean
to go tonight?'

She couldn't fathom the reason for such searching
questions, and his manner was making her nervous. She
shrugged. 'I was planning to ask if you had a room
unoccupied.'

To her surprise, a look of relief spread across the
landlord's face, and he hitched his stomach up over his
stressed breeches. 'We have, and if you can pay you're

welcome.' Without waiting for an invitation, he sat
down opposite her. 'I wouldn't advise anyone to take to
the roads after dark, not now.' He paused, his shrewd
grey eyes assessing her. 'You're a drover?'

Cyllan had carefully prepared her story before she
rode into the town, and she nodded again. 'I'm heading
to Southern Chaun to meet up with my cousin's band.'

'Easterner, aren't you?'

'Yes. From the Flatlands.' There could be no harm in
admitting the truth; half the drovers in the world came
from that province or its northern neighbour.

'Thought so. Knew the accent; we get a lot of 'em
through here. Where've you been trading?'

'Wishet,' Cyllan lied. 'I had a dozen good blood mares
to deliver in Port Summer.' She grinned. 'I could have
done with one of them left over to take me westward,
instead of those two spavined nags outside.'

The innkeeper guffawed, and she knew that that small
embellishment had allayed any lingering suspicions he
might have had. It was disconcerting to realise how
easily she could slip back into the mannerisms of her old
way of life, and she reflected wryly that, despite Tarod's
influence, she was still a peasant-drover at heart; the
role fitted her like a well-worn glove.

The innkeeper's laughter faded abruptly and he wiped
his mouth with the back of his hand. 'Wherever you're
bound, you'll be travelling by day and keeping to the
main drove roads if you've got a half-gravine of sense.'

Cyllan was suddenly alert. 'Will I? Why?'

'You haven't heard what's afoot?'

She shook her head, and the man grunted, beginning
to sweat again. He was clearly embarrassed at admitting
to caring a whit for a stranger's welfare, but the fear that
lurked poorly hidden behind his eyes drove him to be
more forthcoming than his nature dictated.

'No,' he said, 'Maybe if you've ridden from Wishet
the story hasn't reached there yet ... 'He leaned
forward across the table, pitching his voice low, and
abruptly the fear in his look blossomed into a real and
immediate emotion. 'Word's come from the far North -

from the High Initiate of the Circle himself.' He made
the Sign of Aeoris over his heart, and Cyllan had the wit
to do the same. 'Two people - if you can call 'em human
- have escaped from the Circle's justice, and the whole
land's going to be in a ferment till they're found.'

'Why?' Cyllan asked. 'What have they done?'

The landlord licked his lips uneasily. 'Murder, sor-
cery, demonology - but that's only the beginning. It isn't
so much what they've done as what they are.' He glanced
towards the door with the charm-necklace hanging
bizarrely on it, then added, making the Sign of Aeoris
again, Servants of Chaos.'

The words were spoken from the corner of his mouth,
as though he were terrified of being overheard by some
supernatural agency. Cyllan opened her eyes wide and
hoped that her expression of shock was convincing.
'Chaos?' she repeated in a whisper. 'But surely it doesn't
exist any more?'

'So we all thought. But the word comes from the High
Initiate himself. And while these evil-doers are at large,
we're all in danger.' He shuddered, leaning back and
giving her a stern, appraising look. 'I wouldn't be a
drover travelling the roads with those fiends loose in the
land. Not for all the wine in Southern Chaun!'

'Hey, Cappik! What're you doing, keeping your guest
to yourself and away from decent company?' A tall,
swarthy man loomed at the table and shouldered the
landlord aside to sit down, giving Cyllan a gap-toothed
grin as he did so. He raised his mug to gesture at her. 'I
reckon that's what we all need tonight. Decent
company.'

One by one the others were gathering round, gravitat-
ing towards the fire. The landlord's wife added new logs;
they arranged themselves at near-by tables, the women
rinding room where they could, and Cyllan was soon the
centre of a good deal of attention. There was no danger
in their interest; it was merely the natural, idle curiosity
felt towards any stranger and a chance to divert their
minds from less pleasant thoughts. Tongues loosened as
darkness fell and more beer was drunk, and the men

began to speculate on the news from the North and what
it might mean. Cyllan listened whilst saying little, and
although the talk became wilder and more exaggerated
as the ale took effect, she knew that much of her com-
panions' carelessly professed courage was pure bravado;
the fear engendered in them, and in the whole town, by
the news from the North was real and deep-rooted.
- It was late when she finally climbed the rickety ladder
of steps that led to the inn's upper floor. Downstairs, a
few of the bolder drinkers had defied their terrors to
stumble home through the dark, but most had made
themselves as comfortable as they could around the fire,
and the Two Panniers was bolted and barred for the
night.

Her bed was narrow, hard and not particularly clean;
but after two nights in the open she was thankful for it.
Blowing out the candle and pulling the thin blanket up
around herself, she thought over what she had heard
tonight.

Tarod was alive. The message from the Star Peninsula
had banished her doubts, and she held the knowledge to
her like a precious secret. While he lived and was free,
she had hope . . . but the High Initiate's decree left her
in no doubt that the entire land would be in a furore
searching for him and for her. And the word that the two
fugitives were servants of Chaos added a deadly ele-
ment. Fear had been a tangible companion in the tavern-
room tonight; once word spread, that fear would grow
like a brush-fire in high Summer.

But, for a short while at least, she was safe from
discovery. Tomorrow she would move on southward,
and with luck and the gods - she refused to consider
which gods - on her side, she might learn more on her
journey that would help her to find Tarod.

Cyllan settled herself more comfortably in the narrow
bed. The soul-stone lay hard but warm against her skin;
she slipped one hand into her shirt and let her fingers
close round the stone's hard contours as she fell asleep.

Chapter 4

Tarod's horse pranced restlessly beside the last of the
five timber wagons that rolled slowly along the main
drove road from Han towards Wishet Province. At his
side the unfamiliar weight of a heavy sword slapped
irritatingly against his leg, and he wished he could be rid
of the thing, and rid of the toiling caravan which for two
days now had kept him to a snail's pace. Alone, he could
travel light and fast - but he had given his word to the
elders of Hannik town, and to break it now would attract
suspicion that he could well do without.

Two nights ago he had slept in Hannik at an inn almost
in the shadow of the Province Margrave's residence,
drawn there by a drover's story that the 'Chaos-Lord's
accomplice' had been apprehended in the town. Arriv-
ing, he had found Hannik in an uproar that centred
around a fair-haired girl caught trying to ply her meagre
talents as a fortune-teller, and the small tricks Tarod had
used to disguise himself had unwittingly led him into the
furore. The gold Initiate's badge - taken from the body
of a man he had killed in the Castle - and an ability to
shift, subtly, the image he presented, gave him the per-
fect identity at a time when no one would think twice
about encountering a Circle Adept on an urgent jour-
ney. The town elders had seen the arrival of an Initiate in
their midst as a gift from the gods, and had asked Tarod
to preside over the girl's trial.

The bitter disappointment he had felt when he finally
set eyes on the terrified horse-breeder's daughter from
Empty Province was still like a knife driving between his
ribs when he recalled it. Her cell - a room in the justice
house - was hung about with charms and amulets and

hex-symbols, while the girl crouched sobbing and pro-
testing her innocence in a corner. The appearance of an
Adept of the Circle had sent her into a paroxysm of
terror, and she flung herself at Tarod's feet, begging for
salvation and absolution. Savagely, Tarod turned on the
elders and berated them for fools in thinking that such a
near-simpleton could possibly be the Circle's fugitive.
They apologised profusely whilst at the same time trying
to justify their caution, and at last, remembering his
assumed role, Tarod acknowledged that they had been
right to follow the High Initiate's exhortation and take
no chances. The girl was released, and the elders begged
Tarod to accompany the five wagons that were due to set
out in the morning, insisting that an Initiate's presence
in their midst would be a guarantee of safety as well as
boosting the morale of the hastily assembled militiamen
who were to guard the train on its journey.

'After all, sir,' the senior elder, an unctuous man to
whom Tarod had taken an immediate dislike, said, 'No
minion of evil' (he carefully avoided using the word
Chaos) 'would dare to make any move against a caravan
in which an Adept rode.'

Tarod smiled thinly. 'What makes you think these
fugitives would think of such an act? Their purpose is to
avoid capture, not court it.'

The elder bristled. 'Even demon-worshippers must
eat, sir! Wealthy men travel with this convoy; mer-
chants, ship-owners - with such an evil loose in the land,
we can take no risks, as I'm sure your High Initiate
would agree.'

Keridil doubtless would . . . Aware that he'd only
arouse the old man's suspicions by arguing further,
Tarod made a careless gesture. 'Very well. I'll ride with
the caravan until our paths diverge.'

And so for two days he had accompanied the lumber-
ing wagons and their escort, struggling to check both his
mount's impatience and his own. They had encountered
few other people save for a group of militiamen from
another town, but tension among the travellers was rife,
and increasing with every mile they covered. By now the

messenger-birds from the Castle had completed their
work, and there wasn't a settlement of any size in the
remotest province which hadn't heard the news of the
fugitives' escape. In Hannik, Tarod had seen a copy of
Keridil's proclamation, and its content had surprised
and disturbed him. The High Initiate warned that the
minions of Chaos were abroad and must be
apprehended at all costs, before they could achieve their
evil and deadly aim - to unleash the forces of pan-
demonium throughout the land.

He hadn't believed Keridil could be so implacable in
his hatred, or so blind. The High Initiate knew - indeed,
had known even before his first betrayal of their old
friendship - that Tarod owed no fealty to Chaos; yet he
was prepared to twist the truth in any way that suited the
purpose of recapturing his enemy. And already Tarod
was seeing for himself the results of Keridil's action. His
warning had struck home to the countryfolk, stirring
every deep-rooted superstition, every ancestral mem-
ory, every formless fear in their minds; and, like dry
tinder, that fear was catching fire so fast that Tarod
doubted the ability of any power in the world to stem it.
Hannik had been just a beginning - how many more
innocents like the horse-breeder's daughter would fall
victim to the terror-inspired persecution of their own
kind?

A sharp, atavistic shiver ran along his spine at that
thought, as, involuntarily, his mind dredged up an old
memory. That particular wound had healed during his
years at the Star Peninsula, but now he could recall
the macabre event as clearly as if it were happening all
over again. Himself as a 12-year-old child, standing
bewildered and horrified in the midst of a screaming
mob, while the shattered body of his cousin lay at his
feet, killed by a monstrous power which he hadn't
dreamed any human being could possess.

It was only a game . . . He could almost hear his own
childish voice protesting in terror as the mob closed in.
Council elders, sober merchants and tradesmen, other
boys' mothers, all wielding stones and baying for his

death . . . yes; he knew how the horse-breeder's daugh-
ter must have felt. Keridil, wittingly or not, had opened
the floodgates to a deadly tide.

A commotion near the head of the caravan drew him
suddenly back to the real world. The second timber
wagon was stopping, forcing those behind it to a grind-
ing, protesting halt, and over the creak and squeal of the
carts and the neighing of horses he could hear men
shouting. A young and inexperienced militia guard cast
Tarod a look of helpless appeal whilst struggling to
control his own unreliable mount, and Tarod sighed. In
every matter, from the largest to the smallest, the cara-
van's escort turned to him for authority and guidance,
and their ineptitude was beginning to wear on his
patience. He signalled to the young guard to fall in
behind him, and spurred his horse towards the head of
the convoy.

' . . . and I saw it as plain as the nose on your face!
You were - '

'Take back that insinuation, or by Aeoris, I'll - '

The wind flung snatches of the furious altercation past
his ears as he approached, and he saw that the driver of
the second wagon was quarrelling with a merchant who
rode beside his cart, both deaf to the hesitant entreaties
of the escort leader as he attempted to intervene.
Tarod's voice cut icily through the conflict.

'What's the meaning of this?'

The wagon-driver swung round in his seat, one arm
gesturing wildly at the merchant, and as he did so Tarod
noticed the intricate charm-necklace he wore. Treach-
ery!' The driver's voice was shrill with hysteria. This
man, claiming to be a merchant - he's one of them!'

The merchant opened his mouth to make a furious
rebuttal, but before he could utter a sound Tarod
snapped, 'Be silent!' The man's jaw worked apople-
tically and Tarod added, 'I can't pay attention to both of
you at once! You'll have your chance to speak - for now,
I'll hear the wagoner.'

Gaining confidence, the driver began again. 'We've a
spy in our midst, Adept, I'm sure of it - a Chaos spy!' He

made the Sign of Aeoris hastily before his own face. 'Not
two minutes since, I saw him take something from his
pouch - he held it up to his face, and he murmured to it,
and then he kissed it. It was a stone, a jewel - the High
Initiate himself says that the Chaos fiend carries his soul
in a jewel, and that it's a deadly gem. Sir, there's some-
thing evil about this - I sense it; I smell it! If these
escaped demons can assume disguises, then surely - '

His voice tailed off as Tarod treated him to a searing
look. The merchant was beginning to protest again, and
Tarod touched light heels to his horse's flanks, guiding it
closer to the man. 'Your friend seems to believe he has a
genuine reason for suspicion. What do you have to say?'

The merchant snorted. 'The fool's drunk too much
ale! He's been swigging from that skin beside him since
we set out - '

'Then what he claims to have seen was pure imagin-
ation?' Tarod's tone was a challenge.

The man's face reddened. 'Well  . . .  '

'I'll ask a simple question, and I anticipate a clear
answer, Did he, or did he not, imagine that he saw you
making some ritual obeisance to a jewel?'

In his heart, Tarod cared not one whit for the rights
and wrongs of the argument; he'd have been content to
allow the two to resolve their squabble as best they
could. But he had to remind himself that he was posing
as a genuine Adept of the Circle; with Keridil's exhor-
tations fresh in everyone's minds, not to show a lively
interest was unthinkable.

The merchant turned redder still and mumbled some-
thing that was muffled by his cloak collar. Tarod's eyes
grew dangerous. 'I'm waiting for your answer,
merchant.'

Slowly, and with great reluctance, the man reached
into his belt-pouch and drew out something which he
seemed loth to display. But at last his clenched fingers
opened, and Tarod saw a small and irregularly shaped
piece of quartz lying in his palm. He reached out, took it
without a word, and held it up to examine it.

Someone had, at some time, taken a crude stone-
cutting chisel to the quartz's uneven surface. Carved
into it, ragged but just recognisable, was a familiar
symbol - a circle, or what passed for one, bisected by a
jagged line; and an attempt had been made to mark the
symbol's outlines with some form of dye which was now
all but worn away. It was nothing more than a goodluck
charm, no doubt purchased at a usurer's price from
some scrofulous charlatan at a Quarter-Day fair.

Tarod let his fingers close round the quartz, and
smiled humourlessly at the merchant, whose cheeks
were by now afire with guilty embarrassment. 'I don't
believe,' he said evenly, 'that we have a servant of Chaos
in our midst. More likely, we have a gullible and super-
stitious fool who has spent too much time listening to the
blandishments of itinerant tricksters!' He opened his
hand again. 'What did the seller of this bauble tell you?
That it was imbued with the energies of the gods them-
selves, that it would protect you against every ghoul and
demon a man's imagination can conjure?' Turning in his
saddle he held the quartz out towards the wagon driver.
'There's your Chaos stone - as crude a piece of trumpery
as it's ever been my misfortune to see!' His gaze rested,
pointedly, on the charm-necklace dangling on the
driver's jerkin, and the man had the good grace to blush
almost as deeply as the merchant. Tarod waited until he
was sure the wagoner had understood the significance of
the symbol cut into the crystal's surface, then he raised
his arm and flung the stone as far from the road as he
could.

The Circle doesn't look kindly on charlatans who
profane the sacred for their own profit.' he said crisply.
'And it has little more time for fools who are duped by
such tricks.' The merchant was watching him, half
abashed and half resentful; Tarod stared him down and
he dropped his gaze. 'Under the circumstances I've
some sympathy for you - these aren't easy times. But I'll
warn you now, both of you -I want to hear no more wild
accusations, and I want to see no more acts of childish
superstition!' He turned to the wagoner, who was slowly

removing his own charm-necklace. 'This pathetic affray
has already delayed us. I'd strongly suggest that no more
is said on the matter!'

Without waiting for either man to reply he turned his
horse and rode back to the rear of the caravan, followed
by the young militiaman, who throughout the exchange
had said nothing but who now watched him in mute
admiration. Slowly, the lead wagon began to move and
the others followed; as the creaking convoy got under
way once more Tarod settled his horse to a slow, long-
striding walk, and lapsed into uncomfortable thought.

He might well have been wrong to pour scorn on the
two protagonists and their superstitions. After all, if
their amulets gave them comfort what harm could they
do? But he had sensed something far darker underlying
the altercation; something that echoed the unhappy
affair in Hannik. Fear had seeded suspicion, and that
suspicion was flowering rapidly into hysteria. If a simple
and pitiable belief in good-luck charms could lead to
accusations of being in league with Chaos, how long
would it be before any act, any word, any gesture would
be interpreted as a sign of evil intent?

Perhaps, he told himself, his thoughts ran too fast and
too far. But the hope was quickly followed by a realis-
ation that his instincts were right. In all his years as an
Initiate he had rarely travelled beyond the Star Penin-
sula; he had grown used to living in a community that
understood the nature of superstition and had largely
risen above it - but in the outside world, matters were
very different. To these people Adepts were hardly
lower than gods in their own right, and the Castle a place
to be revered and dreaded. Little wonder that they were
responding to the High Initiate's message like children
frightened by a fireside tale . . .

Did Keridil realise, he wondered, that with his talk of
demons he was in danger of releasing a far greater evil
than anything Yandros had thus far manifested? Or did
he consider the price worth paying, for the sake of
exacting revenge? That thought was chilling, for it
hinted at aspects to the High Initiate's character which,

even prejudiced as he was, Tarod wouldn't have
attributed to him.

He glanced speculatively at the sky, which once again
was threatening rain. The weather, though dismal, had
been oddly calm thus far on his journey - almost too
calm. No storms, no Warps; nothing that suggested the
untoward influence that Yandros might be capable of
asserting should he choose to. It was as though some
other agency were at work, blocking anything the Chaos
lord might do to disrupt the world, and he wondered
what other, more arcane wheels the Circle might have
set in motion in their search for him. Doubtless they'd
use all their occult skills to call on the power of Aeoris to
aid them - but could they truly claim the gods' sanction
for the soul-eating fear that was spreading like a disease
as a result of their work?

Except for a few dark moments, Tarod had never
questioned his loyalty to the Lords of Order; but now a
worm of doubt was moving within him. The truth had
yet to be put to the test - but if Aeoris and his brethren
meant to leave the world to the mercies of their self-
appointed servants whilst doing nothing to stem this
growing peril, then, somewhere, Yandros must be
laughing.

He recalled the tear-blotched face of the terrified girl
in Hannik. She had been one of the first victims, but
there'd be many more to follow in her wake. The night-
mare, every instinct told him, was only just beginning

The heavy rains of recent days had largely avoided
Southern Chaun Province in the far South-West, and so
the timber and thatch of the farmhouse was dry enough
to make a spectacular blaze. Dense, oily smoke roiled
up from the roof; the old vine that rambled over the
walls shrivelled and cracked and writhed into twisting,
dying snakes; and already the brilliant glare of fire was
leaping in every window.

Beyond the house the two barns were also beginning
to catch, and in the distance, on the well-tended fields,

men moved like phantoms in rising clouds of smoke as
they set torches to the young crops.

With a roar and a sudden towering eruption of flame
the roof of the farmhouse caved in, and against the noise
of the inferno a woman screamed in desperate but help-
less protest. The smallholder's wife knelt in the yard,
trying to gather her three young children into her arms
whilst an older woman in the white robe, now smoke-
grimed, of a Sister of Aeoris wrestled her back. A few
paces away her husband sprawled in the dust. He had
tried to prevent this insanity, but a blazing brand across
the face had put a stop to his protests, blinded him in one
eye and left him with a scar he'd carry for the rest of his
life.

And, at a safe distance from the injured farmer and
his hysterical family, a group of sober smallholders and
minor local dignitaries watched the destruction with
gloomy satisfaction. A very regrettable necessity, they
agreed, but a necessity nonetheless. The herder lad who
had reported the strange ritual he'd seen his master
performing at Sunset last night had acted well; loyalty,
however commendable, had to take second place to the
necessity of exposing a servant of Chaos in their midst

The house, and the lifetime's possessions it contained,
burned; and at last the spectacle was over and the
farmer's wife's cries had subsided to deep, racking sobs.
The self-appointed head of the deputation walked
slowly across to where the white-robed Sister stood, and
looked down at the landswoman with a mixture of pity
and disgust.

'We shall, of course, have to make some provision for
the children,' he said.

The Sister's eyes were hard. 'My main fear, Elder, is
that they may have been tainted with their father's sin. I
think it would be for the best if they were housed at my
Cot for the foreseeable future. That way, we can ensure
that any sign of corruption is eradicated before it can
take hold.'

'Indeed . . . indeed.' The Elder sighed. 'Such an

unfortunate occurrence ... do you know, Sister, the
man still protests his innocence? He claims that he was
mixing a potion - something handed down by his grand-
mother, a devout woman, he insists - with which he
meant to protect his family against evil.'

She smiled, but there was no amusement in it. 'With
due respect, Elder, if you know your catechisms you'll
also know that lies and trickery are the hallmark of
Chaos. Of course, it's possible that the man was speak-
ing the truth - but would you have been prepared to take
that risk?'

'No ... ' The Elder looked across the yard at the
smouldering skeleton of the house. 'No. I would not.'

The Sister turned and leaned down to grasp the sob-
bing woman's cloak-collar. 'Come; get up!' Over her
shoulder she called to another, younger Sister who
hovered in the background. 'Sister Mavan, kindly get
the children into the cart. The girl seems attached to that
toy weaving-loom she's clutching - she may keep it, if it
will ensure her good behaviour.'

The farmer's wife stared at the Sister with mute and
bitter hatred, but she was too emotionally exhausted to
protest as the children were shepherded away.

'You should consider yourself fortunate,' the Sister
told her coldly. 'In many other provinces, your children
would have been turned out with you, to fend for them-
selves. You should give thanks to Aeoris that here we
live under the kindly grace of the Matriarch herself, and
that she is the soul of clemency!'

The woman didn't answer, and the Sister gazed down
at her with a sudden rush of contempt and suspicion.
'What, aren't you repentant even now? You have your
life - what would your thrice-damned gods of Chaos
have given you in return for your service?'

'We have never - ' the woman began savagely, then,
seeing the Sister's steel-cold eyes, she fell silent once
more.

'You'll learn a lesson from this day,' the Sister told her
relentlessly. 'You'll learn the foolishness and the futility
of daring to turn against the laws of the gods! And as you

and your husband wander the roads, destitute as you
deserve to be, perhaps you'll reflect on Aeoris's mercy,
and pray to him for forgiveness - if you value your souls!'
She shivered at the thought of the disaster that might
have resulted had not this serpent in their midst been
uncovered in time. The High Initiate's message had
warned of the deadly power loose in the land; warned of
their enemies' cunning, and exhorted the Sisters to be
vigilant for any signs of Chaos's insidious influence. And
if the dark powers could infiltrate one of their own kind
to pose for years as an Initiate of the Circle, Aeoris alone
knew what devilry they might wreak on the malleable
minds of countryfolk such as these. She remembered
that black-haired demon they sought; she had seen him
at the Castle when she went as part of the Matriarch's
deposition to Keridil Toln's inauguration ceremony,
and the thought that even the Circle had been duped by
him was chilling. For that reason alone she was deter-
mined not to relax her vigilance for a single moment in
pursuit of evildoers. One bad fruit could corrupt an
entire harvest. It was her holy duty to see to it that such
bad fruits had no chance to infect others with their rot,
and she was satisfied that, thus far, she had acquitted
herself well.

In Wishet Province, five women awaited trial on charges
of witchcraft. They had been attempting to sell charms
at the Port Summer market; and whereas in previous
seasons they would either have been driven out of the
town or, more likely, tolerantly ignored, now they lan-
guished in the justice house with the chilling knowledge
that their fate would be far less pleasant.

In West High Land, bad weather in the Western
Sound kept the fishing fleet confined to the perilous cliff-
harbours of Fanaan Bay. Lady Kael Amion, Senior of
the largest Sisterhood Cot in the province, received
word that the fishermen blamed their misfortune on the
machinations of Chaos, and wasn't inclined to disagree
with them. And when scapegoats were sought, and
found, she did nothing to intervene. Aeoris chose to

punish transgressors in his own way - if one or two
innocents suffered along with the guilty, then perhaps
the lesson would be learned all the better. Hearing that
seven people had been put naked into a wicker cage,
their bodies daubed with hex signs, and the cage
dropped into the deep sea beyond the bay's shelter, she
made no comment but simply retired to her chambers
and prayed for their souls.

In Empty Province, a miner gave shelter to a mer-
chant whose horse had cast a shoe on the South-Western
road, offering him a bed for the night and an adequate if
crude meal. He was later accused of harbouring a ser-
vant of Chaos, and when the merchant - whose hair
happened to be black, as several witnesses testified -
couldn't be traced, the charge was considered proven.
There had been no executions in the area for a gener-
ation, but there was no shortage of suitably sized rocks
among the waste heaps of the mineral mines, when the
hastily convicted man was stoned to death.

And in the Great Eastern Flatlands, which felt the
sting of having spawned the Chaos-demon's accomplice,
no man dared speak a careless word to his neighbour lest
that word be enough to damn him. The few stone-
readers who still kept up the ancient tradition closed
their doors overnight - though one or two were still
found and dealt summary justice, with their town elders
none the wiser. The fleet refused to venture out into
Whiteshoals Sound until every sail on every boat had
been painted with charms, and complex symbols were
daubed on doors and shutters throughout the province.
Hysteria mounted; every fair-haired girl and black-
haired man went in constant fear of arrest, and the
Margrave, his resources stretched to breaking point,
proclaimed a curfew.

Somewhere, Tarod thought, Yandros must be laugh-
ing ...

Four days after departing Vilmado, Cyllan had picked
up the main drove road that ran South-East from Pros-
pect into Shu Province. Thankfully, the journey had

thus far been uneventful; one of her ponies had cast a
shoe, but a farrier at a hamlet a couple of miles off the
road had replaced it, and had also been ready to spread
the latest gossip concerning the fugitives.

Rumour, it seemed, was piling upon rumour. Tarod
had been reported captured in two different provinces,
herself in three, and there were numerous reports of
their having been seen together. There were also tales of
a disastrous Spring crop failure in Han, flooding in
Wishet and a monstrous Warp that had swept down
through West High Land, Chaun and Southern Chaun,
claiming fifty lives - all signs, the farrier insisted, that the
dark powers were using their servants to wreak havoc
among the godly followers of Aeoris.

Cyllan gazed about the forge's interior, where every
nook and cranny was festooned with amulets and
daubed with holy symbols, and shivered despite the heat
of the fire. Everyone she had passed on the road, or
encountered in towns and hamlets, had displayed some
charm against evil, and encounters with any strangers
had been rife with tension and suspicion. Even the
loquacious farrier had been unwilling to take her com-
mission at first, and only a good deal of persuasion on
Cyllan's part had convinced him that she was harmless.
Matters, she realised, were rapidly getting out of hand-
people were being arrested as sympathisers with Chaos
on the flimsiest of hearsay; old spites were finding out-
lets in wild accusations of witchcraft and demonology;
no one could trust his neighbour or even his own family
not to turn against him. In every settlement men were
forming into hasty militia forces and taking the law into
their own hands, and it was only thanks to good luck and
an occasional measure of guile that Cyllan had avoided
the zealous search for supposed evildoers.

She'd taken the precaution of buying a charm-neck-
lace which she wore around her throat to avoid drawing
attention to herself, but it did little to allay the creeping
unease which was now a constant companion. The sick-
ness of fear that was tainting the world had taken its toll
on her, too, and hand in hand with it went her rapidly

diminishing hope of ever finding Tarod before the Circle
found her. She couldn't, she knew, evade them for ever,
and even if the Circle might eventually be ready to
abandon the hunt for Tarod's paramour, they would
never cease to search for Drachea Rannak's murderer.
Cyllan shuddered, and tried to put the disquieting
thoughts out of her mind and concentrate on the road. A
little way ahead she could see a small cairn of stones,
newly built, at the side of the track, and around this
makeshift shrine travellers had piled offerings - small
treasures, items of food, trinkets and coloured scarves -
as a plea to Aeoris for protection on the road. She had
seen several such shrines during the past few days, and
as she drew level with the cairn she wondered if she too
might leave something, a coin perhaps, just as a token

The wind strengthened unexpectedly, a sharp, sough-
ing gust from the North that bit through her coat and
brought gooseflesh to her arms, and in its cold whine she
imagined she heard an unhuman laugh. The Chaos
stone, hidden beneath her shirt, pulsed suddenly hot
against her skin as though in warning, and her pony
shied at the cairn.

Sweat broke out on Cyllan's face and neck as she
calmed the animal and edged it past the shrine. The
gusting wind might have been coincidence - but it had
followed so instantaneously on the heels of her thought
that she doubted it. And that laugh - real or imagined, it
had chilled her to the marrow, for it seemed to mock her
for daring to think that she might appeal to Aeoris for
protection.

She looked up at the dull, pewter-grey sky, then over
her shoulder at the road behind her. An image was in her
mind, called back from that day in Shu-Nhadek when
the Warp had struck. She had seen a figure, a phantasm,
beckoning to her from the far end of a noisome alley as
the storm screamed in from the North; she remembered
the brazen hair, the graceful but deadly hand summon-
ing her, the star that burned at the phantom's heart. . .

and she half expected to relive that nightmare now as she
turned her head.

But the road was deserted ...

The ponies had quieted as the cairn with its offerings
fell behind. Cyllan pulled the collar of her coat more
closely around her cold cheeks, and dug her heels into
her unwilling mount's flanks to urge it onward.

Chapter 5

The Sun had just passed meridian on the following day
when Cyllan saw the outlines of a large town ahead. She
halted her ponies, staring at the distant rooftops and
wondering whether or not to attempt to skirt the place.
This part of Prospect Province was vaguely familiar to
her - she had travelled this way several times with her
uncle's drovers - and, if memory served her correctly,
there was little alternative to riding through the town.
Farmland stretched away to either side, and with newly
planted crops growing in their fields the holders here-
abouts wouldn't take kindly to a stranger trampling
across their lands when there was a good road to be
followed. Fortune had accompanied her so far; she must
trust to it again and face the town.

She heard the tolling of the bell when she was still a
half mile out, carried on a light breeze which had backed
into the South-East overnight, and the sound of it made
her apprehensive. Every town worthy of the name
boasted at least one great bell, usually sited in a tower
atop the justice house, but it was only rung to signify an
event of considerable importance. Something was afoot
here, and Cyllan had no wish to become embroiled in it.

Carefully she surveyed the land to either side of the
road, but there was no sign of a track through the fields.
Very well; it seemed she had no option but to continue.
At least the townsfolk would be less inclined to trouble a
stranger if they had matters of their own to concern them

The town boundaries were marked by a humpbacked
stone bridge spanning a small but busily chuckling river
tributary, and the two men who guarded the bridge

turned their heads at the sound of approaching hoofs.
They had been craning towards the town, clearly
anxious to find out what was to do, and Cyllan reined in
as she drew level with them.

'State your name, and your business,' one of the
guards demanded.

Themila Avray, drover, from West High Land.'
Cyllan had used the alias before, inventing the clan
name and adopting the given name of a woman who,
Tarod had told her, had once been his dearest friend and
mentor at the Castle. 'I'm bound for Shu-Nhadek, to
meet my cousin at the Quarter-Day fair.'

The guard's narrow eyes took in her auburn hair, her
clothing, the charm-necklace on her breast, and his
expression relaxed slightly. 'You'll be lucky if you can
get through the town before the day's out,' he told her.

The bell was still ringing, an urgent summons. 'Why?'
Cyllan asked.

'There's a trial to be held in the market square.' The
guard grinned lopsidedly. 'Rumour is, they've caught
the Chaos-demon's accomplice.'

'Caught - ' Cyllan checked herself and swallowed,
realising that luck was, indeed, with her. She made a
sign over her breast, knowing the man expected it.
'Aeoris ... '

The guard stood back and waved her on. 'Best hurry,
if you want to see the fun.' He grinned again. 'I'm just
hoping my relief'll turn up before it's all over!'

Cyllan thanked him, and urged her ponies on over the
bridge.

Even before she reached the market square, Cyllan's
progress was hampered by the press of people who were
converging from every direction, and any hopes she
might have had of being able to ride through the town
and leave it behind were quickly dampened. It seemed
that the entire populace was turning out, summoned by
the tolling bell, and by the time the square came in sight
it was clear that, like it or not, she must stay until the trial
was over.

The square was packed and the crowd spilling over
into the neighbouring streets, and only the fact that she
was on horseback enabled Cyllan to reach an open space
from where, provided she stayed in the saddle, she had a
good view of the proceedings. The trial was to be con-
ducted on the steps of the justice house, as the building's
interior had proved inadequate to the event, and the
officiators had already emerged and taken their places as
she reined in, halted by the press of people.

An elderly man in black seated himself stiffly in a
chair, flanked by a knot of town dignitaries and a uni-
formed militiaman whose task, apparently, was to read
the charges brought against the prisoner. Searching
among the group on the steps Cyllan saw, amid an
armed guard, a blonde-haired girl, her face drawn with
terror, and the spectacle made her feel suddenly sick.
The girl was even younger than she was and, whatever
evidence might be trumped up against her, Cyllan knew
she was innocent. But what defence could she possibly
have against the superstitious dread of her peers?

Two years ago she had witnessed a trial, in a Wishet
Province town where she was trading with her uncle's
drovers, and memory of that event gave Cyllan a small
measure of hope for the girl. An Initiate had presided
then, and the evidence of both sides had been heard with
a reassuringly sober impartiality, the final verdict fair if
not entirely popular. There was no Initiate to conduct
matters today, but perhaps that was just as well - the
Circle's anxiety to find the Chaos-lord's accomplice
could prejudice the judgment of any Adept, however
high his principles. Cyllan looked at the miserable girl
again, and her lips moved in a silent prayer to any
powers, Order or Chaos, who might be prevailed on to
prevent a miscarriage of justice.

Her hopes, however, were short-lived. From the fur-
thest edge of the square it was impossible to hear every
word of the speeches, the accusations and the depo-
sitions, but it soon became clear that the assembled
officials were determined to appease a crowd that hun-
gered for blood. Every now and then a speaker was

drowned out by a roar of outrage, and the prisoner's
attempts to protest her innocence were met with the
howls of a mob in full cry.

Cyllan felt sweat breaking out on her skin and trick-
ling uncomfortably down her back, accompanied by an
ugly sickness in the pit of her stomach. In the name of
the Lords of Order, these good and pious people were
condemning an innocent without any hope of redress.
Witness after witness stepped up to give evidence, and
though the girl shook her head frantically, and wept, and
pleaded with her judges, the weight of opinion was in
full spate against her. Quite what she had purportedly
done Cyllan couldn't discern; and besides, the exact
nature of her alleged crime hardly seemed to matter.
She was young, her hair was blonde, and she was a
stranger to the district - those three factors alone were
sufficient to condemn her.

Although to Cyllan the proceedings seemed to take an
eternity, in reality the trial was obscenely brief.
Abruptly the bell in the justice house tower boomed out
its sonorous message, and the crowd in the square fell
silent as the senior Elder rose from his chair to speak.

'The evidence brought against the prisoner has been
carefully analysed and considered.' His voice, reedy
with age, nonetheless cut clearly across the heads of the
throng, and Cyllan's stomach turned at the hypocrisy of
his words. 'And it is with the deepest regret that we, the
faithful custodians of the holy laws of Aeoris,' here he
paused to make the Sign, ostentatiously, in the air
before him, 'find all charges against this unfortunate
puppet of darkness to be proven.'

A muttering in the square swelled to a full-throated
yell of approval which only died down as the old man
made a pacifying gesture towards the crowd.

'These are troubled times,' the Elder continued when
the tumult finally subsided. 'But we all share a duty
which, however onerous a burden, must be fulfilled if we
are to truly serve the gods who grant us succour.' He
paused. 'Like any other devout citizen, I have no taste
for vengeance. But can I - can we - truly call ourselves

disciples of those very Lords who grant their spark of
godhood to our souls and our lives, if we neglect our
clear duty when that burden falls upon us?'

The old man was a master of rhetoric, Cyllan thought
bitterly. He praised the mob for their piety, and they
hung on his every word. All about her folk were nod-
ding, murmuring, congratulating the Elder and them-
selves . . .

'We have no hatred in our hearts!' the Elder con-
tinued, raising his voice. 'Indeed, we are moved to pity
for this unfortunate slave of evil, for hers is a soul which
cannot know the blessing of the true gods!' Another,
longer pause. 'But we cannot allow such pity to sway us
from righteousness. And I believe that if our great lord
Aeoris himself were to sit in judgment upon the verdict
of this court, he would not find that verdict wanting.' He
raised his head with a beatific smile, and a thousand
throats roared their approval.

Cyllan's ponies snorted and stamped, frightened by
the uproar yet too hemmed in to escape. She leaned over
her own mount's neck, whispering soothingly to calm it
whilst drawing the other pony as close to her side as she
could. Hot fury welled in her. She could do nothing - this
mockery of a trial had been decided even before it
began; the townsfolk wanted a scapegoat for their ter-
rors, and the elders, like market-place players, courted
their favour by providing such a one. For a single, wild
moment something deep within her urged her to force
her ponies through the crowd to the justice house steps,
there to bring out the Chaos stone and scream to these
pitiful dupes that the true object of their fear stood
among them undaunted . . . but even as the insane idea
glanced through her mind she felt the hot, warning pulse
of the gem at her breast, and knew that, whatever savage
injustice might be perpetrated here today, she could
play no part in rectifying it.

The Elder was speaking again. 'My friends, good
citizens - though it grieves my heart to pronounce sen-
tence upon this poor creature here before us, justice
must take its course.' He turned to face the now silent

girl, his profile outlined hawkishly by the glow of the
waning Sun. Tor one who has consorted with the
powers of Chaos, there can be but one end. I hope you
will join me in praying to Aeoris for this unfortunate,
that in his wisdom and mercy he may forgive her trans-
gressions and release her soul from its servitude to evil.'

Silence greeted his words, but Cyllan saw several
people make the Sign of Aeoris in the air before them.
The girl was staring at her judges, unable to believe the
fate that awaited her; then she turned her head away as
though withdrawing, detaching herself from the mad-
ness around her.

Cyllan wanted to escape from the square before
events took their inexorable course, but there was no
room to turn and nowhere to go. The crush was increas-
ing, swelled by new arrivals from the further reaches of
the town and also by the fact that a section of the crowd
was drawing back to form an aisle between the justice
house and the square's centre, where a Law Stone stood
gaunt and bare. The prisoner was hustled down the steps
towards the stone, and she seemed suddenly to realise
what awaited her, for she began to scream and struggle,
fighting her captors with all the strength she possessed.
The guards shook her violently to quiet her, but Cyllan
could hear her deep-throated sobs, as finally man-
handling her to the stone, they bound her to the rough
granite and drew back.

Only a stubborn and terrible sense of reality con-
vinced Cyllan that she wasn't asleep and dreaming as she
watched the appalling progress of events from then on.
A low susurrating murmur vibrated through the square,
setting her ponies fidgeting and dancing again, and she
could only stare helplessly as the crowd shuffled men-
acingly towards the Law Stone. There was movement at
the front of the throng circling her - then the voice of the
Elder, who still stood on the steps of the justice house,
rang across the square.

'Let the unhappy task be done.'

The sound of the first stone as it struck the girl was
shocking and sickening against the background of

silence. Her body jerked violently and she cried out, but
the press of thrusting, jostling people, those at the back
craning their necks to see, all but hid her from view. A
second stone missed its mark, then a third struck her on
the temple, and suddenly, like a pack of hounds loosed
on a hunted animal, the mob closed in with a bloodlust-
ing yell.

'No . . . ' Cyllan's own whisper was harsh in her ears,
but the crowd were too intent on their victim to notice.
'Yandros, no . . . '

They had been waiting for this moment, she realised,
knowing what the outcome of the trial would be, and
prepared for it. Those stones hadn't materialised from
nowhere . . . the mob had known that this ancient and
barbaric method of execution would be invoked, and
every man and woman among them had come well
prepared.

She stared with a hideous fascination as stones,
pebbles, even spars of wood, rained down on the girl's
unprotected body. Blood made a grisly pattern on her
face and now she was screaming, unable to maintain her
futile courage any longer and writhing against the ropes
that held her. Cyllan didn't know how long it was before
her slight figure finally slumped into unconsciousness,
but even when her senses had fled the sea of arms
continued to rise and fall, and the sounds as rock met
unresistant flesh made Cyllan feel sick with shock and
disgust.

At long last it was over. An eerie silence descended on
the square, and gradually, like an ebbing tide, the
townsfolk began to move away, withdrawing from the
ruined and bloody shell of humanity that hung like a
grotesque doll from the Law Stone. The Elders, their
own part in the charade complete, had made a dignified
exit, and finally Cyllan realised that her path was no
longer blocked by the milling throng.

Her pony side-stepped, flattening its ears, its nostrils
flaring at the alarming scent of blood. Cyllan turned it
away from the Law Stone, knowing that she couldn't
continue her journey, couldn't cross the square while

the girl's corpse hung there. She slid from the saddle,
almost falling as her legs threatened to give way under
her, and hid her face in the pony's mane, wishing that
she could be sick, faint - anything to banish the hideous
after-images of what she had witnessed.

A wine-seller began to ring a handbell behind her,
shrilly proclaiming that her wares were the best to be
found in the province, and the ponies reared and whin-
nied in fright at the noise. Cyllan swung round and saw a
makeshift stall laden with skins, jars and cups. For a
moment she could only stare, numbed, at the brisk
business the seller was already doing; then an impulse
urged her to stumble forward. Wine might help her to
forget what she had seen . . . she dug into her belt-
pouch and pulled out the first coin she found; a half-
gravine.

'Give me a full skin.' Her voice was harsh.

The woman grinned broadly. 'Gladly, lass! And you'll
drink the health of our good elders, eh?'

The wine-skin was pressed into Cyllan's hand. She
received no change and knew the woman was robbing
her, but she was past caring. The ponies followed her
uneasily as she stumbled towards the edge of the square,
where she would be out of the crush, and tears were
starting to flow as she slumped down against a white-
washed wall and, with shaking hands, uncorked the
brimming skin and raised it to her lips.

' ... Is she merely asleep, d'you think? Or taken ill?'

'I don't know . . . wait, and I'll see.'

The female voices impinged on Cyllan's hazed mind
as though through a heavy fog, and although she knew
that she was the object of their scrutiny, she didn't seem
able to unlock her tongue and tell them that she was well
enough, and to leave her be. She heard a footfall, then
sensed a figure stooping over her.

'No, she's not ill.' There was faint amusement in the
voice. 'She's drunk!'

'I am not. . . ohh!' Cyllan found her voice at last and
attempted to protest, but an injudicious movement sent

pain throbbing through her head, and her back was so
stiff that every muscle resisted violently. She opened her
eyes, wincing at what seemed to be intolerantly brilliant
light, and finally focused on the two women who were
bent over her.

One was middle-aged, the other younger, and both
were dressed in travel-stained white robes, with riding
boots beneath and short but heavy cloaks about their
shoulders. The square was dark and the women carried
lanterns; it was their light which had seared her eyes.
Sisters of Aeoris . . . Cyllan shut her eyes again and
tried to struggle upright. She had been lying against a
rough wall and her clothes were soaked through with
damp, exacerbating the stiffness in her body. There was
a vile taste in her mouth and she wiped an unsteady hand
across her lips, resisting the temptation to spit.

'Here, now; let us help you.' A hand took her arm,
gently but firmly, and she was raised to her feet. 'Can
you stand unaided? Do you feel well enough to walk?'

Cyllan forced herself to nod. 'I'm all right . . . thank
you, I don't need -' She stopped as a retching spasm set
her stomach lurching. 'Oh, gods . . . '

The two women tactfully and sympathetically guided
her into an alley where, painfully, she lost the contents
of the wine-skin which she'd drunk before collapsing.
Unpleasant though the experience was, it helped to
clear her head, and she felt considerably better when she
turned to face them once more.

'Thank you,' she said indistinctly. 'You're - very
kind.'

'Nonsense, child. Succouring those in trouble is part
of our calling, and it's clear that you're in need of
comfort.' The older woman, who had spoken, smiled at
her. 'I am Sister Liss Kaya Trevire, and this is Sister
Farial Mordyn. We are travelling through Prospect on
our way South, so we're strangers here. I suspect that
gives us something in common.'

'Yes . . . ' Despite her deep suspicion of the Sister-
hood, Cyllan was warming to Sister Liss. 'I am - ' she
checked herself, realising with a sobering shock that she

had been on the verge of giving her real name, 'I am
Themila Avray, drover, from West High Land.'

'And what of your band?' Sister Liss pursued. 'Are
you housed at one of the town inns?'

Cyllan shook her head. 'I'm alone. That is - I'm on my
way to meet my cousin in Shu-Nhadek.'

The Sisters were shocked. 'Surely you haven't been
travelling this road unaccompanied, now of all times?'
Farial asked. 'It's unthinkable - there are so many
dangers!'

'Indeed,' Liss agreed. 'Not least of which, it seems, is
the danger of falling into temptation.' She glanced with
grim humour at the empty wine-skin which lay discarded
in the gutter. 'Even in a respectable town there are too
many rogues for comfort. Have you checked you belt-
pouch, child?'

Cyllan's eyes widened, and involuntarily she put her
hand to her breast. To her relief, the Chaos stone still lay
hard and cold beneath her jerkin, and she hastily felt in
her pouch, hoping that the women hadn't taken heed of
her first gesture. The pouch's contents were complete
. . . she smiled sheepishly.

'All's well.'

'No thanks to your lack of vigilance,' Liss admonished
her. 'You've been fortunate, Themila. You are very
young, and I know how easy it is to give way to temp-
tation when you have only the rashness of youth and
inexperience to guide you. But to indulge in this kind of
behaviour . . . ' She indicated the empty skin. 'It can
only lead you on a downhill road.'

The homily was well intentioned but Cyllan felt bitter-
ness well within her. Perhaps these good Sisters had only
arrived in the town after the grisly spectacle of the trial
and its outcome; but either way, they must know what
had taken place here. How could they condemn anyone
for reacting as she had done?

Without realising it she had glanced towards the Law
Stone in the centre of the now empty square. The girl's
broken body had been removed, but the torches in their
high brackets which burned around the square showed

dark smears on the stone's surface that didn't look like
shadow. Sister Farial saw Cyllan's expression, and
touched her colleague's arm lightly.

'I think I understand,' she said, and nodded towards
the stone. 'In the light of today's events . . . '

Sister Liss's look softened. 'Ah, yes. Of course.' She
touched her tongue to her lips. Thankfully, our party
was spared from witnessing the execution, as we only
arrived in the town when it was all over. It must have
been a very distressing spectacle.'

Cyllan shrugged, angry that she'd shown weakness
and yet mollified by the Sisters' obvious sympathy. 'She
was younger than I am,' she said harshly.

'So I heard. And doubtless you couldn't help thinking
that, but for the grace of Aeoris, you might have stood in
her place.' Sister Liss sighed. 'These are sorry times. All
we can do is pray that they'll soon be over.'

Cyllan couldn't stop herself from protesting at the
woman's fatalism. 'But she was innocent!' she said; then,
realising that she'd made a dangerous slip, added, 'That
is - there was no evidence against her, nothing that any
rational thought could have supported! Yet they - it was
as if -' She made a helpless, frustrated gesture, angered
by her inability to articulate what she felt. They wanted
a victim, and they didn't care whether that victim was
guilty or not.'

Liss smiled sadly. 'I understand your feelings. But you
must remember that more dangers attend us all now
than the simple apprehension of the two fugitives.
Chaos is a deadly enemy, and possessed of great guile.
Its servants will lose no opportunity to seek out the weak
and the dissolute, and corrupt them to its service.' The
smile faded. 'Harsh as it may seem at times, we are
charged to uphold Aeoris's laws, and we can't take the
risk of allowing evil to take root among us. It's not a
pleasant fact to face, but it's better that innocents suffer
than that the guilty go free.'

Fortunately, before Cyllan could speak they were
interrupted by the arrival of four more women, who
formed the remainder of the Sisterhood party. Liss told

Cyllan's story, and the other Sisters immediately
pressed her to travel with them.

'You can't possibly continue on the road alone,' she
was urged. 'And the more of us who ride together, the
safer we'll all be.'

Cyllan tried to argue, but the women were adamant,
and Liss had the final word.

'My conscience could never be easy if I allowed you to
go,' she insisted. 'If anything were to befall you, I
couldn't live with myself. Would you wish that fate on
me?'

It seemed to Cyllan that, unless she were prepared to
face another hasty flight during the dark hours, she was
effectively trapped; she had no defence against their
arguments. But then it occurred to her that the situation
could have advantages, Who, after all, would dream of
casting suspicion on a girl in the company of six Sisters of
Aeoris? Provided she kept a constant guard on her
tongue, what better protection could she ask?

She smiled, slowly but with returning confidence. 'If
my presence won't be a burden to you . . . '

'The very idea!' Liss was relieved and pleased. 'We
rest for tonight at the Minstrels Tavern, and I'm sure
there'll be room to house you with us. Then in the
morning, an hour after Sunrise, we'll be on our way.'

The Sisterhood party left for the South as the Sun was
beginning its climb into a blood-red sky streaked with
only a few purple-edged smears of cloud. Sister Liss
pronounced the weather a good omen, and once the
town was left behind they made steady if slow progress.
Cyllan rode towards the rear of the group, just ahead
of the Sisters' four baggage ponies. She was privately
thankful to have company; last night her sleep had been
racked with nightmares that revolved round the
executed girl, and with the dreams still fresh in her mind
she had no desire to be alone with her thoughts. Her
fellow-travellers were content to enjoy the ride and the
landscape, and what little conversation there was was
idle and therefore safe. The only unsettling factor was

the presence of the dark-haired, thin-faced woman who
rode a little way ahead of her.

She had exchanged no more than a few words with
Sister-Seer Jennat Brynd since their first meeting, but on
several occasions she had noticed the woman watching
her with more than idle interest. Cyllan hadn't bar-
gained on encountering a seer among her new compan-
ions, and she wondered how far Jennat's talents
extended - the thought that her own mind might be an
open book to a truly skilled psychic was chilling. She had
had little contact with the seer, and thus far all was well,
but she was anxious not to encourage Jennat's society,
for her own safety's sake. The journey to Shu-Nhadek
should take about four days if there were no untoward
delays, so she wouldn't need to maintain her deception
for much longer.

The rest of the day passed without incident, and they
spent the next night at a cramped but clean roadside inn.
Pleading tiredness, Cyllan went to bed as soon as they
had eaten, leaving the Sisters to talk and share a jar of
wine, and trying to forget the speculative glance that
Jennat Brynd had cast in her direction before she
retired. In the morning they left early, Sister Liss giving
thanks to Aeoris for another fine if chilly day, and by
mid-afternoon they had reached a wide river spanned by
a wooden pack-bridge. One of the baggage ponies had
begun to limp, and they reined in while Cyllan offered to
examine the animal and see what was amiss with it.

Liss slid thankfully from her saddle and pressed the
knuckles of both hands into the small of her back. 'I
don't mind admitting that I'm glad of the rest,' she said,
looking at the lowering Sun and allowing its warmth to
bathe her face. 'And thankful, too, that we're moving
further South. The days are longer down here, the Sun's
rays stronger . . . it's a blessed relief after the northern
lands!'

Farial, who had also dismounted, was searching
through a pack strapped to one of the baggage ponies,
and drew out a wrapped package and a skin of fruit
juice. This would be a pleasant enough place to stop

under any circumstances,' she said. 'Perhaps we can sit
on the grass for a while and relax - that is, if Themila
thinks her task will take a little time?'

It took Cyllan a few moments to remember that she
was the one being addressed, and she looked up quickly,
allowing the baggage pony to rest its troublesome leg on
the ground. 'I don't think it's anything more than a stone
in his hoof,' she told the Sister, then smiled. 'But it could
take an hour to put right, if you'd like.'

Farial laughed. 'Very well - then let's make ourselves
comfortable.' She spread her cloak among the lusher
grass where the land started to slope towards the river,
and sat down. 'I've fresh drinks for us all here, and the
cakes I bought from the town bakery this morning.'

Within a few minutes all six of the women had settled
themselves on the grass, and Cyllan, having prised the
stone from the pony's hoof with the point of her knife,
joined them. Farial handed her a slab of cake and she
squatted at the edge of the group, reaching behind her to
fix her bunched hair more securely.

Her fingers came away from her hair smeared with
red-brown stains . . .

Cyllan had completely forgotten that the effects of the
bellflower dye must be wearing off by now. Drovers'
inns didn't furnish their rooms with looking-glasses, and
it hadn't occurred to her to worry about the colour of her
hair. By now, the copper-brown could be streaked half-
way back to its natural white-blonde; and that could be
enough to damn her.

Quickly she glanced at the Sisters, but they were
occupied with their food and drink - all, that is, save for
Jennat Brynd, who was watching Cyllan and, as their
gazes met, smiled a slow, pleasant smile. With a tremen-
dous effort Cyllan made her lips quirk nervously in
response, then she pointedly turned her attention to the
cake in her hand.

For a time there were no sounds but the ripple of the
river and the contented munching of the horses as they
cropped at the grass near by. Sister Liss's head had
drooped forward and she seemed to be asleep; Farial

was fussily tidying the litter of their small feast, and
Jennat, propped on one elbow, was engrossed in exam-
ining the contents of her belt-pouch. At length she drew
out something that caught the Sunlight with a brilliant
flare, and those nearest to her looked up in surprise.

'Scrying, Sister?' Farial inquired amiably.

Jennat smiled. 'Yes. It was the river that gave me the
notion. So smooth and quiet, and the way the current
catches the Sunlight and reflects it is quite hypnotic.'

Farial turned to Cyllan. 'You must pay no attention to
Sister Jennat, Themila. She chooses the unlikeliest
moments to practise her art - though in truth we're all
very proud and envious of her skills.'

Cyllan nodded uneasily, and Jennat's dark eyes met
hers.

'Oh, but I don't want to distress our new friend,' she
said solicitously. 'It's easy for us to overlook the fact
that, to outsiders, our way can sometimes seem discon-
certing. One forgets that the magical skills aren't widely
practised beyond the Sisterhood.'

Despite the softness of her voice, the words were a
clear challenge. Cyllan regarded her through narrowed
lashes. 'Please, don't let me deter you, Sister. I'm not
afraid.'

Jennat turned the small scrying-glass over and over in
her hands. 'Perhaps you've seen something of this
nature before?'

'I saw a stone-reader once, at a fair,' Cyllan said. 'But
I believe he must have been a charlatan.'

'Most self-professed diviners are. To develop a true
talent takes both dedication and years of study.'

Cyllan didn't reply, and with another of her slow
smiles Jennat turned her attention back to the scrying-
glass. After a prudent pause Cyllan got to her feet and,
hoping that her actions seemed casual, walked slowly
down the gentle slope to the edge of the river. By the
bank the water was crystal clear, and she fancied she saw
fish moving sleekly among the dappled shadows. She
tried to concentrate on watching them, but it was impos-
sible; Sister Jennat's subtle insinuations had breached

the mental wall behind which she'd hidden her deepest
fears, and she felt sick with trepidation. The sensation,
coupled with an irrational hope that by physically dis-
tancing herself from the seer she could evade her scru-
tiny, had driven her to get as far away from the Sisters as
she could, while she collected her wits.

Surely, she told herself, Sister Jennat presented no
real threat? It was possible - no, likely - that her imag-
ination was seeing shadows where none existed. Only a
few more days to Shu-Nhadek, and then she could forget
that she'd ever encountered these women . . .

Themila?' A voice behind her made her start, and she
turned to see that Jennat had left the others and walked
silently down the bank to join her. 'Are you feeling
unwell?'

'No - no.' Cyllan shook her head, not meeting the
other woman's gaze. 'I just thought to - to look at the
river.'

'Ah.' Jennat, too, gazed out across the smoothly flow-
ing water. 'It is a peaceful sight, isn't it? Still, it would be
all too easy to slip into the temptation of tarrying. I came
to tell you that Sister Liss has woken, and says that we
must be on our way if we're to reach habitation before
nightfall.'

So her errand was innocent enough . . . Cyllan
clenched her teeth against an involuntarily sigh of relief,
and turned to go. Jennat made to follow - then abruptly
paused.

'Oh, Themila -I hope you'll pardon my curiosity, but
... do tell me, why do you dye your hair? Its natural
colour is such a pretty shade.'

Cyllan stared at the sloe-dark eyes in the smiling,
guileless face, as her stomach turned ice-cold. Jennat's
question had caught her completely unawares, and she
had no answer.

'Jennat! Themila! Come; we've wasted enough time!'
Sister Liss's impatient cry broke the terrible hiatus, and
gratefully Cyllan turned, raising one arm in acknow-
ledgement. Without waiting for Jennat, and without

giving her a chance to put her question again, she ran up
the bank to where the horses were tethered.

Pulling the animals away from the juicy grass took
time and effort, but finally Cyllan had her own ponies
back on the road and checked their harness whilst she
waited for the other women to mount up. She was about
to swing herself into the saddle when a voice spoke,
quite clearly but also quite casually, from a short dis-
tance away.

'Cyllan . . .   '

'Yes?' She turned without thinking at the sound of her
name - her real name - and only when she found herself
face to face with Jennat did she realise the terrible
mistake she'd made.

Jennat smiled. 'Will you show us the jewel which you
keep so carefully next to your skin?'

Sister Liss paused at her horse's head. 'Jewel? What
jewel is this, Jennat?'

Cyllan held her breath, striving to appear a good deal
calmer than she felt. Jennat, sure of herself now, con-
tinued to stare at her. 'Sister Liss, I think it's perhaps
more important to establish the small matter of our
friend's identity.'

Liss realised suddenly what the seer was implying.
'You called her Cyllan . . . '

'And she answered me. I believe that, if my scrying-
glass doesn't deceive me, her full name is Cyllan
Anassan.'

Farial gave a little cry of shock, and Liss's eyes
widened. 'Jennat, you don't mean - '

'Look at her hair!' Jennat interrupted, pointing. 'It's
no more that colour than mine is! She's fair - so fair that
her hair's all but white! And my glass showed me a
gemstone which she keeps hidden, a clear jewel, Search
her, Sisters, and I believe you'll find the very stone that
the Circle are seeking!'

Shock had kept Cyllan rooted where she stood, but
abruptly she realised that she was lost. She couldn't bluff
her way around Jennat's accusations; her only hope was
flight.

She made a frantic leap for her pony, but even as she
slithered astride its back Jennat rushed at her, grabbing
her arm. Cyllan lashed out, the pony plunged, and, off
balance, she felt herself slipping, falling from the saddle.
She landed with a thump, the pony's hoofs only just
missing her skull as it reared in fright, and the fall
knocked all the breath out of her. Before she could
struggle up again, three of the Sisters were kneeling
beside her and holding her down.

'Keep her still!' Jennat cried breathlessly, ducking
Cyllan's flailing arm. 'We'll soon find out the truth - '

'Jennat!' Sister Liss shouted, dismayed. 'Jennat, this
is unseemly! You are a Sister of Aeoris, not a brawling
tavern wench! Get up at once!'

Jennat paid no attention. She had thrust a hand into
Cyllan's shirt, tearing the fabric, and her fingers closed
round the soul-stone. Cyllan struggled like a feral cat but
couldn't free herself, and Jennat sprang to her feet,
triumphant.

'Sister Liss, look!'

Cold, white radiance spilled across Jennat's palm as
she opened her hand to display the jewel. The older
woman flinched, and hastily made the Sign of Aeoris.
'Gods preserve us . . . '

Those Sisters who weren't engaged in pinning Cyllan
to the ground gathered round, exclaiming. One reached
out as if to touch the stone, then swiftly withdrew her
hand. Liss turned to look down at the girl who lay on the
grass, and the mute defiance she saw in Cyllan's eyes
banished any last doubts.

'So all this time we've been harbouring a serpent in
our midst,' she said unsteadily. 'Gods help us, I can
hardly believe it ... ' Then her mouth set into a hard
line. 'Hide that jewel away, Jennat. It's an evil thing,
and I won't risk our being tainted by it. Wrap it in a
cloth. It mustn't see the light of day again until it can be
given into the hands of the High Initiate.'

Jennat gazed at the stone and licked her lips uneasily.
'And what of the girl? What are we do with her?'

'Poor child.' Liss continued to regard Cyllan gravely.
'How one so young could be so corrupt . . . '

'Should we take her to the next town for trial?' Farial
asked.

'No - this is beyond the jurisdiction of the local
Elders, or even the Province Margrave. She must be
delivered to the Castle of the Star Peninsula, to face the
judgment of the Circle itself.' Her gaze lingered a
moment longer, then she shook her head and turned
away. 'To think that she could have deceived us so ... '

'Even the High Initiate was deceived by these fiends,'
Farial reminded her solemnly. 'We shouldn't reproach
ourselves, Sister.'

'No. No, perhaps you're right. Though when I think
that, if it hadn't been for Sister Jennat - ah, never mind.
We must turn our attention to the practicalities. We will
need an armed escort to conduct us to the Star Penin-
sula, and if there are any Adepts visiting the province
who might be called upon to aid us, I'll feel a good deal
easier about the journey.' She gathered up the cumber-
some skirts of her robe. 'Bind the girl, Sisters, and
secure her in her pony's saddle. We'll rest at the next
town tonight, then tomorrow we'll turn northward.'

Chapter 6

Keridil Toln watched the departing hawk until it was no
more than a tiny dot in the sky, indistinguishable among
the flecks of cloud stippling the blue. If he could trust
falconer Faramor's calculations - and past experience
had taught him that he could - the vital message would
reach its first destination in less than two days, and be
relayed to its second the day after that.

He expressed his thanks to Faramor, but didn't
encourage any further conversation; there was too much
on his mind now to allow time for pleasantries. Quickly
he climbed the steps to the Castle doorway and went
through, giving an involuntary shiver at the sharp con-
trast between the interior's warmth and the cold of the
morning; then he turned towards his own apartments.

His study was empty, but he could hear someone
moving about in the private suite beyond. Keridil
paused briefly to warm his hands at the fire, then pushed
open the door to his inner chambers, expecting to find
Sashka awaiting him. But instead he saw Gyneth Linto,
the elderly steward who had been his father's servant
before him. Gyneth was stooping over a large ottoman
that stood in the room's far corner; as Keridil entered,
he straightened and bowed formally.

'Is the bird away safely, sir?'

'Yes.' Keridil crossed the room and looked with a
degree of distaste at the items which the old man was
bringing out of the ottoman. A long cloak, heavily
embroidered with gold thread ... a clasp, bearing his
own seal and made of solid gold ... a gold circlet . . .
the High Initiate's staff of office . . .

'There's a touch of tarnishing on the circlet, sir,'

Gyneth said, holding it out for him to inspect. 'But
nothing that a little polishing can't put right.'

'Good.' Keridil waved the circlet away, not wanting to
think about the regalia until circumstances forced it. 'I
want to travel light, Gyneth,' he added. 'No baggage
train, no large entourage - time is of the essence on this
journey.'

The words came out more sharply than he'd intended,
and the old man regarded him for a few moments before
replying placidly, 'Of course, sir.' He replaced the circ-
let carefully on top of the folded gold cloak, then, with a
tactful touch of diffidence, added: 'Is anything amiss,
sir? If I might venture to say, you seem troubled.'

Shrewdness and experience had given Gyneth more
accurate perceptions than any seer, and Keridil sighed.
'It's nothing of any consequence. Just watching that bird
leave, and knowing that I've committed myself to this
beyond the point of no return ... it makes me doubt
my own judgement. I wish to the gods my father were
still alive.'

Gyneth pursed his lips. He rarely ventured an opinion
on Circle matters, but it saddened him to see his master
so distressed. The old High Initiate was a very wise
man, sir. In all the years I served him, I never knew him
to make a rash decision, or an unsound one.' His gaze
met Keridil's. 'I believe that, in your place, he would
have acted exactly as you have done.'

Keridil smiled thinly. 'Thank you, Gyneth -I appreci-
ate your loyalty, whether or not you're right.' He rubbed
his still cold hands together and forced a briskness he
didn't feel into his voice. 'Doubtless we could debate the
matter all day, but I can't afford that indulgence. What's
done's done, and we have to look to the future.' He
glanced round the room. 'You seem to have completed
most of the preparations.'

'Yes, sir. There are one or two minor questions to
clarify, but they'll keep until later.'

'Good. And where is the Lady Sashka?'

Gyneth gave him an odd look that, he thought, car-
ried a faint hint of disapproval. 'She retired to her suite,

sir. She said to tell you that she is packing for the
journey.'

'Packing?' Keridil was nonplussed. 'But it was under-
stood that she isn't to accompany me!'

'Quite, sir. However, I thought it wasn't my place to
point that out.'

'No ... ' The relationship between Sashka and
Gyneth was uneasy at the best of times; Sashka made no
secret of her dislike for the old man and her mistrust of
his influence on Keridil, and though nothing would ever
induce Gyneth to admit as much, Keridil suspected that
the feeling was mutual. But Gyneth was too well bred a
servant to make his feelings public, and the knowledge
that Sashka would soon be the High Initiate's consort
made him doubly punctilious in his manner towards her
- he wouldn't have dared argue. Nonetheless, Sashka
had agreed with Keridil's insistence that the long jour-
ney was too arduous and possibly too dangerous for her
to undertake. Whilst he might take chances with his own
safety, nothing in the world would induce him to risk
hers, and he had thought the matter settled.

'Shall I send word to the lady that you wish to see her,
sir?' Gyneth's voice impinged on his thoughts.

'What? Oh - no, Gyneth; let it be for now .I'll speak to
her later and see what's to be done.'

'Very well, High Initiate. Then, with your permission,
I'll go and see Fin Tivan Bruall about your horses.'

Keridil nodded thanks and dismissal, and when the
old man had left the room he sat down on the bed,
pushing aside the neatly folded garments which littered
it. Tomorrow, he was to start on a journey upon which
might hinge the future of the entire land . . . and right
at this moment he'd have given almost anything to turn
time back and revoke the decision he had made as the
Sun rose this morning.

Last night, he had spent all the dark hours kneeling in
vigil before the votive flame that burned perpetually in
his study, and he had prayed fervently for guidance.
Dawn had found him hollow-eyed and exhausted, but
with the leaden certainty in his heart of what he must do.

Stiff with weariness, he had sat at his great table and
picked up the two letters that lay there, rereading them
both for the hundredth time though he already knew
their contents by heart. The Lady Matriarch Ilyaya
Kimi's formal request that he should call a Conclave of
Three - and the stiff scroll which had arrived the follow-
ing day, bearing the seal of the Summer Isle Court and
inscribed personally by the High Margrave Fenar Elecar
with an identical plea.

It should, Keridil knew, have been easy to bow to the
majority verdict and order the Conclave without any
further thought. But he felt his responsibility keenly as
the custodian of the world's spiritual laws and the prime
vehicle for the gods' word and the gods' will. In all their
long history since the fall of the Old Ones a Conclave
had never been called; and it was strictly written that it
might be invoked only in the event of a dire peril which
no other power could avert.

Was this such an occasion? Or had the rousing of
ancient, dormant fears taken too strong a hold on them
all and distorted the truth out of proportion? Keridil
knew he could never be certain of the answer; he must
trust to his own judgement. The Conclave would be little
more than a formality, its outcome a foregone con-
clusion - and then he, as High Initiate, must climb to the
shrine on the White Isle, unlock the clasp which would
open the sacred casket and prepare to meet Aeoris face
to face.

To call the great god back to the world ... it was a
responsibility that chilled him to the marrow. If the
judgement of the Conclave were ill-founded, what
wrath would he incur? What punishments would be
unleashed on them all? To trifle with a god was the
ultimate insanity . . . what if the decision to open the
casket should prove to be wrong?

Keridil looked at the two letters again, then at the
growing sheaf of reports and depositions which had been
flooding in, by messenger-bird and by despatch rider,
from almost all the provinces. Trials, accusations,
executions - flooding and crop failure - inarticulate

terrors and pleas for the Circle's help or advice - the fear
of Chaos was running riot through the land, and nothing
save the destruction of those evil forces could stop it.
The Adepts had tried everything they knew to track
down the fugitives and with them the Chaos stone; but
their rituals and conjurations proved fruitless, and that
in itself had convinced Keridil of the true extent of the
peril they faced.

He had, once, looked on the face of Chaos, and the
memory was burned forever on his brain. Yandros, the
quintessence of evil, with his golden hair and ever-
changing eyes and beautiful, malignant smile . . .
Yandros, who had mocked the Circle and challenged
them, if they dared, to stand against him when his forces
rose to conquer . . . Yandros, who had called Tarod
brother . . .

No, Keridil thought, he wouldn't trifle with a god -
but neither would he trifle with Chaos. And if the soul-
stone wasn't found and destroyed, the gates which had
been closed against the dark powers so many centuries
ago would be breached, and the world would be
engulfed in madness.

And so, with a hand that wasn't quite steady, he had
taken up pen and parchment, and written the vital words
that would commit him finally to his decision. Only the
High Initiate had the sanction to order the Conclave,
and as he at last set his seal to the paper the unsteadiness
in his hand had become a palsied shaking, so that the hot
wax spattered across the parchment's surface.

It was done. And within minutes the message could be
on its way, carried by hawk to speed to its destination.
He could send for the falconer ... or he could tear the
parchment into shreds, burn the fragments, forget he
had ever considered such a deed . . .

Keridil licked dry lips, then rang a small handbell that
stood on the table. When Gyneth answered the sum-
mons, he looked up and said, 'Gyneth - will you send for
falconer Faramor, and ask him to meet me in the court-
yard immediately?'

There could be no going back now. As soon as his
message reached the Matriarch's Cot in Southern
Chaun, Ilyaya Kimi would begin her preparations for
the journey to Shu-Nhadek. And a day or so later, a ship
would set sail from the Summer Isle, bearing the young
High Margrave and his entourage. Keridil's own jour-
ney would begin in the morning, as he and a few chosen
companions rode hard for the South to meet his peers.

He stared bleakly at the clothes which Gyneth had
laid out, and realised how tired he was. A night without
sleep had taken its toll, and even on previous nights
when he'd sought his bed he had been racked by night-
mares. He'd be in no fit condition to face an eight-day
journey unless he could rest for a while, and until
Gyneth returned later he should be free from
interruption.

He pushed the folded garments aside, making space
for himself on the bed, and stretched out. For a few
minutes uneasy thoughts continued to assail him; then,
mercifully, he drifted away into a sound sleep.

Keridil was woken two hours later by the light touch of a
hand on his brow. He stirred, then opened his eyes to see
Sashka sitting beside him, a gentle smile on her face.

'You've been asleep, love.' She pushed a strand of
hair away from his mouth.

Keridil blinked and struggled to sit up. 'What's the
hour?'

'Past noon. I'd have come to you earlier, but I've been
with Father and Mother in our rooms.' She paused, then
added: 'Packing.'

He remembered what Gyneth had told him, and
reached out to take hold of her hand, squeezing it.
'Sashka, you're not thinking to come with me? After all
that we said - '

'I know what we said, Keridil. But did you really
believe I'd let you go without me by your side? I want to
be with you - and I feel that you'll need me.'

She was more right than she knew, Keridil thought;
but he still couldn't agree to it.

'No, love,' he told her. 'It's too long a journey, and
too dangerous. The entire world's in a ferment, and the
gods alone know what we're going to encounter on the
way South. Should the powers of Chaos realise what's
afoot there could be attempts to stop us reaching our
destination, and if any harm should come to you because
of me, I couldn't bear that!'

Her eyes flashed angrily. 'D'you think I lack the cour-
age to face danger?'

'No - no, of course not! But - '

'And d'you think I could wait behind, not knowing
where you were or how you fared? What would I do
whilst you were away?'

'Your father is returning to Han. Go with him, love;
you'll be safe at your home.'

'The Castle is my home now - if I went to Han, I'd go
mad with waiting and fretting!' Sashka argued. She
locked her fingers with his, aware that he was beginning
to weaken. He wanted her with him, she could tell; and
she was determined to wear down his protests. Keridil
was about to embark on the most momentous course
that any High Initiate had ever taken, and when it was
over he would be famed throughout history as the sav-
iour of his people; the man who had saved the world
from the threat of Chaos. No power on earth was going
to stop her from being at his side when that history was
made.

'Listen to me, Keridil,' she said, softly but per-
suasively, 'I couldn't bear to be parted from you, not
now, not while you have this burden to bear.' Her
fingers traced a gentle line around his jaw and she saw
with satisfaction his answering, hesitant smile. 'Once,
when I was so distressed after - well, after the events
that began this whole unhappy affair - you gave me your
strength and your love, when I thought that life was no
longer worth living. I've never been able to repay the
debt I owe you, until now.'

Keridil shook his head, though he was still smiling,
'You gave me yourself, love. You could do me no
greater honour than that.'

'But it isn't enough; not for me.' Sashka was pleased
with her stratagem, and it was clearly working. 'I want to
show you now that, as you helped me when I so desper-
ately needed help, I can be a pillar of strength for you in
return. Please, Keridil - I'm not afraid of what's to
come. I'm only afraid of any ill befalling you, and I want
to be by your side to prevent it.'

Keridil remembered the day when Tarod had been
brought back, captive and drugged insensible, to the
Castle. Sashka had been pledged to marry him, and she
had, he thought, shown tremendous courage in over-
coming her grief and despair at the revelations about
him. She had been bereft, and he had tried to offer her
comfort as she faced up to the grim truth. He had made
her laugh - a small beginning, but an auspicious one -
and slowly she had forgotten her misery as their love
took root and flourished . . .

He wanted her with him. Her presence would give
him strength, as she had said, and keep doubt and fear at
bay. And if she was so determined to come, he had no
more arguments to counter her.

He said, 'Sashka ... if you're sure  . . .   '

Her expression broke into a sparkling smile and she
flung her arms around his neck. 'I'm sure! Of course I'm
sure!' Relief and triumph flooded through her as she
released him, and her smile changed to one of fond
concern. 'You should rest for a while longer,' she said
solicitously. 'If we're to leave at dawn tomorrow, you'll
need all your strength.'

There isn't the time. Gyneth will be back soon,
and - '

'Never mind Gyneth! If he finds your door locked, he
can't trouble you.' She rose, moving gracefully across
the room, and he heard the sound of a bolt being pushed
home. 'There,' Sashka said. 'Now there'll be no one to
disturb us.' She came back to the bed and sank down on
it, her arms winding warmly, possessively around him.
'We're together, and we'll stay together from now on.'
Her voice was soft and persuasive. 'That's all that
matters.'

*****

The big bay horse cantered at an easy, ground-eating
pace on the track, hoofs kicking up eddies of dust in its
wake. Since leaving the timber-caravan as it lumbered
along the edge of the forest that straddled the border
between Han and Wishet, Tarod had made good speed
southward, and was now crossing the arable plains of
Prospect. The weather was little short of perfect - high,
brilliant skies with a brisk and drying East wind - but the
fresh optimism of the elements was in obscene contrast
to the sights he had witnessed on the road.

Tarod's fears that the superstition sweeping the land
in the wake of the Circle's warning would explode
beyond all proportion had proven well founded. A mad-
ness was gripping the countryside, turning just and sober
citizens into panic-stricken avengers of imaginary
wrongs. Three men had been hanged in the last town he
passed through, for what crime Tarod didn't know; he
had stopped to stare, appalled, at the corpses left dan-
gling stiff and grotesque from the gibbet as a warning to
others, and had seen the hex signs chalked on the ground
in their shadows. Further on the road he had heard of a
group of merchants ambushed and massacred at the
edge of the forest; there was talk of winged demons that
materialised from thin air and carried off screaming
victims, whilst ghouls crept out of the trees to feast on
the dead. Crops said to harbour unearthly things which
crawled from the fields at night were burned by their
terrified owners, without thought for the starvation to
which they condemned their families; three times now
he had seen a distant pall of smoke that told of another
farmer's livelihood charred to ashes. And not an hour
ago he had passed the burned-out skeleton of a market
cart, the horse lying in the shafts with its throat cut and
other blackened shapes, mercifully indistinguishable,
half-hidden beneath the broken wheels. Here, too,
there were hex marks on the track, daubed, by the look
of it, in the horse's blood ... he hadn't investigated
closer.

Madness. And all in the name of Order . . . Tarod
was assailed by an ugly thought which had haunted him
all too often of late, and which questioned the justice of
a god who allowed such grisly deeds to be done in his
name. This sickness was more like the work of Chaos,
and it played directly into Yandros's hands. How could
Aeoris watch such wanton anarchy and do nothing to
intervene? How could the Circle, his emissaries, allow
the death and destruction to continue unchecked?

He forced the thought back with an effort. With the
horror of all he had seen fresh in his mind, it would be
easy to succumb to doubts, and such doubts would suit
Yandros's purpose. But for the Chaos lord's machina-
tions, the world would still be at peace with itself - he
had to hold fast to his trust in the gods of Order, hold fast
to his own resolution, and not allow uncertainty to prey
on him. Once he found Cyllan, and regained the soul-
stone, he could try to end this insanity . . .

Goaded by that thought he spurred his mount on
faster, glad to feel the willing response of the animal's
powerful muscles under him. The road was quiet - no
one travelled now unless forced to do so - and so when
he saw, ahead of him, a tell-tale dust cloud that moved
against the fields' backdrop, he reined in to a jog, shield-
ing his eyes against the Sun to see what was afoot.

The dust cloud was drawing nearer, and at last Tarod
made out the silhouettes of several horsemen. Light
glinted on metal, and he guessed that the newcomers
were militiamen from a near-by town. Doubtless they'd
stop him and that would mean a delay; but the Initiate's
badge should stand him in good stead, as it had done
before.

His guess proved accurate, and within minutes he was
waved to a halt by the group's leader. They surrounded
him; eight nervous, suspicious and inexperienced men,
some barely out of adolescence.

'State your name, sir, and your business on this road.'
The leader - doubtless elected solely on the grounds of
seniority - snapped out the challenge but without real
conviction. Tarod met the man's eyes, exerted a little of

his will, and the leader saw a brown-haired, grey-eyed
but otherwise unremarkable stranger before him; a face
he wouldn't later recall. Tarod smiled thinly and drew
the folds of his cloak aside so that the distinctive golden
badge winked in the Sunlight.

'Circle business,' he said crisply. 'I trust that doesn't
place me under suspicion, captain?'

Flattered by the title yet chagrined by his error, the
man flustered. 'No, sir - of course not! I'm sorry sir-it's
just that we're under orders, from the Margrave himself
you understand, to stop all strangers on this road and
. . . well, check that they're what they seem to be, sir, if
you take my meaning.'

'Your Margrave's a wise man to take such precau-
tions.' Tarod said. Tell me, what news is there in Pros-
pect? I've ridden from the North and I've heard no
reliable reports for the last three days.'

One of the younger men edged his horse forward and
whispered in the leader's ear. The man nodded
emphatically, then looked at Tarod and cleared his
throat.

'Well, sir, there's a rumour . . . that is to say, it was
confirmed this morning, to the best of my knowledge
. . . the girl - the Chaos-fiend's accomplice - she's been
captured!'

Tarod thrust back an irrational surge of hope, telling
himself that it was just another false trail like so many
before. 'Indeed,' he said. 'You'll forgive my scepticism,
captain, but others have made such claims before, and
they've proved unfounded.'

"They have, yes - but our Margrave has sent word that
this is no idle boast.' The militiaman looked proud. 'It's
said that the girl has in her possession a jewel. A colour-
less jewel.'

Surely it wasn't possible . . . Aloud, Tarod said, 'I see
. . . and has she been brought to trial?'

'No, sir; not so far as I know. In fact -' the militiaman
looked a little sheepish. 'What I heard is that this isn't a
matter for our local justices. The girl's to be taken
North, to the Castle of the Star Peninsula; but it's a long

journey, and a hazardous one. If it were possible for
someone in authority to take charge of the matter . . . '
He coughed. 'If you see what I mean, sir.'

Tarod did. He'd been led astray by false reports
before, but this time it seemed there could be real evi-
dence against the girl, whoever she was. Time-wasting
or not, he had to be sure.

He nodded. 'Very well. In the light of what you've
told me, I'll postpone my own business. Where's the girl
being held?'

The militia leader looked relieved. 'At Prospect Town
itself, sir. It's about ten miles distant, no more.'

Then I'd suggest we set out without further delay.'

'Thank you, sir!' He barked out unnecessary orders to
his men, who were already turning their horses about,
and the cavalcade set off. As they rode, Tarod tried not
to think about what he might or might not find at their
destination. If the captured girl wasn't Cyllan, he'd suf-
fer nothing beyond yet another disappointment. But if
she was ... he hadn't considered how he might free her
if she was taken; his pretended role wouldn't stand him
in good enough stead to simply overrule any other
authority and take her away. If he could gain possession
of the soul-stone, he could use the powers that at present
were beyond his reach - but he didn't want to dwell on
that possibility.

In a little under an hour the rooftops of Prospect were
visible ahead, rising above the pale stone of the six
concentric walls that surrounded the town. The walls
had been built to protect the fruit-orchards, for which
the province was renowned, from early frosts, and
allowed Prospect Town to boast the earliest Summer
crops anywhere in the world. The party rode through
one of the wide arches set into the outermost wall, and
followed a paved path through ranks of trees heavy with
white blossom. Their scent hung heavy on the air; one of
the militiamen started to sneeze violently and the fit only
subsided when at last they clattered beyond the bound-
ary of the sixth wall and into the town itself.

Prospect was one of the oldest towns in the land and,

as Tarod had to admit despite his preoccupation, one of
the most beautiful. Mellow stone towers rose at inter-
vals, dominating the jumble of sloping, red-tiled roofs.
The paved streets were wide and airy, overlooked by
houses adorned with stone porticoes and balconies; the
architecture lent itself to an atmosphere of pleasant and
prosperous well-being.

That atmosphere, however, wasn't present in the air,
nor in the faces of the people they passed as they rode
towards the justice house. The terrors souring the world
had affected Prospect as much as anywhere else and its
normal bustle was sharply subdued. Townsfolk went
about essential business with closed, tight expressions,
and a newcomer without even the smallest psychic talent
could have felt the palpable tension pervading the place.

The militia leader reined in where the streets opened
suddenly and unexpectedly into a broad, tree-lined
avenue, and turned in his saddle to address Tarod. The
justice house is directly ahead of us, sir. Shall I ride on,
and inform the town elders of your arrival?'

Tarod shook his head. He was aware of his pulse
beating too fast, and tried to quell it. 'No. There's no
need for formality.'

'Whatever you say, sir.' The man spurred his horse
forward, and they clattered along the avenue to the tall,
bland-faced building that rose at the far end. A motley
of people had gathered outside as though waiting for
something; they drew apart to make passage for the
riders and many stared openly as they recognised the
Initiate's badge at Tarod's shoulder. He closed his ears
to the muted rustling of whispers at his back and slid
down from the saddle, handing his horse's reins to one of
the younger militiamen.

As they ascended the steps, the doors of the justice
house opened and four men emerged. Tarod immedi-
ately recognised the ageing, greying individual who led
them; he had met the Margrave of Prospect at Keridil
Toln's inaugural celebration and they had had an uneasy
discussion about the rise of lawlessness in the land. The
meeting seemed a lifetime ago, but the Margrave was a

shrewd man and likely to remember the face of the
renegade Adept. Tarod concentrated, allowing a small
measure of power to flow through him - he saw the
Margrave blink as though momentarily disconcerted,
then the old man's face cleared and he held out a hand in
greeting.

'Adept - I'm at a loss for words. I hadn't dreamed the
Circle could respond so quickly to my message!'

Tarod frowned. 'Message, sir?'

'Then you're not an emissary from the High Initiate?'
The Margrave seemed perplexed.

'We encountered him on the road, sir,' the militia
leader explained hastily. 'It was sheer chance that he was
riding this way, and - in the circumstances - we thought
he might aid us.'

The Margrave looked relieved, and clasped Tarod's
hands again in a welcome more fervent than the first.
'Then it was a very fortunate accident!' he said with
obvious relief. 'Have my men explained to you, Adept,
the nature of our problem?'

'They tell me you've apprehended a girl whom you
believe is the Chaos creature's accomplice,' Tarod
explained. 'You'll forgive my being blunt, but this is the
fifth or sixth such claim I've had to investigate since I
began my journey, and not one so far has had any
foundation.'

The Margrave shook his head emphatically. 'Believe
me, this is no false alarm. I understand your scepticism -
we've had our share of hysteria here in Prospect, and
there have been any number of accusations without
evidence to back them.' He looked up at Tarod as
though challenging him to argue with his next words.
'I'm not a fool, or at least I don't believe I am. And
neither is Sister-Seer Jennat Brynd.'

'A Sister of Aeoris? I'm sorry, I don't quite follow.'

'It was a party of Sisters who discovered the girl's real
identity,' the Margrave told him. 'Apparently she had
been travelling with them for some days, and Sister
Jennat's suspicions were aroused. She used her talents
to investigate the girl, and learned the truth.' His mouth

pursed into an expression that might have been distaste
or unease. 'The girl had been calling herself Themila
something - I can't recall the clan name - but when the
sisters discovered a jewel she was carrying hidden about
her, they were certain they had found the fugitive.'

Tarod's skin crawled. Themila - the coincidence was
too great to be dismissed. He had told Cyllan of Themila
Gan Lin, his one-time mentor; it was a name she would
remember . . .

Forcing his voice to remain even, he asked, 'And what
of the girl herself? Has she confessed?'

The Margrave shook his head. 'No. She has refused to
speak since she was apprehended. She simply sits and
glares at all who approach her.' He shuddered deli-
cately. 'It's not a look I wish to see too often. If half the
stories surrounding her are true, I don't like to speculate
on what she might be capable of.' He paused. 'But I
ramble - there's time enough to explain the rest later,
and I've already neglected the most basic of courtesies.
You must be parched after your ride, especially in this
dusty weather. Allow me at least to offer you a cup of
wine.'

The offer was difficult to decline; if he showed himself
overeager to see the prisoner, the old man might suspect
his motives. Tarod forced himself to smile. 'I'd appreci-
ate it, Margrave; thank you.'

Followed at a polite distance by his small entourage,
the Margrave led Tarod through the cool corridors of
the justice house to an ante-room set aside for receiving
important guests. Tarod had to quell his uneasy im-
patience when the old man ordered a servant to bring
not only wine but also food, and made the best effort he
could to eat delicacies that his stomach didn't want while
the Margrave elaborated on the circumstances of their
prisoner's arrest. The Sisters, he said, had intended to
turn North and take their captive back to the Star Penin-
sula, but as soon as the news reached his ears he had
insisted that the undertaking was too dangerous. It
would be safer to send word to the Circle so that they
might arrange a secure escort, but the message had only

been despatched via one of the new courier birds that
very morning, hence the Margrave's astonishment at the
prompt arrival of an Adept in the town. Tarod listened
courteously to the flow of words, occasionally nodding
or murmuring agreement, but inwardly he felt close to
breaking point. If the captured girl was Cyllan - and, he
reminded himself, that had yet to be seen - then time
was running short; a messenger-bird would deliver the
Margrave's letter to the Castle tomorrow at the latest,
and Keridil wouldn't waste a moment in acting on it. He
had to cut across the Margrave's vociferousness without
making the ploy too obvious.

He realised suddenly that the old man had asked him a
question which, lost in his own thoughts, he hadn't
comprehended. He looked up quickly. 'I'm sorry; what
did you say?'

'I asked, sir, if you have ever seen this girl for your-
self? I gather she was held for some time at the Castle of
the Star Peninsula.'

'Yes ... I saw her once or twice.'

'Then you'd recognise her again?'

'Certainly.' Tarod took the opportunity which the
Margrave had unwittingly offered him. 'In fact, sir, I
think it would be as well if I were to see her without any
further delay.'

The Margrave looked dubious. 'I don't wish to impose
on you, Adept. You must be tired - '

'I'm greatly refreshed, thanks to your hospitality.'

'Well . . . it's as you wish, of course.' Stiffly the
Margrave rose, and led him out of the ante-room and
along further corridors towards the rear of the building.
As they walked, Tarod asked suddenly, 'Margrave,
what has become of the jewel the girl carried? I trust it's
in safe keeping?'

'Indeed, yes. Sister Liss Kaya Trevire has it in her
possession, and I understand she has taken precautions
against its influence.'

'Very wise of her. And where is Sister Liss now?'

'She and her companions are lodged here at the jus-
tice house.' The Margrave looked unhappy. 'It's hardly

fit accommodation for Sisters of Aeoris, but they insis-
ted on staying close to the prisoner.'

Tarod nodded and made no further comment. They
had by now reached a barred door under which bright
daylight showed. A man stood on guard, and at a gesture
from the Margrave he hastened to lift the bar and pull
the door open.

They emerged into a small, walled courtyard, flooded
with Sunlight. A flowering tree in one corner had shed a
carpet of white petals over the flagstones and over the
roughly constructed wooden cage that stood near by. In
the cage something moved, but Tarod's view was
blocked by two white-robed figures who stood before
the cage and seemed to be pushing something through
the bars. At the sound of the door grating the two Sisters
of Aeoris looked round, then, recognising the Mar-
grave, straightened and turned to face him.

'Sisters . . . ' The Margrave hurried forward but
Tarod hung back, unable to bring himself to look more
closely at the cage. The old man was explaining the
circumstances of the Adept's arrival, and at last he
turned to Tarod and said, 'Adept - may I present Sister
Liss Kaya Trevire, and Sister-Seer Jennat Brynd.'

Both women bowed in the formal manner adopted
between Sisterhood and Circle, and Tarod looked first
at the fair-haired, middle-aged Liss, then at the youn-
ger, darker Jennat. He knew instantly that the seer was
skilled; unlike many of her kind, whom the Sisterhood
promoted for political rather than spiritual reasons, she
had a true talent. He'd have to be careful ...

'Sisters.' He nodded to them both in turn. The Mar-
grave tells me that you've apprehended one of our fugi-
tives. If it's true, the Circle will be very much in your
debt.'

Jennat was watching him carefully, and he detected a
challenge in her eyes; but it was Sister Liss who spoke.

'I believe there can be little doubt of the girl's identity,
Adept.'

He couldn't put off the moment any longer. Turning,
Tarod looked directly at the wooden cage, and a hand

seemed to close tightly round his heart and lungs and
squeeze them, so that he couldn't breathe.

She was bedraggled and dirty, her hair a bizarre
skewbald of blonde and copper-brown, but the small,
pinched face and wide amber eyes were so painfully
familiar to him that recognition was like a physical blow.
Their gazes met, locked, and her hand flew to her mouth
in disbelieving shock - then she covered her face and he
heard her gasping, indrawn breath.

She looked almost exactly as she had done when she
had broken through the temporal barrier to arrive wet
and exhausted at the Castle, and poignant memories
crowded Tarod's mind. With them came the first surge
of anger at her predicament, and he knew that unless he
took unremitting control of it, the rage might over-
whelm him. Fighting it down, he became aware that the
Margrave and the two Sisters were watching him.

'Well, Adept?' The Margrave licked his lips uncer-
tainly. Is this the girl the Circle are seeking?'

He couldn't deny it. The Sisters had proved Cyllan's
identity beyond all shadow of doubt, and they were
waiting only for his confirmation. Slowly, Tarod
approached the cage, and as he did so Cyllan let her
hands fall from her face. He allowed his left hand,
hidden from sight of the Margrave and sisters, to make a
small, warning gesture, and he hoped she understood.

'Yes,' he said, his voice even. 'This is the girl.'

As the small group moved away from her prison,
Cyllan's gaze followed Tarod with a hunger and longing
that made her shiver uncontrollably. Since the night-
mare of her capture had begun she'd thought of nothing
but him, tormenting herself with visions of a short-lived
future in which all hope of seeing him again was gone.
Before their arrival at Prospect Town she'd made two
attempts to escape from the Sisters, but both had failed,
and though it wasn't in Cyllan's nature to admit defeat
she had realised that any further attempt at flight was
pointless. Even if she could escape - and that in itself
was unlikely - she couldn't hope to retrieve the Chaos

stone, and without it Tarod's cause was lost. She had no
power of her own; all she had was the ability silently to
defy and curse her captors, while she waited to be taken
to her death.

But now . . . She rubbed fiercely at her eyes, still part
convinced that she must be asleep and dreaming, but
Tarod's tall figure didn't waver and vanish. He looked
gaunt, tired, unkempt; but he was alive, and he had
come to her. Somehow he had deceived the Sisters and
the Margrave, and for the first time since her own decep-
tion had been discovered Cyllan felt hope renewing
itself. If he could just find a way to -

Sister Jennat, on the edge of the small group, sud-
denly looked over her shoulder directly at the cage, and
Cyllan felt a sharp frisson of discomfort, as though her
thoughts were being spied upon. She'd forgotten
Jennat's talent in the shock of seeing Tarod, and quickly
turned her face aside, trying to cloud her mind and block
the seer's attempts to probe. After a few moments
Jennat looked away and she allowed herself to breathe
again. With luck on her side - and she desperately
needed luck now - the dark Sister had had no chance to
find anything suspicious in what she saw. Drawing air
into her lungs, and striving to quell the pounding of her
heart, Cyllan sat back to wait. It was all she could do.

'There's no question as to the girl's identity,' Tarod told
his companions. 'As I explained to the Margrave, I saw
her during her captivity at the Castle, and despite her
disguise I'm not in any doubt. However, there is still the
matter of the jewel. I'd like to see it for myself.'

He became aware instantly of Sister Jennat's sharp
scrutiny, and warning bells rang deep in his mind, Some-
thing - he couldn't judge what, though it hardly mat-
tered - had alerted the seer, and he could sense a sly,
subtle attempt to probe his thoughts. Quickly he
blocked them, saw her flinch momentarily, and realised
that, although she couldn't tell what he was thinking, his
retaliation had made her all the more suspicious. An
unpleasant sense of urgency began to worry at him.

Intimidated though Sister Liss might be by the authority
of a high-ranking Adept, Jennat was another matter. He
had to get Cyllan away, before the Sister's doubts could
take root and grow.

Liss bowed her head, acquiescing. 'Of course, Adept,
if you wish to see the gem I have it here in my pouch.
Though - forgive me -I wonder if it might be unwise to
expose it? We took certain precautions, you under-
stand, and - '

Tarod's uneasy impatience redoubled, but he tried to
keep it from his voice. 'I appreciate your concern, Sister
Liss, but I need to be sure of its authenticity.'

'Sister - ' Jennat hissed the word involuntarily, then
blanched as Tarod turned a swift, angry glance on her.
Liss was fumbling in her belt-pouch, her movements
infuriatingly slow, and it was all Tarod could do to stop
himself from physically shaking her into greater haste.
He didn't dare look towards the cage at Cyllan, and
prayed silently that Jennat wouldn't turn her attentions
to her and see what was in her mind. He felt a disturbing
mixture of impatience and dread as he watched Liss's
clumsy efforts - he needed the stone, wanted to touch its
familiar contours and know that once again he con-
trolled its power; and yet the fear that he might succumb
to the jewel's ancient influence, that the servant might
become the master, was all too strong.

'Here it is.' Liss finally drew out a tightly folded piece
of white cloth, and Tarod saw the lightning-flash sigil of
the White Gods embroidered on it. He kept the relief he
felt from his voice as he spoke.

'Thank you, sister. If I might see the stone . . .  ? '

Jennat was biting her lip, glancing nervously from
Tarod to Liss and back to Tarod. The older woman
began to unwrap the cloth; through its folds something
glittered coldly, and Tarod felt a surge of raw emotion,
of power; a sensation he had all but forgotten and which
struck him so unexpectedly that he didn't think to con-
trol it -

'Sister, no!' Jennat's frantic cry cut the still air like a
sword-blade, and at the same moment the final folds of

the cloth fell away to expose the Chaos stone in Liss's
hand. Tarod swung round, and his gaze locked with the
dark girl's - her face was a frozen mask of horror, and in
her eyes he saw stunned recognition of his true self.

Sister Liss was turning, alarmed by Jennat's warning
but not yet comprehending what her seer had under-
stood. Without pausing to think, Tarod snatched the
jewel from Liss's palm - and a massive physical shock
jolted through him, as though he'd been struck by a
thunderbolt. His left hand clenched round the gem, and
an atavistic, titanic sense of power flooded his mind,
wiping out all reason and setting fire to an instinctive
fury. He couldn't think as a logical, mortal man -
Jennat's face was a blur, the Margrave's querulous cry
like a distant, meaningless bird-call - he flung his left
arm out towards Jennat and the power surged within
him.

The flowering tree in the corner erupted in a column
of white flame, and light blasted across the courtyard.
Burning branches whirled down on to the cage, and the
wooden bars blazed up like torches. Tarod saw Cyllan
reel back, and he screamed her name, summoning her to
his side. She staggered, regained her balance - then he
saw her fling herself through the roaring arch of fire that
consumed the cage, her figure lit grotesquely and her
face distorted with a wild triumph. She reached him and
his right hand locked on hers - the clutch of her fingers
was ferocious - then through the mayhem he heard
Sister Jennat shrieking.

'No! No! Sister, help me! Stop them!'

Men were bursting from the door to the justice house,
the Margrave was trying to block his path, and he saw
Jennat, a blur of white robes and flying dark hair, hur-
ling herself towards him. He didn't think - he couldn't
think; the instinctive fury was too great. A gesture, and
Jennat screamed like a tortured beast, her body twisting
about in a gruesome dance before she crashed to the
ground, her bones smashed and all traces of life obliter-
ated from her eyes.

Through a red daze Tarod saw Sister Liss backing

away on all fours and heard her wailing on a high,
insensate note. He dragged Cyllan to his side, swung
round, and came face to face with the Margrave. The old
man's features were distorted by terror but he was trying
to block their path, his militia behind him. Tarod raised
his hand again and the old man reeled sideways, buf-
feted by a force that punched him across the courtyard.
The militiamen fell back in horrified confusion and
Tarod clove through their midst, only dimly aware of
Cyllan at his side. The door split, burst apart by the
insane force erupting from within him, and they were
running through corridors that warped and fragmented
before them. Faces loomed and fell away crying out in
fear, the double doors at the main entrance were before
them -

The crowd outside in the avenue parted like leaves
before a gale as the dark, demonic figure ran from the
justice house. To Tarod's twisted consciousness the
scene was a nightmare of crazed shapes and howling
sound; the Chaos force had control of him and the
milling bodies and screaming voices had no meaning.
Black light flickered about him, lighting his stark face
and possessed eyes. At the edge of the crowd something
moved, and he sent out an implacable mental summons;
the big bay horse reared and danced but his will held it
and he was dimly aware of lifting Cyllan, flinging her
astride the animal and springing into the saddle behind
her. The sensation of the powerful, bunching muscles
beneath him brought back a measure of sanity - he
screamed a command and the horse spun about, launch-
ing into a standing gallop as it raced towards the town
walls and freedom.

Chapter 7

Sweating, shaking, the bay horse stumbled to a halt
under the shelter of a vast pine tree that marked the edge
of Prospect Province's southern forest. The last blood-
ied streaks of Sunset were still just visible in the West,
but dusk had drained all colour from the woods, merging
shadow with night and casting a charcoal-dark pall over
the humping landscape.

Tarod slid from the saddle, his spine jarring as his feet
struck the uneven ground, and for a moment pressed his
face against the animal's flank, feeling drained and
exhausted. Then he reached up and his hands caught
Cyllan about the waist to lift her down. Her face stared
back at him, a pale, indistinct oval in which only her eyes
looked smudged and dark in the deepening twilight. He
felt her fingers clutch his arms to steady herself, then she
slithered to the ground and suddenly was clinging to him
with the desperate hunger of a frightened child.

'Tarod. . . ' She said his name over and over again as
though it were a talisman, and he drew her to where a
tangle of briars formed a natural shelter, fallen pine
needles making a soft carpet on the turf. Together they
sank down on the makeshift couch, and at last she raised
her head and gazed at him.

'I thought I'd never see you again.' Her fingers
touched his face tentatively, as though she didn't trust
the evidence of her eyes. 'I'd been searching for you,
listening to every rumour, hoping ... I believed you
must be alive, but - '

'Hush.' He kissed her, moved by the aching fam-
iliarity of her skin beneath his lips. 'Don't say anything.'
Her hair brushed against his face and he pushed it aside,

his fingers tracing the contours of her face. She felt so
small, so vulnerable . . . when he kissed her again she
turned her head so that his mouth found hers, and he
pulled her closer, the cloak he wore enveloping them
both. Tired though he was, feelings were awakening that
he couldn't and didn't wish to stem; driven by an under-
standing that he dared not acknowledge, he needed her
and wanted her in a way he'd never known before.

She made to speak but his lips quieted her, and he felt
her responding to him, uncertainly at first but then with
increasing fervour as recent terrors gave way to the
emotions of the moment. By the tree the bay horse
snorted and Cyllan started nervously; he smiled, and
drew her closer against him.

'It's all right, love,' Tarod told her softly. 'Nothing can
harm you. Not now . . . '

Much later, she woke from a restless sleep and saw him
standing at the edge of the forest, silhouetted against a
sky steeped in thin silver-grey light. Both Moons were
high, but barely more than crescents; an insidious wind
had risen and rustled in the burgeoning trees, lifting
Tarod's black hair back from his face and casting his
profile into sharp relief. Beside him the bay stood head
down and dozing; but from the set of his shoulders
Cyllan knew that Tarod hadn't slept; his restlessness was
a palpable aura.

She got quietly to her feet, gathering up his cloak with
which he'd covered her, and walked slowly towards him.
Hearing her approach he turned, and she saw that he
held something in one hand; something that glittered
coldly. His smile was touched with sadness.

'You should be sleeping.'

'I'm not tired, not any more.' She touched his hand; it
was chilled and she cast the cloak around him. 'And you
. . . ?'

'I don't think I could sleep, even if I wanted to.' His
fingers moved restively, and the Chaos stone caught and
reflected a sharp sliver of light. For near on two hours
Tarod had stood gazing out at the landscape with its

Moon-distorted perspectives, searching his own mind
for the answers to a dilemma he knew he couldn't
resolve, and he felt incapable of expressing to Cyllan the
feelings that stirred in him. He had thought himself
immune to the Chaos stone's influence, but he'd been
wrong - yesterday's ugly events had proved that beyond
all doubt. The old power had returned to him, and he'd
used it without considering the consequences . . . now,
he was torn between loathing of the stone and the heady
knowledge that he was whole again. However evil the
jewel might be, whatever its Chaotic legacy, it contained
his soul - it was an integral part of him, and without it
he'd been little better than an empty husk.

Last night when he'd made love to Cyllan he had been
stunned by the intensity of his own emotions. The long,
lonely days when he had existed soulless and empty had
left their mark, and he'd all but forgotten how great the
strength of human passions, good or ill, could be. It was
as though his existence had taken on another dimension;
one where every sense, every feeling, every thought,
was brighter and clearer and sharper. He had once told
Cyllan that until his soul was restored to him he could
never love or give in the way that he really desired to,
and now he realised how true his words had been. Yet
the stone, without which he was only half alive, had
imbued him with an evil to which he'd already suc-
cumbed once, and would doubtless succumb again. That
was the nature of the dilemma, and Tarod was finding it
hard to live with himself.

He was turning the stone over and over in his hand,
and suddenly he felt Cyllan's fingers tangle with his,
arresting his movement. 'Your thoughts aren't happy,
Tarod,' she said quietly. 'Were you thinking about what
happened in Prospect?'

He looked down at her, then sighed. 'Yes. And I was
wondering what I'd see in your eyes when you woke, and
asking myself if I could face it.'

'Why should you not be able to? Do you think I've
changed so much?'

Tarod shook his head. He made a tentative attempt to

release his hand, but she would not let go. 'Yesterday,
for the first time, you saw the force that truly moves me,
Cyllan,' he said. 'You saw my soul, and that soul isn't
human. You saw Chaos.'

'I saw Tarod, as I see Tarod now - and as I touched
and felt Tarod earlier tonight.'

'Then maybe you don't yet understand what I really
am.'

Her face was partly obscured by the curtain of her
hair, but even in the dimness he could see an odd,
burning intensity in her eyes. 'Oh yes, I think I do,' she
told him stubbornly. 'I know that you love me enough to
have saved my life, no matter what the cost to you. As to
whether that motive is born out of Order or Chaos - it
doesn't matter, Tarod! It's a human feeling, a mortal
emotion.' Her fingers squeezed his, hard. 'Doesn't that
prove where the real truth lies? Yes; you killed some-
one. But you killed them to save me. And I'd be a
hypocrite, wouldn't I, if I condemned you for doing no
more than I've done myself?'

He realised what she was saying, and at last something
which he'd heard but doubted was confirmed. He was a
little disconcerted to find that the confirmation came as
no surprise.

'Then you did kill Drachea Rannak  ...  ' he said.

Cyllan turned away from him. 'Yes. I killed him, and I
can't regret it. I've tried to make myself feel remorse,
but I'm not capable; not after what he tried to do to us.'
She released his hand at last and walked away to the
edge of the trees, staring out at the Prospect hills but
taking in nothing of the vista. 'I used the stone to kill
him, and I'd use it again - I'd use it now, if I had to. Does
that make me evil?'

'No. But - '

'Tarod, if you find it hard to reconcile your con-
science, then I can only pray you'll understand and
forgive me for what I've done . . . '

He stepped towards her, 'You know there's nothing
to forgive. If - '

She interrupted again, her voice unexpectedly harsh.
'I don't just mean Drachea. There's more.'

'More?' Tarod hesitated, then laid his hands on her
shoulders, drawing her towards him though she still
wouldn't face him. 'Tell me.'

He felt Cyllan shiver, and this time it seemed she had
to exert a great effort of will to speak. 'You rejected
your own soul because you wanted no part of an evil
legacy,' she said. 'Yet I couldn't follow your principle,
and I think that makes me far more evil than you. You
see ... I made a pact with Chaos to secure your
freedom.'

Tarod's fingers tightened reflexively on her shoulder
muscles, but it was the only outward sign of the shock he
felt. Slowly Cyllan raised her left arm and turned her
hand palm up, so that her coat sleeve fell back. Even in
the gloom he could see the dark scar, like a burn, that
marred her skin.

'Yandros made that mark,' Cyllan told him quietly.
'He kissed my wrist to seal our bargain.'

Stunned, Tarod took her arm, but his touch was gen-
tle. Her skin was puckered and as he touched the scar he
could sense its origin; a stigma that time wouldn't erode.
With terrible clarity he remembered Yandros's face; the
proud, smiling mouth, the ever-changing eyes, the
power that defied mortal concepts . . . he'd challenged
Yandros once, and defeated him; but he understood
Chaos in a way no other sorcerer could, and knew how
to use the dark lord's own weapons against him. The
thought that Cyllan, unskilled and unprotected, had
faced such a power, chilled him to the marrow.

He said, not knowing how to put his feelings into
words, 'How did he - how could he break through? He
was banished . . . '

Cyllan hugged herself. 'I called him - prayed, I sup-
pose you might say - and he answered. That's all I know.
He appeared in my room, and - and he agreed to aid
me.' She shut her eyes, trying to squeeze out the mem-
ory of that sense of appalling power and the paralysing
fear that it could still engender.

Tarod let out a long, sharp breath, fighting back an
impulse to curse the world and everything in it. 'Cyllan
. . . Cyllan, what you did was insane! Why did you act so
recklessly?'

She turned round at last, her eyes glittering. 'What
else was left to me? You were about to die, and Yandros
was the only one, apart from me, who wanted you to
live!' A strange, bitter smile distorted her face. 'Do you
think Aeoris would have intervened to save your life?'

She'd called on the quintessence of evil, opened her-
self to damnation, and all for his sake . . . Tarod was
moved to black rage at the thought of what she must
have suffered, and painfully touched by her courage.
True, he would have done as much for her, and more,
without a second thought; but he was too well
acquainted with Chaos to fear it in any form. Cyllan was
another matter.

Misinterpreting his silence, Cyllan pulled away from
him in sudden distress. Her challenging bravado had
been short-lived; now she hung her head.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered. 'I know what he's done to
you, what he is - but I had no choice! I had to save you,
and his was the only power I could turn to. Tarod, please
- don't hate me.'

'Hate you?' He paused, then caught hold of her and,
when she tried to resist, pulled her forcibly into his arms
and held her tightly. 'Cyllan, don't you know me better
than that?' His tone was fierce. 'All that matters, all I
care about, is the risk you ran! I know Yandros, and he
gives nothing without taking more in payment.' The
grim thought which he'd tried not to voice suddenly
wouldn't be held at bay any longer. 'What did you
promise him in return for his aid?'

Cyllan looked up, blinked. 'My loyalty.'

'Loyalty  . . .  '

'It was all he asked.' She laughed in an odd, broken
tone. 'He said I'd already damned myself in the eyes of
my own gods by calling on him; so what had I to lose?'

Such generosity wasn't in Yandros's nature. He must

have had some ulterior motive, and that motive boded
ill ...

'He wants you to live, Tarod,' Cyllan said. 'He told
me as much. And it seems that he wants me to survive,
too ... at least for the time being.' She smiled, though
it was a wan effort. 'I asked him to kill me, to release you
from the bargain you made with the High Initiate, but he
refused. He said ... he said that I might be of use to
him. And so the pact was made.'

He touched her face gently, emotion clouding his
green eyes. 'I don't know what to say; words are in-
adequate. So much love; so much courage . . . '

She shook her head. 'I wasn't brave. I was afraid of
him - and I'm afraid of him still.' She looked up into his
face. 'I'm so afraid of what might happen if I fail him!'

His mind touched hers and he sensed the depth of her
fear. His eyes narrowed, and a look flickered in them
that for an unnerving moment reminded Cyllan all too
sharply of the Chaos lord.

'Yandros won't harm you,' Tarod told her softly.
'Whatever he might claim, his power in this world is
limited. I've defeated him once; I can do so again.' His
tone hardened. 'If he threatens you, I'll destroy him.
Believe that, Cyllan.'

He couldn't tell whether she was convinced by his
words - and he didn't care to question his own belief in
them - but after a few moments a little of the resistance
he'd sensed in her muscles receded, though her body
was still painfully tense.

'What are we to do now?' she asked simply.

The decision hadn't been easy . . . but Cyllan's
bravery, and the fear she now felt as a result of what she
had done, had served to cement Tarod's resolution. He
pressed his face against the crown of her hair and said,

'We'll go on to Shu-Nhadek, as we always meant to
do. We'll find passage, somehow, to the White Isle - '

'But - '

'No; hear me out, love. We'll find passage to the
White Isle, and there we'll appeal directly to the only
power in the world which can help us.'

Cyllan stared at him in terrible dismay, but said
nothing.

'Only Aeoris himself can counter the evil of the Chaos
stone,' Tarod went on. 'Yandros gained a foothold in
this world through me, and only I can make the decision
to turn that tide. I'm not strong enough to fight him
alone. I must surrender the stone to the White Lords
. . . it's the only way.'

'But it's more than just a jewel, Tarod; it's your own
soul.'

'I know. But you've seen the insanity that's been
turned loose on the land. Directly or indirectly, it's
Yandros's doing; it's like a disease eating at everyone
and everything, and if it isn't stopped there'll soon be no
cure. It has to be done, Cyllan. And at least, at Aeoris's
hands, we'll find the justice that the Circle denied us.'

She couldn't argue with his reasoning; but neither
could she silence the still, small voice that whispered a
warning deep in her mind. She was tired - too tired for
coherent thought, despite what she'd said to Tarod, and
she could see the need for sleep in his eyes even if it
eluded him. She stepped back, disengaging herself from
his arms but keeping a hold on his hand, and looked over
her shoulder at the dark, misty hills.

'Come back to the shelter with me.' Her voice was
gentle. 'The Moons are sinking; it'll be dawn before
long. We should rest while we can.'

He followed her as she moved towards their hiding
place. Sleep would be a blessing, if he could find it, and
when they lay down he drew her close to him, covering
them both with his cloak. She nestled her head in the
crook of his arm, and he thought she'd drifted away
when her voice, low-pitched, surprised him.

'Tarod . . . When this is over - if it's over - '

'When, love. Think of it only as when.'

A slight movement told him that she was nodding
acquiescence. 'When it's over ... I hope I can see
Sister Erminet again. She was so good, so kind - without
her I'd have lost you, and I don't think I can ever repay
that debt.'

'I know what she did.' Unbidden, memory of the old
Sister's face came sharp and clear to Tarod's mind, and
his voice caught on the last word. Cyllan turned in his
arms. Tarod? What is it?'

He might have spared her the truth, at least for
tonight, but to do so seemed an insult to Erminet, for
whom honesty had been a watchword. 'Erminet is
dead,' he said simply.

'Dead ...   ?'

The Circle discovered what she'd done to aid us, and
she was arrested. She took her own life whilst under
guard in the Castle.' Tarod realised that his own voice
sounded remote, detached; it was far from what he felt.
'She was a skilled herbalist,' he went on, touched by the
disquieting sensation that he was speaking into a void.
'She would have felt no pain, no suffering - though the
gods know that's little comfort!' His tone had become
savage, and he controlled it with difficulty. 'She didn't
deserve that fate. And hers is yet another death to place
at my door.'

'No. At Keridil's,' Cyllan said in a small voice.

He sighed. 'Keridil would have had no quarrel with
Erminet had it not been for me, and I won't try to escape
that truth.'

'No, Tarod.' Cyllan squeezed her eyes tightly shut
against the tears that welled in them. 'Sister Erminet
would have argued that with you. I can almost hear what
she'd say.'

I make my own decisions for my own reasons, and if
you think your opinions would sway me you can think
again, Chaos fiend or no! It was a fair paraphrase of what
Erminet might have acidly retorted to any attempt to
influence her. She'd made her own decisions, as much so
in the manner of her death as in anything else. Perhaps,
despite his self-recrimination, Cyllan was right.

'Aeoris keep her soul,' Cyllan whispered.

Tarod's fingers touched her hair. She was almost
asleep, unlikely to comprehend what he said. 'Or
Yandros ... ' he replied softly.

Rain had moved in during the night to sweep across the
western reaches of Southern Chaun. The sight of the
grey, drizzling curtain soaking the fields beyond the
Cot's elegant windows irritated Ilyaya Kimi as she sat
impatiently waiting for her chamberwomen to arrive.
Everything was ready, the journey planned down to the
last detail - and now this. She could anticipate a thor-
ough wetting even on the few short steps between the
main door and her litter, and she was far too old to run
for shelter, even if the idea alone weren't an affront to
her dignity. So; she would sit cramped and jolting in that
damned palanquin while the damp seeped through to
her bones, with nothing better to do than listen to the
rain pattering on the canopied roof. And before her lay
all the tedium of rough tracks and Prospect Estuary to
cross before her party even reached a decent drove road

She slapped a hand petulantly down on the arm of her
chair and, with difficulty, eased herself to her feet. The
chamberwomen were late - she had told them to attend
her promptly one hour after the tocsin had rung for
morning prayers, and the sandglass on her table told her
that the hour was well past. Pursing her lips in anger
Ilyaya reached for the little handbell that stood beside
the glass, and shook it vigorously. She was gratified
moments later to hear footsteps running along the pas-
sage outside, then the door burst open and her two
servants appeared.

'Your pardon, Matriarch; we were so busy with the
preparation of the litter - '

'Knock.' The old woman interrupted their apology.
'How many times must I tell you? Knock before you
enter my room! Go out and do it again.'

The chamberwomen exchanged wry glances before
doing as they were bidden, and when they entered for
the second time Ilyaya gave a curt nod of satisfaction.

'Better. You're both late, but we'll overlook the mat-
ter this time. How do the preparations progress?'

'Well, Madam. The palanquin is harnessed, pack-
horses loaded, and Sister Antasone reports that the

escort has been sighted approaching the Cot. They
should be here within ten minutes, and then we can
leave just as soon as you wish it.'

'Good.' There was little point prolonging the depar-
ture, however reluctant she might feel to face the
journey. Better to get it begun and therefore over with
the sooner. 'And the arrangements at Shu-Nhadek?' she
demanded.

The messenger left two days ago, Matriarch, to take
word to the Margrave. He'll be sensible of the honour
you do him, and will house you in the greatest comfort.'

'If he's yet returned from the North, he will,' Ilyaya
observed sourly. 'If not, Aeoris alone knows what man-
ner of shambles we'll find awaiting us.' She eased herself
stiffly back into the chair, sighing with relief as she sat
down. 'Very well. You may bring me my travelling
cloak, and my personal valise. And I want to see the
Mistress of Novices before we leave.'

'Yes, Madam.' The women departed on their errands,
leaving Ilyaya drumming gnarled, impatient fingers on
the arm of her chair.

Sister-Senior Fayalana Impridor was alone in the Hall
of Prayer when the Matriarch's servant found her. The
Novice-Mistress looked up from the pile of books of
Aeoris's Law that she was tidying in the wake of the
morning dedications, and smiled her slow smile.

'Good morning, Missak. Is the Matriarch ready to
depart?'

'She is, Sister, and she asks that you attend her before
she leaves.'

'Certainly - I'll come at once.' Fayalana put down the
books, brushed at her robe and followed Missak towards
the door. Just as they reached the passage she raised a
quirkish eyebrow and asked, 'And how is the Matriarch
today?'

The question had clear implications, though only the
senior Sisters ever had the temerity to voice them.
Missak smiled thinly.

'Between ourselves, Sister, she was a little pettish and

we thought she might go into one of her moods, but it
seems to have passed off.'

'Providence be thanked for that,' Fayalana said fer-
vently. 'We all have enough to cope with as it is . . . not,
of course, that the Matriarch can help her small foibles.
It's an affliction that will come to all of us as our years
advance.'

Missak nodded. 'Sometimes, Sister, I've woken in the
night and asked myself whether she should be making
such a journey at all. She's over 80, after all, and not
strong.'

Fayalana's eyes softened kindly. 'I know how you feel
- it worries us all. But this is something that can't pos-
sibly be delegated, Missak. Aeoris's own law forbids
that anyone save the true triumvirate of rulers may sit in
Conclave - there can be no proxies; no substitutions,
you understand.'

'I understand, yes. But . . . she should retire, Sister.
At her age, she shouldn't have to carry such
responsibilities.'

Fayalana's dark eyes seemed to turn inward for a few
moments, as though she saw some hidden meaning in
the other woman's words. Then her face cleared and she
said drily, 'I agree, Missak. But I wouldn't care to be the
one delegated to suggest it to her!'

At about the time the Matriarch's party began its cum-
bersome journey South-East towards Prospect Estuary,
a ship rocked on the light swell of the dock on Summer
Isle. Both on deck and at the shoreward end of its
gangplank there was a good deal of activity; men hurried
back and forth with provisions, furnishings, trunks; a
seemingly endless stream of goods making the perilous
crossing from shore to ship. On the after-deck, under
the shadow of the great mast, a youngish man wearing
the distinctive blue sash of a ship's master watched
proceedings with a relaxed but practised eye, while the
crew sat about on or near the rail, talking desultorily or
playing Quarters or Strike Anchor. Occasionally a burst

of laughter rose above the general hubbub as someone
made a profitable win.

At the back of the dock, well away from the con-
fusion, two caparisoned horses stamped restlessly in the
harness of an open carriage until a sharp word from their
driver quieted them. Behind them, one of the carriage's
two occupants watched the distant activity with intense
interest. He was a thin, brown-haired youth of some
seventeen years, his good looks marred by a prominent
nose that dominated his face. He was attempting to grow
a moustache, both to counter the effect of the nose and
to make himself look a little older; but thus far it was
only poorly developed. His elaborate clothes - wide-
sleeved embroidered jacket over silk trousers, heavily
embossed belt with a short and purely decorative sword
hanging from a scabbard - were creased with sitting. The
carriage springs creaked as he stretched a cramped leg
and sighed, and his companion, a much older man,
glanced sidelong at him.

'Are you tired, High Margrave?'

Fenar Alacar rubbed his eyes. 'Not really, Isyn. Just
tired of waiting.'

'It was your own idea to come and see the prep-
arations for yourself.' The older man hesitated, then
smiled a little sheepishly. 'With all due respect, sir.'

'Don't call me that, Isyn - you know it makes me
uncomfortable! You were "sir" to me for so many years
while my father was alive, and I can't get used to the idea
of everything being reversed now!' Fenar was trying to
hide his boredom and frustration but the effort was too
great. 'This,' he indicated the bustling dock with an
imperious sweep of one hand which reminded Isyn
sharply of the old High Margrave, 'all seems such an
unnecessary fuss and waste! Damn it, it's less than a
day's sailing to the mainland, and once we put in at Shu-
Nhadek I'll be housed as well as if I were still at my own
court! Yet look at it - enough food for a whole troop of
militia, my own dishes, cups, knives; even my own chair
to sit on! It's ridiculous!'

Isyn shook his head. Twelve years of tutoring, and still

the boy didn't seem to understand fully what he was, and
why he must be so treated. 'It's a necessary precaution,
High Margrave, especially with things as they are. We
daren't take the smallest risk of any harm befalling you.'

Fenar snorted. 'And so I have to have an army of
cooks, food-tasters, bed-makers, chair-dusters - and I
have to suffer the frustration of waiting and waiting
while the damned ship's loaded with a vast quantity of
superfluous nonsense!' He looked sidelong and
resentfully at his tutor-turned-adviser. 'If the powers of
Chaos mean to prevent the Conclave by luring me to my
death, I imagine they'll find a subtler method than
poisoning!'

Isyn refused to rise to the bait. Seventeen or no, the
boy was High Margrave, and his elevation was still
recent enough for him to want to test his authority on
occasion. It was a way of covering for his insecurity, and
the older man could understand it.

'It's worth remembering, sir,' he said gently, and
using the term Fenar hated quite deliberately, 'that the
High Initiate's party won't arrive for at least another
three days; more if they're held up by bad weather. And
speaking personally, I don't relish the prospect of spend-
ing the intervening time in Shu-Nhadek with only the
Lady Matriarch for company.'

There was a pause, then Fenar snorted again, but this
time with suppressed laughter. 'Gods, the very idea of it!
D'you know, Isyn, I can hardly believe that the old
woman's still alive. She was older than old when I last
saw her, and I was a child then. She must be 100 if she's a
day by now!'

His words were disrespectful and he was exaggerat-
ing, but Isyn felt privately relieved by the display of
childishness - it suited the lad far better than his earlier
attempt at arrogance. The next few days, he thought,
would be a trial in more ways than the obvious; Fenar
Alacar feared the impending Conclave, though nothing
would make him admit it; and when he was afraid he
would, like all young and untried creatures, react in one
of two ways - either by retreating into sulkiness, or by

trying to flaunt his position as absolute ruler, at least in
theory, of all the land. Isyn had glimpsed the beginnings
of such a reaction last year when the new High Initiate
had visited the Summer Isle court; awed by Keridil Toln,
Fenar had at the same time resented his confidence and
the aura of the highly occult Circle that he carried with
him. Then, he hadn't had the self-possession to chal-
lenge Keridil; now, if they found themselves in disagree-
ment, it might be different - and the High Initiate would
be too formidable an opponent for Fenar to cut his teeth
on.

The boy was fidgeting again. He'd seen the sense in
Isyn's words, but they did nothing to assuage his
impatience.

'I don't see why we have to go to Shu-Nhadek at all,'
he said irritably. 'There's no need for so much pomp and
ceremony. Why can't we simply sail from here directly
to the White Isle?'

Isyn didn't reply, but his brows knitted together in a
sharp frown, and Fenar made an angry gesture.

'Oh, I know. Thus it is written, thus it must be. Just
because some musty old manuscripts mouldering away
in the far North say that we have to follow this ridiculous
procedure - don't frown at me like that, Isyn; I don't
appreciate your disapproval.'

Isyn's normally placid temper was starting to fray, and
he interrupted. 'You may not appreciate it, High Mar-
grave, but you have it, whether either of us wills or no.
And you'd have more than disapproval from the Guard-
ians if you tried to set one foot on the White Isle from the
deck of the Summer Sister.'

Fenar shrugged. 'Would I? They're nothing more
than gatekeepers, however they like to cloak them-
selves. I could command them to - '

'I'd defy any mortal man, living or dead, to command
the Guardians.' Isyn spoke so quietly and yet with such
conviction that the young man was surprised. 'No High
Margrave, or High Initiate or Matriarch for that matter,
has set eyes on the Guardians for generations, save from

a distance, and none would dare - yes, sir, I said dare - to
go against their will.'

Fenar licked his lips uneasily, and Isyn pressed home
the point. 'You've heard the stories - I taught them to
you myself, when you were barely fledged. I'm only
surprised you could have forgotten them.'

Some of the older tales hinted that the Guardians, the
hereditary caste who for thousands of years had inhabi-
ted the White Isle, weren't even truly human, but were
descended from angelic beings in whose charge Aeoris
had placed his casket. Wild stories, doubtless, but it was
said there could be no smoke without fire . . . Every
now and then the Guardians sailed their strange barque
to the mainland, and took a handful of chosen women
back to their stronghold to bear them children and so
ensure the continuance of the caste. The women
returned after a year or so, and never spoke of what they
had seen; most were taken into the Sisterhood, or made
convenient marriages later. The male children born on
the Isle grew up to become the next generation of
Guardians. No one ever speculated on what happened
to the female children.

The bright Sun was obscured suddenly by a stray wisp
of cloud drifting from the West, and a wing of shadow
passed over the dock and the carriage. Fenar glanced
up, shivering as though the momentary gloom were an
omen, and when he looked at Isyn again the anger had
faded from his eyes.

'I'm sorry, Isyn,' he said awkwardly. With the need to
apologise to anyone lessening as he grew more
accustomed to his status, humility was becoming
unfamiliar, and Isyn appreciated the effort this took. 'I
forgot myself, and I was wrong. We must, of course, do
as protocol dictates.' He forced a smile. 'I don't want to
make a fool of myself, do I, on what must surely be the
most momentous task I'll ever undertake? I can just
imagine what my father would have said - called me an
arrogant little tyke and given me a whipping, I should
think.'

Isyn inclined his head in amused acknowledgement,

and Fenar hunched his shoulders. In the wake of his
apology and confession he was trying to salve his dignity
and appear adult. The comment about his father had
been a conciliatory gesture; now he wanted to erase it
and move on. Isyn considered himself too old to remem-
ber the impatience and frustration of being 17, but none-
theless he could appreciate the boy's feelings.

He said, nodding towards the dock, 'It seems the
activity's slowing down. I would imagine the ship will be
ready to sail on the next turn of the tide.'

'Yes . . . though perhaps after all I'll take your
advice, Isyn - bearing in mind the prospect of the
Matriarch's company.' Fenar studied his nails, self-con-
scious. 'Doubtless there are a hundred and one small
tasks I've overlooked and should attend to before
embarking.'

'Doubtless. And you must bid farewell to your lady
mother, the Dowager Margravine.'

The High Margrave looked up quickly, then the lids
came half down over his grey eyes, masking their expres-
sion. That I've already done. At least, I sent a message
to her yesterday, and had her reply this morning. She
sends her love, but begs to be excused from a meeting.'

Isyn sighed inwardly. Since the death of her husband
the Margravine had retired completely into herself, liv-
ing out her days in an isolated dower house some way
from the court, tended only by three serving-women,
and grieving ceaselessly. She saw no outsider, not even
her own son, and the consensus of opinion was that she
was simply waiting to die.

'She asked to be remembered to you,' Fenar added.

'Did she?' Isyn was surprised, and touched. 'How
kind of her.'

A slightly strained silence fell between the two for a
while then, until Isyn, alerted by footsteps, looked up to
see the dock overseer approaching the carriage. On the
Summer Sister's deck the crew were suddenly active, the
ship's master calling out orders in clipped but carrying
tones.

He touched Fenar's shoulder, and the boy blinked.

'I think,' Isyn said, smiling, 'that if you have tasks to
complete, sir, we might as well return to the palace and
attend to them. If I read the signs aright, the Summer
Sister is ready to sail when the High Margrave com-
mands it.'

Chapter 8

Tarod's keen eyes saw the small cavalcade approaching
from the West against the glare of the setting Sun, and
he reached out to touch the bridle of Cyllan's horse,
bringing it to a well-trained halt. She shifted in her
saddle, squinting as she tried to follow where he was
pointing, then looked at him and saw the unease in his
expression.

'What is it, Tarod?'

'I don't know.' He couldn't explain the intuitive fore-
boding stirring within him; this was by no means the first
party they had encountered on the road, but a sixth
sense told him that it was no ordinary convoy, and he
was wary.

Cyllan looked again. The sun was sinking into a bank
of cloud and the glare was suddenly lessened, so that she
could make out individual shapes among the cavalcade.

They're moving quite slowly,' she said, then: There's
something in their midst; something large . . . '

'It's a palanquin.' Tarod frowned. 'And most of the
riders seemed to be dressed in white.'

She glanced uncertainly at him, beginning to share his
unease. 'Do you know who they are?'

'I know who they should be - but it makes no logical
sense, unless - ' He hesitated, then shook his head as
though dismissing whatever unspoken thought had been
in his mind, and instead turned his attention to the
South. Three miles ahead, across a stretch of pleasant
moorland, it was just possible to make out the contours
of Shu-Nhadek in the evening haze, while beyond its
blurred outlines the sea glittered like a knife on the
horizon. Almost their final goal . . . they'd planned on

reaching it by nightfall, and it seemed they weren't
alone; at its present speed, he judged, the distant com-
pany would cross their path a mile outside the town.

His horse stamped and snorted, not understanding
the delay, and Tarod turned to Cyllan. 'Best play the
lady for a while again, love. We may have to exchange a
social grace or two before we reach Shu-Nhadek.'

She smiled wryly, and swung her right leg back across
her mount's withers, hooking her knee over the elab-
orately designed pommel of her saddle. She found the
side-saddle posture awkward and uncomfortable, but no
woman of quality would dream of riding any other way -
and a woman of quality was precisely what Cyllan was
pretending to be.

With more than enough coin in his pouch to see them
to their journey's end, Tarod had reasoned that ostenta-
tion was their best form of disguise. The populace was
alerted to hunt down two fugitives, and no one was likely
to consider that fugitives might hide by drawing atten-
tion to themselves - the concept wasn't logical. And so
he had stopped at the next sizeable town and, while
Cyllan waited outside the walls, had bought new clothes
for them both and two well-bred horses to replace the
big bay; a chestnut gelding for himself, and a mettle-
some but good-tempered grey mare for Cyllan. From
then on, while he blurred their appearance and the
memory of their faces in the minds of those they encoun-
tered, they had travelled under the guise of a prosperous
vintner and his wife, and Tarod had noted with irony the
ease with which they had passed through towns and
villages. Rumour was still rife everywhere, but they
heard little of it; ordinary folk would not dream of
approaching wealthy strangers to share the latest gossip,
and so, although they had made good speed to Shu-
Nhadek, they'd heard nothing of the latest news.

And in every town and village there was still sickening
testimony to the terror rife in the land. Accusations,
trials, executions, vengeance - the tide showed no sign
of turning, and the sights they saw on the road served
both to strengthen Tarod's resolve, and to increase his

anxiety to reach Shu-Nhadek, and beyond it his ultimate
goal, as quickly as possible.

He touched his heels to the chestnut's flanks and it
moved on, Cyllan's mare keeping pace. The light was
failing rapidly as the cloudbank swallowed the Sun;
ahead the first lamps were beginning to twinkle in the
harbour town, mirroring the fainter glitter of stars in the
easterly sky.

They heard the first sounds of the cavalcade as they
reached the point where the western and southern roads
merged for the final run into Shu-Nhadek. In the twilight
the approaching figures - which were, as Tarod had said,
mostly dressed in white - might have been ethereal
ghosts, but the clatter and thump of several dozen hoofs,
the jingle of harness, proved they were solid enough. At
the meeting of the roads Tarod and Cyllan reined in, and
Cyllan's eyes widened as at last she recognised the riders
for what they were.

'Sisters . . .   ' Her voice was almost inaudible.

The grey mare side-stepped, disturbed by her rider's
sudden disquiet, and Tarod spoke a word that settled
her. 'I thought so ... ' He watched the approaching
group with eyes that were suddenly narrowed to slits.
'And if I'm not mistaken, they're from Southern
Chaun.'

'Southern Chaun?'

The Matriarch's Cot.' He had counted eight women
on horseback and five heavily built male escorts, while in
the midst of the convoy an elaborately decked litter
swayed, borne by four more horses and swathed in richly
embroidered curtains. Its occupant wasn't visible.

'You see that?' He nodded towards the litter. That's
the palanquin of the Matriarch herself, Lady Ilyaya
Kimi.'

He realised that Cyllan didn't understand, and added,
'Lady Ilyaya is over 80, and she hasn't left her Cot for ten
years. She was too infirm to attend Keridil's inaugura-
tion - and if she's riding in the palanquin now, there's
only one circumstance which could have brought her
here.' His hand, light on the reins, tightened its grip

suddenly. 'It means that Keridil has summoned a
Conclave.'

The leader of the Matriarch's escort called a sharp warn-
ing as he saw the two indistinct figures motionless by the
meeting of the roads, and metal rattled as the five men
drew their swords. The two figures didn't move, and
after a moment the men relaxed as they realised the
strangers presented no threat - merely a merchant, or
some such, and his wife; doubtless awed by the cav-
alcade and wisely reining back to allow them to pass.

The convoy trotted by in stately grandeur; near its
head, one of the older Sisters spared a glance for the two
riders, whom she saw as Tarod wished her to see them -
nondescript, irrelevant. Her voice carried clear above
the rumble of their progress as she called out, 'Aeoris be
with you, good people!' and she made the Sign, with just
a hint of patronage, in their direction.

Cyllan saw Tarod bow his head as though in recogni-
tion and thanks, and hastily followed his example. As
the gilded palanquin swayed past she peered harder,
curious to glimpse the Matriarch; but the curtains didn't
so much as twitch. Then the cavalcade was drawing away
from them along the road into Shu-Nhadek.

Tarod watched as the riders diminished. He had,
without realising it, touched his right hand to the ring on
his left index finger, and in response the ring's stone
flared and shimmered like a small, white eye. He had
made the decision to restore the Chaos stone to its silver
base after their flight from Prospect; and as the ring's
contours flowed once again to clasp the jewel he had felt
a bitter mingling of despair and triumph. He was, truly,
whole again - but as he slipped the ring back on to his
finger and sensed the old familiarity of its presence, he
had realised afresh how dangerous its pervasive influ-
ence might prove to be. He would need an iron will, a
steel control, to keep to his resolution now, against the
living power of Chaos. Yet over and beyond that he
would need the power the ring granted him - the power
of his own soul - if he wasn't to fail in what he set out to

do. And the presence of the Matriarch in Shu-Nhadek
made the goal that much more urgent than before.

The thought was like a goad, and without warning he
urged his mount forward. Cyllan followed, confused by
the anger that she'd seen in his eyes in the moment
before he set off.

'Tarod! Tarod, what is it?'

He looked back, said something which she couldn't
hear, and she kicked hard at the grey mare's flank. The
animal put on a turn of speed and danced alongside him.
Even in the gloom, Cyllan could see that his face was
taut and bitter. Tarod, I don't understand! You said
that Keridil had called a Conclave - what does that
mean?'

No one outside the Circle could possibly understand
the full implications of what the High Initiate had done.
But if his suspicions were right, then Keridil had set
something in motion which, if he didn't act quickly,
could bring catastrophe on them all.

He realised suddenly that he'd been on the verge of
cursing at Cyllan, taking his anger out on her simply
because there was no one else at hand. With an effort he
controlled the rising tide of emotion in him.

'I can't explain it now,' he said. 'But we've no time to
lose - and the gods help us if we're too late!'

Shu-Nhadek was in a ferment. By one means and
another, news of the High Initiate's decision had flooded
into the town ahead of the three rulers' parties, and with
it had come a steady stream of devout or frightened
people, anxious to congregate as near as possible to the
site of the holy alliance and seek sanctuary or blessing in
its shadow. By the time Tarod and Cyllan arrived, the
Matriarch's cavalcade had disappeared, whisked away
to the Margrave's residence to await the arrival of
Keridil Toln and Fenar Alacar - and, as Tarod had
anticipated, every inn and hostelry in the town was full
to overflowing.

They finally reached the market square and stopped
to rest their tired horses. The square was abnormally

busy; torches burned in the porticoes of all the larger
buildings, casting a peculiar, flickering hellglow across
the flagstones; people had congregated simply to wait
and watch and see whatever might be seen; at the har-
bour side of the square a group of minstrels were singing
pious songs in the hope of earning a coin or two.

Cyllan looked to where black openings gaped at inter-
vals among the buildings, and fancied she saw the cold
glimmer of the harbour waters at the far end of an unlit
alley. She shivered at a sudden, unwanted memory and
edged her horse a little closer to Tarod's.

This atmosphere . . . ' She pitched her voice to a
whisper that only he could hear. 'It unnerves me.'

'I know.' He patted the chestnut gelding's neck. 'It's
as if the whole town has caught a fever. But at least we're
not too late. The town's still awaiting Keridil - we're
ahead of him, and that gives us some leeway. We'll find
somewhere to rest the night, then see what we can
discover in the morning.'

Cyllan shivered again. 'There's not an inn that hasn't
barred its doors to new trade.'

'Maybe.' Tarod smiled, an old smile that hinted at
something she preferred not to question. 'We'll see.'

Within half an hour he had found lodging for them, at a
respectable tavern only a few moments' walk from the
market square. Cyllan had been dubious at first, afraid
that they might be courting disaster by settling so close
to the hub of activity, but he had soothed her fears,
knowing that they were in no danger - at least, until the
Circle party should arrive. Money, a little intimidation
and a touch of his power had secured them a good room,
and a meal was served to them there. Cyllan didn't want
to eat - her nerves, like the strings of an overtuned
instrument, felt on the verge of snapping - but Tarod's
calm confidence soothed the worst of her terrors.

As they ate, Tarod explained the nature of the Con-
clave, and described what its outcome could mean to
them.

'If Keridil succeeds in summoning Aeoris on the

White Isle,' he said, 'then the powers of Order will have
only one aim - to eradicate every trace of Chaos in the
world.'

Cyllan looked at him through her lashes, aware that
her heartbeat had quickened uncomfortably. 'But isn't
that what you want?' she asked.

'Yes.' She thought that Tarod had hesitated momen-
tarily, though his answer was decisive enough. 'But I
fear that the White Lords will pursue that aim single-
mindedly, without thought for the consequences that
might befall mere mortals.' He touched his tongue to his
lips. 'How is it possible to comprehend, let alone explain,
the reasoning of a god? Yet I feel ... I feel I know, far
better than Keridil, the true nature of the power he
means to unleash.' He closed his right hand over the
restored silver ring, aware of the Chaos stone pulsing
beneath his fingers, and saw that Cyllan was watching
him intently. 'Although he is the patron and protector of
humanity, Aeoris transcends human limitations to such
a degree that individual lives and deaths - which are of
vital importance to the mortals concerned - are so trivial
to him as to be beyond his consideration - and so much
more so when weighed against the threat posed by
Yandros.' He paused, then smiled wryly. 'Imagine that
you stood in a meadow, confronted by an enemy who
meant to slay you. In fighting that enemy, would you be
concerned for the tiny insects which might be crushed
out of existence beneath your feet as you battled?'

Cyllan nodded. 'I understand you.'

Then you understand the danger in what Keridil
means to do. And if Aeoris should find Yandros a
powerful enemy, not easily overcome, the destruction
they wreak will be all the greater. It mustn't come to
that, Cyllan.'

She turned her head to gaze out of the window.
Across the rooftops the lights of Shu-Nhadek harbour
gleamed, reflecting broken mirror-images on the sea's
calm surface. Mist was stealing in as the night deepened,
and the peacefulness of the scene made a bizarre con-
trast with her thoughts.

'Then if it's to be prevented,' she said, 'we must reach
the White Isle before the Conclave can take place.' She
looked round at him, her eyes dark with emotion. 'And
you must do what you've been planning.'

'Does the thought distress you so much?'

'I - don't know. My conscience tells me it's right, but
-' she closed her mind to the sudden image of Yandros's
face, and the memory of their bargain, that rose within
her. 'I don't know, Tarod. I'm so afraid of the con-
sequences. More afraid, I think, than of what might
happen if Aeoris and Yandros should clash. What you
said, what you described - it's too remote to affect me.
Here, in this room in Shu-Nhadek with you, it doesn't
mean anything; but if you surrender the soul-stone it -
it'll dictate our future, and I feel that keenly.' She
gripped her hands together until the knuckles turned
white. 'I'm so afraid of losing you forever.'

As she spoke the White Lord's name, Tarod noticed,
she hadn't made the Sign. For anyone brought up as she
had been that was an unthinkable omission, and he
sensed the other forces that were at work in her.
Yandros had touched her with far more than a physical
scar, and, against his will, he felt a surge of pride in her.

My brother, she is worthy of us  ...

The voice spoke silently in his mind, and it shocked
him back to cold reality. Yes ... it would be all too easy
for them both to be seduced by that ancient power - and
he, far more than Cyllan, had good reason to feel an
affinity with it. But it mustn't be. He had to hold fast to
his resolution; and if it resulted in the ultimate sacrifice,
that sacrifice must be made.

'Cyllan.' He reached out across the table, pushing
aside the remains of the meal to take her hand in a grip
that hurt. 'Cyllan, I won't let myself be swayed. I came
here to fulfil a pledge, and I'll fulfil it, whatever the
consequences. While the Chaos stone exists, Yandros
can challenge the rule of Order - but only while he has
that foothold in the world. With the stone in Aeoris's
hands, the Conclave will never be called - and this
insanity can be stopped.'

She gazed at him, her expression bleak. 'And you're
sure, in your own mind, that this is the only way?'

There was another - but he daren't dwell on that
thought for a moment, lest it should take root . . . 'I'm
sure,' he said.

Cyllan nodded. 'Very well. If it must be, it must.'
With her free hand she rubbed fiercely at her eyes, and
Tarod couldn't tell whether or not she was crying. If she
was, then knowing Cyllan they'd be tears of anger rather
than despair. At length she blinked, sniffed, and said
with determined conviction, 'I was brought up to believe
that Aeoris is just and fair. I can only pray that his High
Initiate's blindness doesn't stand in the way of that
justice.'

Tarod smiled. His grip on her fingers relaxed a little,
he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. 'Remember
my analogy of the insects in the meadow?' he said. 'If
Aeoris is what we believe him to be, Keridil's arguments
will no more sway him than they could do.'

Despite their brave words, both Tarod and Cyllan suf-
fered monstrous dreams that night. Cyllan was haunted
by tormenting images of an unthinkable future, in which
she saw Tarod sacrificed on an altar stone that ran black
with blood, while she, hampered by the white robes of a
Sister of Aeoris, could only stand by and scream his
name over and over again, knowing that nothing she
could do would prevent his destruction. She threshed in
her sleep, reaching out clawing hands and snatching at
invisible assailants; then at last she settled a little as she
sensed Tarod beside her, and fell finally into a deeper if
just as dismal slumber.

Tarod lay unmoving and unaware of her distress, but
his sleep wasn't natural. Nor - or so he thought later -
were his dreams dreams in the usual sense. It was more
as though his mind, troubled by his waking thoughts,
had reached out beyond mortal dimensions to a place of
atavisms and ancient memories. And there, something
awaited him.

The familiarity of the proud, cruel but beautiful face

with its welcoming smile made him ache to the roots
of his soul with a feeling he couldn't define. Yandros
emerged from a column of coruscating light, and as he
moved, the atmosphere about him shifted subtly
between a myriad dimensions, changing colour and
form in ceaseless, patternless motion. Around him,
something was pulsing - a vast heart, its note too deep to
be anything more than a slow, earth-shaking vibration;
and it too had no pattern, the rhythm changing each time
Tarod's senses tried to attune to it. And he felt rather
than saw other presences; shadow-shapes drawing
towards him out of this formless place, entities he had
once known and with whom he had shared a shattering
affinity.

Tarod. Yandros's silver voice had a flat quality, a
sound recalled rather than heard, with no true existence
beyond memory and imagination. Light flared at the
Chaos lord's heart and focused to the image of a seven-
rayed star. Still you try to forget.

There was no reproach in the voice, only a detached
interest which made Tarod realise the extent of
Yandros's weakness. This, he understood suddenly, was
no true manifestation of the Chaos realm. He still
retained his links with the mortal world, and in that
world he was the stronger of the two.

He smiled, and saw the green of his own eyes reflect
momentarily in the Chaos lord's gaze. I don't forget, he
said calmly. But I have made my choice.

Yandros considered for a moment, then inclined his
head as though acknowledging a viewpoint which,
though he opposed it, interested him. You choose a
strange path, Tarod. You have seen injustice, bigotry,
persecution, murder, all perpetrated in the name of Order
- and yet, despite the high principles you profess, you still
give fealty to Order's ways. His eyes - changing now
from blue through purple to a disturbing crimson -
flickered with amusement. I am intrigued by your logic.

Logic has never been your favourite weapon in my
experience, Yandros.

The entity laughed. Oh, I choose whatever weapons
suit my purpose at the time - as you know full well!

Images . . . old loyalties, pleasures, triumphs . . .
Tarod forced them away. Then perhaps you should
choose more carefully. What I have seen is no true reflec-
tion of Order. It's merely the panic-stricken reaction of
those who know no better. And if I knew no better, I'd
suspect your hand behind it.

You flatter me. Yandros smiled malevolently.

Hardly. For in this world, I have the advantage of you -
the advantage of humanity. And I wield the greater
power. I banished you, Yandros; and while I continue to
live, your power won't gain a hold here.

Yandros didn't reply, but seemed to be considering
Tarod's words. Far off in the distance a voice began to
scream at a pitch which had never been mortal; Yandros
glanced in its direction and the sound abruptly ceased.

At last, the Chaos lord nodded. His eyes were oddly
quiet and contemplative and he said, Yes. You banished
me. And for your fidelity to the Lords of Order you were
damned by those same Lords' servants. Yet still you cling
to that fealty, and you believe that though the puppets
might condemn, the puppet-master will praise. His eyes
flared white-hot. That is a very human sentiment. I might
have expected better from you.

Better? Tarod smiled cynically. Better by whose stan-
dards, Yandros?

Again the Chaos lord laughed, but this time there was
an appalling irony in the laughter, as though he were the
victim of some celestial joke. Tarod, knowing him of
old, was unmoved, and finally the laughter subsided,
leaving only echoes which seemed to take on a life of
their own before whirling away into nothing.

By whose standards? Yandros repeated. Ah, Tarod,
you've forgotten so much! He turned suddenly to face
Tarod full on, and despite the gulf which separated them
Tarod felt a powerful psychic jolt as the Chaos lord's
finger pointed accusingly towards him. Go your way,
then, Yandros said. Bow to the corruption of Order and
learn the lesson to which mortal life has blinded you! You

are beyond my power to control -I must admit it, for you
know it as well as I, and in the old days there were no
secrets between us. Go, then. Bespeak the demon Aeoris.
Throw yourself on his mercy, and where there were seven
there will be six! He hunched his shoulders, and the
column of light in which he stood drew inward, darken-
ing, so that at last Yandros's bone-white face stared with
cold disdain from a fog of blackness, only his brilliant
golden hair lending any colour to the disturbing scene.
His voice carried softly, sibilantly, insinuating in Tarod's
mind as the dream began to fragment and drag him back
towards the physical world.

We shall mourn your passing  . . .

He woke to a stillness that struck at the core of his being.
No screaming, sweating explosion out of the realm of
nightmare; no muscular spasm hurling him from the
depths of sleep - simply the quiet dark of the room in the
Shu-Nhadek inn, and a pattern of Moonlight tracing
meaningless pictures on the ceiling. From below, he
could hear muted murmurings and the occasional clatter
of pewter; it seemed that the tavern-room still stood
open to trade and would remain so through the night.

At his side, Cyllan slept. Her cheeks were streaked
with tears long since dried, but whatever night-borne
horrors had assailed her seemed to have passed now; her
breathing was gentle and even. Tarod reached out to
touch her and realised his hand was shaking; on his index
finger the Chaos stone glared as a stray Moonbeam
caught in the facets.

Yandros's last words burned like fire in his brain.
Whatever term he might choose to give to the encoun-
ter, it hadn't been a dream; and it had struck hard at his
confidence and resolve. We shall mourn your passing
. . . but Yandros was the master of lies; no man knew
that better than Tarod. His greatest skill was to play on
the fears of the unwary, causing the heart to doubt, the
mind to question.

An involuntary shudder left him feeling chilled; he
withdrew his hand from Cyllan's hair and saw the tiny

light within the soul-stone wink out as his finger moved
into shadow; and suddenly he smiled. He had one
weapon which Yandros could never counter - his own
will. And whatever his subconscious mind might try to
argue to the contrary, while consciousness held sway the
blandishments of Chaos were impotent. He had the
stone, and the stone gave him power. Power that had
stood against Yandros once, and could do so again. And
though in the dead hour of night it might seem a cold
consolation, it was enough.

His hand was steadier when he reached out again to
touch Cyllan. She stirred in her sleep and murmured
something unintelligible, but her voice was calm. Tarod
leaned over her and let his lips brush her face gently. He
didn't want to wake her - her presence was enough to
hold him to the real world.

He settled back, one arm protectively across her
slender body, and closed his eyes, knowing that sleep
would come and there would be no more dreaming.

Chapter 9

The Summer Sister was sighted off the coast shortly after
noon on the following day. Within minutes, a diverse
flotilla of craft from fishing-boats to small dinghies and
skiffs had put out, forming an impromptu escort to
welcome the High Margrave to Shu-Nhadek, and by the
time the tall, graceful ship with her gold-threaded sails
came dipping and curtseying into harbour a large crowd
had gathered on the dock.

From the ship a voice shouted orders that were
echoed and relayed from bow to stern, and men
swarmed into action on the deck. The waiting throng
shuffled and parted as harried militiamen struggled to
make some semblance of order out of the confusion, and
at last a broad gangplank was lowered from the ship's
rail to fall with a noise like thunder on the jetty, where
two burly men roped it fast.

The crowd fell silent. The Summer Sister's master had
ordered his sailors into a tightly formed guard of honour
on deck, and abruptly they all stiffened to attention as
Fenar Alacar emerged from his cabin and stepped on to
the plank.

Isyn had taken care to instil into his young master the
importance of first impressions. This was the first time in
his life that Fenar had set foot on the mainland and the
first chance that all but a privileged few had had to see
their High Margrave in person. And so Fenar had
dressed for the occasion, in trousers and coat of fine
tapestried silk, with a brocade cloak thrown over and a
narrow, jewelled gold circlet on his fine brown hair. An
appreciative breath rustled through the throng as he
appeared and, as Isyn had coached him, paused at the

top of the gangplank; then the rustle swelled into full-
throated cheering, while a myriad hands jubilantly
traced the Sign of Aeoris in the air.

The High Margrave raised an arm in acknowledge-
ment of his welcome and took a careful pace down the
sloping plank. Behind him walked Isyn, and immedi-
ately at Isyn's back came the Guard of the High Margra-
vate, a handpicked body of swordsmen whose task,
while they were on the mainland, would be to protect
Fenar from the smallest hint of danger.

Fenar's relief as he finally stepped from the vibrating
plank to land was profound; he paused a moment to
allow the throng to get a closer look at him, then moved
forward along the hastily cleared aisle to where an open
carriage waited to convey him to the Province Mar-
grave's residence. Up the steps of the carriage, another
pause, another wave, and dust rose from the turning
wheels as the caparisoned horses set their heads towards
the centre of the town.

From the open window of their room at the tavern
Cyllan could see only the Summer Sister's tall mast as she
rode at anchor; but the noise from the harbour carried
clearly on the light Spring breeze, and the people
thronging the market square just a street away were
clearly visible over the low rooftops. She watched as
there was a sudden commotion in one of the wider roads
to the far side of the square, then, as the High Mar-
grave's carriage came into view, she turned from the
window to where Tarod reclined on the bed.

'Have you ever seen the High Margrave?'

He rose and came to join her, crouching at the low
window to look out. The carriage was making slow
progress across the square, hampered by the jostling
press of people anxious to glimpse or possibly even
touch their ruler, and Tarod's eyes narrowed slightly as
he looked at the gorgeously dressed youth in the
carriage.

'Gods, he's no more than a child ... ' He remem-
bered Keridil's description of Fenar Alacar after the
High Initiate had visited the Summer Isle for the formal

and traditional ratification. A sound head on his shoul-
ders, Keridil had said; but his first sight of the young man
did nothing to dispel Tarod's doubts. Any hopes he
might have had that Fenar would prove strong enough to
stand against the combined opinions of the High Initiate
and the Matriarch faded; this boy would be too intimi-
dated by his two elders in the triumvirate to do anything
other than follow where they led.

The carriage was by this time weighed down by tokens
and offerings - Spring flowers, sweetmeats, charm-
necklaces and all manner of artefacts - that the crowd
had showered on their ruler. As it finally manoeuvred its
way out of the square and away towards the town's
outskirts, Tarod sighed and turned away from the win-
dow. Two out of three,' he said. They only wait
Keridil's arrival - and I suspect he'll be here before
Sunset.'

Cyllan rose, stretching a cramped leg. 'You sound
very sure.'

'I'm sure enough.' He smiled. 'In the old days, when
we counted ourselves the best of friends, Keridil and I
had a rapport that at times was near telepathic; and no
degree of enmity can altogether destroy that. He's near.
And when he reaches the town, I'll know it.'

'And will he know of your presence, too?' Cyllan
asked uneasily.

'If I relax my guard, he will.'

Then perhaps we should find some other place to - '

'No.' He interrupted her with a slight shake of his
head. 'I must be vigilant, that's all - Keridil won't be a
threat to us if we take reasonable care. But his arrival
means time is growing short - we must reach the White
Isle before the barque arrives to take the Conclave.'

They had spent the morning, in their adopted guise,
inquiring among local fishermen and other boat-owners
for a craft that might be hired. Cyllan's upbringing in the
Great Eastern Flatlands had given her a sound know-
ledge of seamanship; and the currents here in the South
were far less treacherous than those around Kennet
Head, so that she could handle a reasonable sized vessel

without need for a crew. But there wasn't a vessel to be
found. Every last craft that was remotely seaworthy had
already been hired or commandeered by people anxious
to follow the fabled White Barque when it set sail, and
neither money nor status was enough to buy them
passage.

Tarod had refrained from using his powers to secure
them a boat, as least thus far; he was wary of causing
argument or arousing suspicion, and would have pre-
ferred to solve their problem by more mundane means.
But it was beginning to look as though he'd have no
choice - and time, as he had said, was not on their side.

He said: 'We'll look again early tomorrow when the
town is quieter. By that time Keridil's party should be
settled at the Margravate, and they'll hear no word of us
until after we've departed.'

'And if we still can't find a boat?' Cyllan asked.

His laughter was soft in the quiet room. 'We'll find
one.'

The party from the Star Peninsula arrived in the middle
of the afternoon. There were eight riders altogether,
headed by Keridil and Sashka, with Gant Ambaril
Rannak and three of his servants, plus two high-ranking
Adepts whom the High Initiate had selected to accom-
pany him.

They had made astonishingly good time on the long
journey, aided by good weather conditions which
Keridil, with some relief, interpreted as a favourable
omen. The Margrave's decision to ride with their convoy
had disconcerted him at first, but Gant had argued that,
with the land in a ferment, his first duty was to his
Margravate - and besides, it was unthinkable that he
shouldn't be present to play host to the full triumvirate
of rulers when they lodged at his home for the first time
in history. The Lady Margravine, still suffering from her
shock and grief at Drachea's death, would remain
behind at the Castle until she was fitter; but he would
leave for the South with the Circle Party. Reluctantly
Keridil had seen the sense in his arguments, and as

matters turned out, the Margrave had been far less of an
encumbrance on the journey than he'd feared; the old
man seemed to possess reserves of physical as well as
mental stamina, and proved no hindrance to their
progress.

He had anticipated a warm welcome in Shu-Nhadek,
but was nonetheless astonished by the level of relief and
joy that greeted them. Sympathy for the Margrave was
running at fever pitch in the wake of his son's murder,
and his arrival in the company of the High Initiate
fuelled the fires almost to the point of adulation. They
made as rapid progress as they could through the town
without giving offence to the hundreds who had turned
out to greet them, but Keridil could only begin to relax
when at last the gates of the Margrave's residence closed
behind them and the noise of the crowd fell away into
the undisturbed quiet of the formal grounds.

Gant reined in his horse, trying not to drop an elabor-
ate flower-garland thrust into his hand by a well-wisher,
and stared at the gracious house at the far end of its long
drive. Turning in his saddle, Keridil could see the sud-
den acute pain in the Margrave's eyes and imagined
what he must be thinking. For as long as Gant lived, this
place would hold bitter memories.

'Come, Margrave,' he said, speaking gently but
firmly. 'It has to be faced sometime. Best to get it over
with.'

Gant glanced at him, then his lips quirked in an ironi-
cal smile. 'Ghosts take a long time to die, High Initiate,'
he said, and urged his horse onward.

'I can't describe how thankful I am that I no longer have
to be beholden to the Sisterhood!' Sashka stretched like
a cat and shook out her long auburn hair so that it
rippled like water over her shoulders and back. The Sun,
arching low through the tall window of Keridil's room,
seemed to set the tresses on fire.

Despite his bleak mood, Keridil smiled. 'You should
honour the Lady Matriarch, love. Wasn't that the first
lesson you learned as a Novice?'

She turned from the window and regarded him with
narrowed eyes. 'She's senile, and you know it. Fusses
and tantrums; she's worse than Lady Kael at West High
Land, and I'd have found that hard to believe before
today! And as for that appalling woman from the senior
Shu Cot - what's her name?'

'Lady Silve Bradow.'

'Yes, her. Lisping and stammering like a terrified
child, and she doesn't know whether it's night or day,
she's so inept. . . ah,' Sashka shuddered with exquisite
emphasis and Keridil laughed, then hastily quelled it.
Sashka's irreverence was a tonic, lifting the sense of
burden that had sat more and more heavily on him as
they approached their journey's end, and he realised
afresh how thankful he was to have her at his side now.
Downstairs in the Margrave's drawing room, as the
three rulers exchanged stultified greetings, she had been
the perfect foil to his official role; kissing the Matriarch's
imperiously extended hand, bowing in the manner of the
Sisters to the High Margrave, accepting their good
wishes on her betrothal with a sobriety that matched the
occasion. Only now, alone with Keridil, did she allow
her true feelings to show, and he envied her ability to be
so mercurial. He was still touched - tainted might be a
better word - with the stilted dourness that had attended
the first brief meeting. Far worse, he knew, was to come,
and Sashka's levity provided a welcome relief.

He said: 'Well, we must suffer them all again when we
dine tonight.'

'I know. And I'll be a model consort, Keridil.' She
moved across to the bed where he was unpacking - he
had sent away the servants Gant had despatched to help
him, wanting to be alone with her for a while - and
slipped her arms round his neck, stopping him in his
tracks. 'I hope I shall always be that.'

'You know you will.' Her lips tasted faintly of the
perfume essence she used because she knew it pleased
him. 'And when this is over, you will really be my
consort - in name as well as in body and spirit.'

'When it's over . . .  ' she repeated the words slowly,

thoughtfully. 'Poor Keridil. This is a burden, isn't it, that
you'd rather not have to bear? But it won't be long now;
it can't be long. Once the Conclave has decided - '

He interrupted her, but gently. 'I don't want to dwell
on that, love; especially not now. The moment's so close
that I'd prefer to forget it until I have to remember.' The
White Barque would come when the Guardians judged
the moment to be right; they had their own ways of
knowing. And when it appeared out of the southerly mist,
a horn would be sounded in Shu-Nhadek and a rider
would gallop pell-mell to the Margravate with the news
... he shivered, pushing the thought away. Time
enough for that later . . . there was more than an hour
before they would all be summoned to dine and the
ordeal of protocol must start all over again.

He kissed Sashka once more, this time letting his lips
linger on hers as his sense of urgency eased a little, and
murmured, 'Do you need time to change your gown for
the evening?'

Her fingers tangled in his hair. 'No.'

'Good.' He released her, rose. 'Then let me lock the
door for a little while . . . '

*****

Midnight had long passed, and the harbour was deserted
and silent as Keridil emerged from a dark, narrow alley
on to the jumble of piers and jetties.

He'd been unable to sleep, despite Sashka's warm
presence at his side - the evening's formal dinner had
only served to increase his awareness of the ordeal that
lay ahead, and he had tossed and turned in the
unfamiliar bed, racked by thoughts and worries dredged
up by his subconscious that held him in a distressing
limbo between wakefulness and rest. At last, knowing
he couldn't cope with the feverish, formless torment any
longer, he had risen and dressed in his stained travelling
clothes before slipping out of the darkened house and
walking down to the town. Sea air, he hoped, would
clear his brain; and the walk would help to relax his
muscles.

Sashka slept on, and although at first he thought he
might wake her and ask her to come with him, Keridil
decided against it. He felt an overwhelming need to be
alone for a while; and even Sashka's company would
strike a wrong note. Though the incident was small and
insignificant, he still recalled the avid hunger - there was
no better word - with which she had followed his efforts
to track down Tarod and bring him to justice. Her
hatred was so strong that Keridil found it hard to believe
that her feelings stemmed simply from loyalty to himself
and loathing of Chaos. Granted, it was natural that she
should feel the taint of her own previous involvement
with Tarod; but her reaction had been far stronger than
seemed justified; almost as if the old attachments still
lingered, though in a twisted form. And though he tried
to rationalise, Keridil couldn't help but feel a twinge of
jealous suspicion. It was intuitive, no more; but he
couldn't erase it and it stirred up a terrible cauldron of
doubt and guilt and uncertainty. Just for a while he
needed to be free of those ghosts and solitude was his
only escape.

His ingrained sense of duty had, nonetheless, con-
strained him to inform one of the Margrave's tireless
servants that he would be out for a while. That done, and
his conscience salved, he had made his way through the
quiet streets of Shu-Nhadek, thankful to encounter no
one on the way who might recognise and detain him.
Now, sitting on one of the great stone capstans to which
docking ships were tied, he looked out at the slowly
swelling sea where wavelets reflected a pattern of light
from the first rising Moon, and tried to find something of
the sense of peace that the scene should have imparted
to him.

The fact that he still had doubts about the task ahead
troubled Keridil more than any other facet of this whole
unhappy affair. As the Castle party travelled South from
the Star Peninsula, he had been appalled by some of the
scenes he had witnessed in towns and villages along the
way - he hadn't imagined that his decree would light
such fires in the minds of the populace, and those fires

were now burning out of control. So much hatred and
suspicion, simmering under the surface of every com-
munity and only waiting for a spark to set it blazing . . .
surely the long centuries under the rule of Order should
have eradicated such barbarism?

He was able of course, as High Initiate, to override
the judgements of prejudiced or frightened town Elders
and bring some semblance of sanity to the witch-hunts,
and as they travelled South he had done what he could,
where he could. But it wasn't enough. For every false
accusation, every mockery of a trial in which he had
intervened, ten or twenty more were taking place over
which he had no jurisdiction. What he had seen had
made Keridil all the more determined to complete the
task ahead of him, and swiftly - but it had also sowed the
seeds of a doubt that nagged at the back of his mind and
wouldn't let him alone.

He had unleashed, though unwittingly, a wave of fear
that had exploded out of all proportion; and he was
about to take a further step that could - could, he
reminded himself - escalate the terror that held the land
in its grip utterly beyond the realms of human imagin-
ation. To call the gods themselves back to the world . . .
did he run too far, too fast? Fasting, prayer and con-
templation had convinced him he was right; but he still
couldn't be sure enough to face the next few days with a
clear conscience.

It would have been so much easier if he hadn't made
the one fatal mistake of underestimating Tarod. One
lesson should have been enough - he'd witnessed at first
hand the power his adversary could command, and
when he and the girl who abetted him had been cap-
tured, Keridil should have refused to bow to the
demands of tradition and accepted ritual, and executed
them both before anyone could argue. Now, in the wake
of the turmoil that had spread through the world like a
plague, Chaos must be satisfied with the victory it had
claimed over its ancient enemy . . .

The thought brought a sudden and unexpected
resurgence of the anger which had sustained Keridil

through his darkest hours of doubt and dilemma. It
washed over him like a cold, clean breath of air - anger
against Tarod and all he stood for, against the blindness
of the girl who, infatuated by the gods alone knew what
manner of madness, had pledged herself to the powers
of dark and evil; anger, even, against the cloud that
Sashka's past relationship with Tarod had cast over his
love for her. If that demon had been apprehended, there
would have been no need for this . . .

He rose from his makeshift seat and paced moodily
along the dock. From a black-mouthed alley came faint
sounds of revelry; some diehard carousers in one of the
taverns that littered the harbour area, intent on making
up for the anticlimax that all felt in the wake of the
triumvirate's arrival. Keridil was tempted to join them;
in his present mood, the effects of a night's drinking
would be a blessing after the Margrave's abstemious
table, and only the fear that he might be recognised held
him back. Instead, he paused in the shadows near the
entrance, listening to the noise. The tavern wasn't a
savoury place; unsteady light spilling through the door
and the grimy windows showed a crude sign worn with
age and never repainted, and the smells wafting out into
the alley weren't altogether pleasant; but all the same
the obvious good humour of its customers made Keridil
feel faintly wistful. A sharp, salt-laden gust of wind blew
along the alley and he hunched into his coat, turning and
pacing moodily back towards the harbour. Far from
soothing his mind, this solitary meandering had only
served to stir up the uneasy thoughts that he'd been
trying to forget. Still, the peace of the night was a relief
after the atmosphere in the Margrave's house . . . he'd
walk for a little longer before turning back.

As he approached the end of the alley, beyond which
the sea gleamed faintly under the strengthening Moon,
Keridil started as a shadow moved suddenly out of the
deeper darkness ahead. It hesitated, silhouetted against
the sluggish tide, and he realised that it was nothing
more untoward than a woman crossing the jetty - doubt-
less one of the whores who haunted the dockside to ply
their trade.

And yet ... an instinct made Keridil freeze into the
darkness, staring more intently at the indistinct figure.
Something about the way the woman turned her head
stirred memory and with it recognition; and he thought
he'd glimpsed pale hair as the Moonlight caught it ...

Telling himself he was imagining things, the coinci-
dence far too great, he nevertheless started towards the
jetty, keeping well hidden in the alley's overhanging
shadow. The woman moved abruptly, crossing the rec-
tangle of light and vanishing, but she hadn't seen him;
she was simply walking on. Keridil quickened his pace -
the noise from the tavern covered his light footsteps -
and, reaching the alley's mouth, peered cautiously out.

The woman was a mere fifteen or twenty yards away,
and the Moonlight reflecting from the sea like silver on
lead showed her small, slight figure in stark relief. She
was climbing carefully down a slippery flight of steps that
led from the jetty to where several small boats - dinghies,
a wherry or two - bumped sullenly at their moorings
against the wall, and though she had changed the dress
in which he'd last seen her for a rough shirt and trousers,
and there were peculiar streaks of auburn in her white-
blonde hair, the High Initiate recognised her instantly.

'Cyllan Anassan ...' His lips formed the name
silently and with venomous astonishment. It seemed an
impossible stroke of fortune that she should be here in
Shu-Nhadek, but he couldn't deny the evidence of his
eyes. And, since the bloody affray in Prospect Town, it
was a certainty that wherever Cyllan was, Tarod
wouldn't be far away.

Keridil bit his lower lip, still watching her. She seemed
to be going from one boat to the next, struggling with the
wet knots of their painters, and it was obvious she meant
to steal a craft for her own use. Well and good ... it
would take her a while to find what she wanted and free
it, and in that time he could summon the help he'd need
to capture her. To attempt to take her unaided would be
foolish in the extreme; there were too many bolt-holes in
and around the harbour, and if she once evaded him
she'd be away for good. But if he went for help, there'd

be no time for lengthy explanations and questions . . .
and as he gazed at the harbour he saw the solution to his
problem. A fishing boat, riding at anchor just beyond
the flotilla of smaller vessels . . . and from here he could
just make out the name painted on her bows. The Blue
Dancer . . .

Keridil eased back into the alley, then ran to where
light and noise were still spilling from the tavern. He
shouldered the door open and looked through the haze
of smoke and fumes at the crowded bar. Mostly seagoing
men, by the looks of them - which was precisely what he
wanted.

He raised his voice above the throb of noise and
shouted, 'Can anyone tell me where to find the owner of
the Blue Dancer?'

The babble slackened off immediately and the
drinkers turned to stare at the stranger with the outland
accent who had interrupted their revels. After a few
seconds, a swarthy, middle-aged man with a wall eye
rose from a corner table.

'I own the Dancer, friend. What of it?'

Keridil pushed through the crowd towards him, rely-
ing on his height and build to prevent any retaliation
from the indignant drinkers in his path. 'Then you'd best
get to the harbour,' he said. 'There's some wharf-brat
down there trying to steal her!'

'What?' The swarthy man slammed his tankard down
with a resounding crash, and Keridil saw with relief that
he wasn't as drunk as he looked. He swung an arm,
pointing to three of his companions in turn. 'You, you,
and you! Come on; don't just sit gawking!'

The three scrambled from their places and headed for
the door with the wall-eyed sailor at their head, and
Keridil followed. The simple stratagem had worked -
now, he must just see to it that the four seamen didn't
break their quarry's neck before he could take charge of
her.

Cyllan's fingers were raw from the brine-soaked rope as
she struggled with the complex knot that secured the

dinghy to its mooring ring. It was the fifth craft she'd
tried, and the only one whose owner had been foolish
enough to leave a set of oars stowed under the plank
seats, but the knot was proving far more stubborn than
she'd anticipated.

She wished she'd brought a knife, but wishing was of
no use to her now. Somehow, she had to free this painter
and get away with the stolen boat before anyone dis-
covered her - or before Tarod woke and found her gone.

She'd said nothing to him of the plan which had been
formulating in her mind all evening, knowing that if he
found out he'd prevent her from going. Instead, she had
forced herself to stay awake until at last she could be
certain he was sleeping, then had changed quietly into
her old clothes and slipped out of the inn by the servants'
way.

He'd be angry with her when he found out what she'd
done, but his anger would stem only from concern for
her safety - and it wouldn't last when he learned what
she had achieved. Once she succeeded in freeing this
irksome knot, she'd take the dinghy out of harbour and
then row along the coast to some empty cove well away
from Shu-Nhadek. Then, tomorrow, they could return
to it at their leisure and set out for the White Isle with no
one the wiser.

Her fingers slipped suddenly and she swore aloud as
the rope grazed her hand. It was coming, slowly but
surely . . . another effort was all it would need -

The quiet was broken by yelling and the stamp of feet,
and Cyllan jumped with shock, almost losing her footing
on the slimy steps. Regaining her balance, she peered
over the jetty wall in time to see several men come
running out of an alley and head straight towards her,
and, appalled, she tried to duck down again - but she
was too late.

'There!' A hoarse bellow echoed across the harbour.
'There he is!' The feet pounded more loudly and Cyllan
looked wildly around for a way of escape. Short of
jumping into the harbour, there was nothing, unless -

'I'll break his head!' one voice bawled above the

others, 'Steal my boat, would he - I'll flay the flea-bitten
cur alive!'

Silhouettes lurched into view above her, and the men
surged towards the steps. Cyllan had less than a second
to judge the distance between herself and the nearest
boat before, panic-stricken, she jumped. She landed on
the nearer gunwale of a dinghy which rocked wildly,
almost pitching her into the black water, and, trusting to
nothing but luck, leaped to the far gunwale and
launched herself across the awful gulf to the next craft.
She didn't know where she was going; her one thought
was to get as far away from her pursuers as she could -
and as she sprang and scrabbled over the side of the third
boat in the line she realised that she had reached a dead
end. Ahead, a wide stretch of sea gaped menacingly;
behind her, one seaman was starting to climb across the
bobbing boats after her, while the others leered and
shouted from the harbour wall. She was trapped.

She turned, facing her assailant and clenching her
fists, knowing she couldn't fight but nonetheless pre-
pared to try. But the man had stopped and was standing
upright in the next dinghy, grinning broadly and unplea-
santly. And then Cyllan felt the boat beneath her rock
convulsively, before it began to move.

She should have realised what they'd do - and mor-
tification mingled with the fear she felt. But she could
only cling impotently to the sides of the dinghy as the
men on the jetty reached down, took hold of its mooring
rope, and began to pull it, hand over hand, in to the wall.

The dinghy bumped against the stone of the jetty, and
rough fingers grabbed the collar of Cyllan's shirt, haul-
ing her, kicking and fighting, up on to solid ground. She
sprawled on the harbour, gasped as a kick was aimed at
her back, saw heavy boots closing in on her - then
someone said, his voice thick with shock, 'Straits take all
of us, it's a woman!'

They shuffled back in chagrined confusion and she
took the only chance she might have. Her muscles con-
tracted violently and she sprang up, launching herself
forward at the same time so that her captors couldn't

collect their wits before she had darted between them
and was running desperately for the black safety of the
alley.

She was three paces from sanctuary when someone
stepped out of the darkness to block her path and,
unable to swerve, she cannoned into him. Hands locked
on her arms and she swore aloud - then the oath died on
her tongue as she looked up into the angrily triumphant
eyes of Keridil Toln.

'No!' Cyllan twisted and might have broken away, but
as she turned, a silhouette loomed behind her. Some-
thing - it looked ludicrously like an empty ale-tankard -
flashed metallic in the Moonlight, but before her spin-
ning mind could identify it, it slammed with sickening
violence against her forehead and she pitched into
silent, lightless nothing.

Keridil stared down at her sprawled figure, and as the
Blue Dancer's owner made to kick Cyllan again he held
up an admonitory hand.

'No. Don't do her any further harm.'

The man glowered at him, and one of his companions
spat accurately at the unconscious girl. 'Throw her in the
harbour. Best place for flotsam like that; no one'll miss
the bitch.'

'I said, no.' Keridil hadn't wanted to flaunt his
authority, but the seamen were spoiling for blood, and
he pushed back his coat so that the High Initiate's gold
insignia was clearly visible at his shoulder. It took a few
moments for the badge's significance to register but
when it did the sailors' leader swore, apologised, and
made the Sign of Aeoris before his own face.

'This girl,' Keridil said, staring at Cyllan dispas-
sionately, 'is wanted by the Circle. She's a criminal, and
a fugitive.' He looked up. 'I don't think I need say any
more.'

The men, understanding, backed away a fearful pace
or two, and one of them muttered something that
sounded to Keridil like a charm against evil. He smiled
thinly. 'I'm sorry that I had to mislead you, but there was
no time for explanation. I will, of course, compensate

you for your trouble.' He touched his belt pouch, and
coins clinked pleasantly. 'The girl won't do you any
harm, so there's no need to fear her. I want her taken to
the Margrave's residence before she regains con-
sciousness. That way, we'll - ' And he stopped, as a low,
chilling sound came ranging across the harbour from
somewhere to the West, distant but carrying on the still
air. A horn, ethereal, sounding a warning note.

The seamen had all turned their heads at the eerie
summons, and a good deal of the high colour drained
from their faces. Keridil, who had never heard the sound
before, felt his spine prickle with alarm - and then he
realised that the men were all staring at him, with an
awed respect in their eyes.

'The White Barque . . . ' The Dancer's master spoke
in a strained whisper at the same moment that the signifi-
cance of the horn sank into Keridil's mind. He should
have anticipated this - the Guardians, who shunned
contact with the mainland beyond bare necessity,
wouldn't choose to bring their strange ship in from the
White Isle with the eyes of every man, woman and child
in Shu-Nhadek upon them. The dead of night would suit
their ways far better, and they'd care nothing for the
convenience of their passengers, however exalted.

The horn sounded again, mournfully, and Keridil
shuddered. He didn't want to look oceanward, but the
fascination was too great; and if he strained his vision to
the limit, he thought - or did he merely imagine? - that
he could just glimpse a nacreous shimmer far, far out on
the sea; a shapeless phantasm that deceived his eyes,
one moment there, the next vanished back into the dark.

They wouldn't hear the horn at the Margrave's resi-
dence - word must be sent to them, and quickly. Com-
mon sense came to Keridil's rescue, freeing him from
the formless dread instilled in him by the horn and the
distant ship; he turned to the Blue Dancer's master.

'I must get a message to the Margravate - '

'It'll be taken care of, sir.' The seaman looked uneasy.

He'd left word with a servant; the man had wit enough

to tell his companions where to find him . . . Keridil
nodded. 'The Barque will put in to shore?'

The man shook his head. 'Not in my experience, sir.'
He hunched his shoulders, thrusting both hands deep
into the pockets of his coat. 'Not that she's been near the
mainland for five years, since the last time they brought
the women back to us ... she'll drop anchor a mile or
so out.' He licked his lips. 'It'd be my privilege to take
you to her in the Dancer, if you'd forgive the smell of fish
below decks.'

Keridil had the feeling that the man volunteered
reluctantly, but he wasn't about to refuse the offer - and
besides, ten gravines or so would doubtless ease the
sailor's burden. 'Thank you,' he said, glancing out to sea
once more and then looking quickly away. 'I appreciate
your generosity.'

The seaman looked down at the ground, then nodded
at Cyllan's huddled, motionless figure. 'And what of
her, sir?'

He'd forgotten Cyllan . . . Keridil stared at her,
considering. Left at the Margravate in the care of ser-
vants, she'd either trick her way to freedom, or make
telepathic contact with Tarod and summon him to her
aid. He could be searching for her already and the
thought of the Margrave's defenceless household at his
mercy wasn't pleasant. There was no time for him to
bind and isolate her magically; and that left one
alternative.

The High Initiate smiled. The incoming barque would
take them to the one place in all the world where Chaos
could have no influence. Should Tarod follow them
there, he would find himself stripped of his power, help-
less before the ultimate justice. And the one lure that
could force him to follow was in Keridil's hands.

'Take her on board the Blue Dancer,' he said. 'She
sails with us to the White Isle.'

Chapter 10

This time, there were no cheering crowds to wish them
good speed. They had crossed the precarious board
between the jetty and the deck of the Blue Dancer in a
constrained silence broken only by the slap of water
against the quay and the subdued grunts of the crew as
they made ready to cast off. Now Keridil stood at the
fishing boat's rail, listening to the crack of sail and boom
as the vessel tacked about ready to head for open water,
and aware of the hunched, unhappy figure of Fenar
Alacar a short distance away. The young High Mar-
grave's face was pale and tight in the darkness, his
profile made harsh by the faint glow of a lantern in the
wheelhouse where the skipper steered steadily on his
new course. Though the others were old enough and
experienced enough to hide their disquiet, they all
shared the boy's unspoken fears; even the Matriarch had
ceased her complaints and sat silent and brooding in the
cabin below decks.

The wind strengthened suddenly, filling the sails, and
Keridil felt the hull beneath his feet buck and then surge
forward in a new rhythm as they cleared the harbour's
shelter and the full power of the tide took hold of them.
Nothing now between themselves and the phantom
waiting ahead in the dark; nothing but black swell and
deep straits . . .

As though the boy had picked up his uneasy thoughts,
Keridil saw Fenar Alacar shiver suddenly and turn away
from the rail. They had, as they must, left all but their
closest companions behind; and though old Isyn accom-
panied him, the High Margrave needed more than one
familiar face to bolster his courage. For a moment it

looked as though Fenar was about to approach him and
speak; then the boy thought better of it and instead
stumbled along the deck to the dimly lit companion-
hatch. He disappeared, and for a moment his footfalls
clattering down the steps broke the smooth rhythm of
sea and sails until they faded and were gone, leaving
Keridil alone.

He didn't want to peer ahead into the darkness but a
fascination he couldn't fight made him turn and stare
beyond the ship's bows. And there she was . . . indis-
tinct still, but closer, a white ghost of a ship rocking
gently at anchor. The dark shrouded her and made it
impossible to judge her size; sometimes she seemed to
tower into the night murk, sometimes he thought that
even the Blue Dancer might dwarf her. At her stern a
cold, colourless witchlight flickered uncertainly but
there was no other sign of life. She might have been
something out of a disturbed dream . . .

'Sir?' The voice that spoke behind him was softly
pitched, but Keridil started nonetheless. He turned, and
saw one of the crew standing at a respectful distance, cap
in hand.

'Captain's compliments, sir, to say as there's hot
mulled ale ready below, with a tot of something stronger
in it to keep the cold away.' The sailor smiled, gap-
toothed and fearsome in the ragged glow from the
wheelhouse. 'Be half an hour, thereabouts, before we
get where we're going, sir.'

His father would have called it coward's courage . . .
but in the circumstances, Keridil thought, he would also
have understood.

'Thank you,' he said, taking his chilled hands from the
rail and rubbing them. 'I'd be glad of it.'

The mulled ale was good despite a faintly fishy flavour,
and for a while the group in the cramped and primitive
cabin were able to maintain a spirit that kept their
private thoughts at bay. Keridil sat beside Sashka, who
held his hand in a clasp that communicated how tight a
hold she was keeping on her composure. He had never

known her to feel fear before and the discovery touched
him in a new way, awaking in him a protectiveness that
lessened his own apprehension. Fenar Alacar sat
hunched in a corner, gripping his cup as though it were
his most precious possession, while, flanked by two
handmaids, Lady Ilyaya Kimi kept up a flow of mur-
mured and trivial conversation, seemingly unconcerned
as to whether or not anyone listened.

And in the hold, guarded by one of the captain's men
and still unconscious, was Cyllan.

The news of her capture, when he had delivered it to
his companions as they assembled at the harbour, had
shocked them all. Only Fenar had questioned Keridil's
decision to carry her with them to the White Isle, argu-
ing that it might be better simply to execute her and have
done - a sentiment that echoed Keridil's own doubts.
The Matriarch, however, would have none of it.

'The High Initiate is quite right,' she said in a tone that
brooked no argument. 'The girl is far less important to
us than the Chaos-demon she abets, and there is no
better way to secure his capture. Besides,' she added
with a faint gleam of relish in her eyes, 'the girl's immor-
tal soul will fare no worse in the afterlife if she suffers the
rightful terror of Aeoris's judgment before she dies.'

Keridil had looked at Sashka, who thus far hadn't
spoken, and asked in an undertone, 'What do you think,
love?'

Sashka met his gaze. 'However much she suffers, it
can be nothing by comparison with what she deserves.'
For a moment she looked more malicious than he had
believed her capable of being, though her expression
quickly altered and he thought it must have been merely
a trick of the light. And so, as Fenar's dissent was half-
hearted, Cyllan's limp body was carried on board and
dumped unceremoniously among the fish-boxes, nets
and ropes below deck.

Now, as the Blue Dancer sailed on, they had all had a
respite from what lay ahead . . . but all too soon they
felt the motion of the boat beneath them change subtly,
losing rhythm, and muffled orders were shouted above

their heads. Keridil tensed, hearing a moment before his
companions the sound of feet heading down towards
them. The cabin door opened and he saw the captain's
bulk framed in the doorway.

'We're there, sir - or at least as close as they'll allow us
to get. I've ordered the dory to be made ready.'

Keridil rose, having to stoop in the low-ceilinged
cabin, and saw the flicker of near-panic on Fenar
Alacar's face before the youth could get himself under
control once more.

'Thank you, captain.' He glanced at his companions in
turn. 'I believe we're all ready . . . '

*****

He didn't dare look up. From his seat in the stern of the
Blue Dancer's dory, the hull of the White Barque filled
his field of vision, blotting out sky and Moons and hori-
zon like a giant fog bank. He could hear the creaking of
her aeon-old timbers, the ominous, rattling moan of her
towering sails as they shifted and flapped with the wind.
Everything about her was white - a dim and sickly white,
making her, at close quarters, more an apparition from a
ghost realm than ever she had seemed from shore. Once
Keridil had looked, trying to glimpse the tip of her
mainmast, but vertigo and another, less explicable feel-
ing had swamped him and he turned away hurriedly, left
only with the disturbing impression of a vast, phan-
tasmic wing of sail and a single cold star glaring in the
black sky above.

Beside him on the dory's damp, narrow bench seat
Sashka huddled into her coat and stared at the curving
floor. In front of them Fenar Alacar seemed to be shiver-
ing uncontrollably and their other companions fared
little better. Only Ilyaya Kimi stared at the slowly
approaching monstrosity with a peculiarly resigned
calm, as though it had no power to affect her.

The dory was nearing the White Barque's side; a wall
of white toppling out of the sky towards them. The bump
as they touched the ship was inaudible against the groan

of water under her hull, and Keridil jumped when,
apparently from nowhere, a rope came snaking down
and struck the ship's side with a dull crack. One of the
sailors who had rowed them across snatched the rope's
end and lashed it to the dory's prow; then a shadow fell
across them and Keridil looked up to see a crude sling
that dangled like a hangman's noose being lowered
slowly from the barque's deck.

The Matriarch shifted stiffly in her seat and smiled an
old, ironic smile. 'If I read my scriptures rightly, High
Initiate,' she called back, 'the privilege of boarding first
is yours.'

'Keridil - ' Sashka couldn't disguise her fear and held
on to his hand as he rose cautiously to his feet. He
disentangled her fingers with what he hoped was a re-
assuring squeeze, but couldn't bring himself to speak
before stepping carefully over the seat and making his
way towards the prow. As he reached it, he heard
Fenar's voice above the sea-surge, a terrified whisper.

'I've forgotten the words - gods help me, Isyn, I've
forgotten what it is I must say to them ..."

The High Initiate shut his eyes tightly for a moment,
then grasped firm hold of the waiting sling.

The ascent seemed an endless dream but at last a
moment came when Keridil glimpsed light flaring from
above, and seconds later he swung inwards to stumble
free on to the deck of the White Barque. For a few
seconds he was near-blinded; then, as his eyes adjusted,
he saw them.

There must have been twelve or fifteen of them,
ranged in a semi-circle on the pale boards of the deck.
The shifting sails overhead cast bizarre Moon-shadows
across their motionless figures, and for an instant Keridil
had the hideous sensation that these were not true men
but dead things reanimated, old beyond reckoning and
unthinkably alien. The words he had so carefully
rehearsed caught in his throat - then one of the figures
moved, and the spell - or at least its worst element -
shattered.

Like his fellows, the Guardians' spokesman was
dressed from head to foot in white; a sailor's garb,
though he was like no sailor Keridil had ever seen
before. A seamed, milk-white face untouched by the
Sun; unkempt grey hair swept back from his skull; his
face utterly without expression. He looked at the High
Initiate with empty eyes and Keridil had the disconcert-
ing feeling that the Guardian either didn't see him or
deemed his presence irrelevant.

It was his place to speak first - but the words codified
in the Circle's law-scrolls seemed very different now
from when he had so carefully rehearsed them with
Gyneth playing the role of Guardian. Keridil resisted an
almost overwhelming compulsion to cough, and said:
'Keridil Toln, High Initiate of the Circle, comes in peace
and humility, and craves the sanction of the Guardians
to set foot upon the White Isle.'

The Guardian continued to gaze through him. 'What
is the High Initiate's purpose in so doing?'

'To join with the High Margrave Fenar Alacar, and
the Lady Matriarch Ilyaya Kimi, in the Conclave of
Three.'

'By the laws of Aeoris, the Conclave of Three may be
convened only when all other sanction has failed. Does
the High Initiate attest that this is so?'

Feeling as though he were taking part in some mum-
ming drama on a plane far beyond anything earthly,
Keridil replied firmly, 'It is so.'

Silence but for the creak of timber and sail followed
his words, and Keridil sensed that the Guardian com-
municated with his fellows, though no obvious sign
passed between them. Then, after what seemed an
interminable wait, the pale man spoke again.

'The petition of Keridil Toln, High Initiate of the
Circle, is heard and granted. Let those willing to share in
his duty be brought aboard.' The Guardian stepped
back, distancing himself from Keridil with the move-
ment, and the High Initiate saw the sling swing pon-
derously over the White Barque's side once more to
begin its downward journey. Involuntarily he looked

back over his shoulder to see how his companions fared,
but from this height the dory was invisible.

He cleared his throat, drawing the Guardian's atten-
tion. 'We have a prisoner,' he began, still unsure of his
ground despite the fact that the formalities were done.
'She - '

The pale man interrupted him with a wintry smile.
'The girl may be brought aboard. She will be confined in
the appropriate manner until her presence is required.'

What they knew of Cyllan, or how they knew it,
Keridil didn't care to speculate. He merely nodded an
unspoken acknowledgement, then turned to the ship's
side as, with its second passenger secured in its folds, the
sling began to rise slowly, slowly towards the deck.

The blow which had stunned Cyllan insensible had left a
violent blue-black bruise on her forehead, and her
skull beneath the bruise throbbed sickeningly as con-
sciousness began to return. At first she was reluctant to
open her eyes, knowing only that she was emerging from
an ugly dream in which conflicting images had become
confused; Tarod sleeping in their room at the tavern, a
wet rope that grazed her hand, and, ludicrously, Keridil
Toln's face seen against the backdrop of the Moonlit
harbour in Shu-Nhadek . . . wild, mad nightmares. Her
limbs were numb with cramp; she made an effort to sit
up - and fell back painfully on to a hard surface with a
jolt that jarred her eyes open.

She was surrounded by whiteness. White shrouds
formed vast, menacing wings all around her, climbing
above her to such a height that for a moment her con-
fused mind thought they must be clouds. But clouds
didn't descend to earth . . . and the surface beneath her
was moving in a way she found disconcertingly familiar.

Alarmed, Cyllan tried to scramble to her feet, and
sprawled again. Her wrists and ankles were tied. . . And
the movement beneath her was the steady, rhythmic
motion of a ship beating its way out to sea . . .

It was then that she saw the motionless figure standing
behind her. Clad in white like some phantom sailor he

stared into the middle distance, apparently unconcerned
by her efforts to free herself. His sheer impassiveness
chilled her marrow as she realised that, though he
guarded her, he was utterly indifferent to anything she
might try to do; that he knew, even if she did not, how
helpless she was.

White. . . White ship, white sails, white-garbed crew
. . . the truth began to dawn hideously in Cyllan's mind.
Keridil! So his face hadn't been her dream; he was
here -

Here? she asked herself, and instantly knew the
answer to the unvoiced question. She had been taken,
caught in a trap and brought to this ship; a ship which,
with bitter irony, was bearing her to the very place which
she and Tarod had so desperately needed to reach.

But not this way - gods, not this way!

Knowing that she'd have but one chance, and it was
her only hope, Cyllan gathered all the mental strength
she could muster, her mind reaching back towards Shu-
Nhadek and the darkened room in the tavern. From
some distance away she heard a choked-off imprecation,
then someone whose coloured garb was in startling con-
trast to the white all about her appeared and ran towards
where she lay.

TAROD! Frantically the mental cry went out, though
in her panic and confusion Cyllan didn't know if she
could hope to reach him. The white-clad sentry shifted
from one foot to the other but gave no other sign that he
had sensed her call - then he moved aside to make way
for the other man, who stood looking down at her with
anger and contempt.

Keridil knew what she had done; she read the under-
standing in his eyes. Then he smiled and she felt despair.

'Call your demon lover if it pleases you,' the High
Initiate said almost gently. 'Chaos wields no power here,
and he can't reach across the water to your rescue.' He
paused, then the smile widened. 'Yes; call him. Let him
follow you, if he's fool enough - and if he dares!'

He turned and walked away, and she watched him go
with misery in her eyes. Of course, that was exactly what

the High Initiate wanted - for Tarod to be drawn to the
White Isle in pursuit; to the absolute source of Aeoris's
power. And Tarod would follow them; and when he
arrived, what would he find waiting for him . . . ?

She turned her head aside, staring over the rail of the
barque to the slate-dark sea beyond. She wouldn't cry-
nothing would induce her to give them the satisfaction of
seeing her tears - but within, her soul was tearing apart.

TAROD!

The cry ringing in his mind was as loud as though
someone had screamed his name in the room. Startled
violently out of sleep Tarod sat up, his consciousness still
vibrating with the sound - and in the same moment that
he recognised the agonised voice, he realised that Cyllan
was no longer beside him.

'Cyllan -' Her name formed on his lips in a sharp hiss
of alarm and he rose quickly, lithely from the bed, drawn
by an unrecognised instinct to the window, where he
hacked back the curtain.

The street and the market square beyond were empty.
The first Moon had sunk below the level of the rooftops
and the second, smaller satellite was following, a dim
and worn crescent in the West. Dawn wasn't far away
and, but for a faint scatter of stars mirrored by a few
remaining lights in the harbour, there was nothing to be
seen.

Tarod swung round and stared at the room's bland
shadows. Mentally he sought the source of the cry, but
found nothing. His only certainty was that Cyllan had
gone.

Swiftly he turned his concentration to the bounds of
the inn itself and let his mind probe and seek. Other
lodgers asleep in their beds; a couple, back to back, who
had quarrelled before retiring; an austere merchant
sharing his bed with a dockside whore whom he'd smug-
gled in; the tavern-keeper, his pallet made uncomfort-
able by the coins stowed beneath it ... downstairs the
deserted taproom, silent dining room; outside, the

stables filled to capacity with dozing horses . . . but not
a trace of Cyllan.

Tarod's left hand throbbed suddenly and the stone of
his ring glared, drawing his attention. With the throb-
bing came the surge of an unhuman intuition that made
his skin crawl, telling him that, wherever Cyllan was,
he'd not trace her by normal means. He sank back on to
the disordered bed, covering the ring with his right
hand. He was reluctant to use sorcery, but there was no
other choice open to him if he was to find her. And this
way - he had to steel himself to the thought - he would
know whether she was alive or dead.

His green eyes closed and he felt the ancient power
begin to awaken in him. It was painfully, exquisitely
familiar and despite his misgivings he welcomed it, let-
ting it rise through the many levels of awareness, finally
to take hold of his consciousness. His eyes opened frac-
tionally again, narrow emerald slivers that glittered now
with an alien intelligence as Chaos-born understanding
mingled with and then eclipsed the mundane. Scrying
was a talent he'd developed during his years as an
Adept, but this way bore no resemblance to the Circle's
formalised practice. He needed no glass, no invocation;
and the planes on which his mind moved ranged far
beyond anything his one-time peers might have aspired
to.

Darkness. The darkness moved, slowly and rhyth-
mically, like the flank of some huge, amorphous beast as
it breathed. A knife-blade of cold light stabbed across it,
shivering and breaking with the swell, and he knew he
looked down at the sea under the Moon's last rays.

It sailed on the sea, and yet he couldn't reach it. . . He
sensed the presence of something out there on the deep,
but it was occluded, protected by a force that resisted his
will, so that it slipped mockingly away when he thought
he had it fast. Anger licked at his mind like fire; the
proud, cold anger of an entity that would not tolerate
being thwarted. He felt the power focus as he cast off the
last links with the human body in the tavern at Shu-

Nhadek; and that which sought out and finally, tri-
umphantly grasped the elusive presence on the sea was
nothing mortal.

White sails swelled ghostly in the dark as the huge
white hull cleaved black water. The tongues of angry fire
in Tarod flared to hatred and contempt as the great
ship's aura met and clashed with his own; it was inimical
to what he had become, the vessel and the symbol of his
despised enemy, and only a great exertion of will kept
him from recoiling in revulsion.

He could see no detail of the ship, but he needed none
- this astral image was enough. The barque had taken
her passengers in the dead of night, and now she sailed
for the White Isle and the Conclave of Three. And
Cyllan was on board . . .

The fury erupted in him as Tarod's mind smashed
back to the body he had left behind in the dark bedcham-
ber. Muscles contracted and jack-knifed him to his feet,
and a black aura flickered into life and blazed about his
frame. He couldn't contain the rage; it was too great, too
unhuman, out of control - but he had to contain it, had
to hold fast to his humanity, fight the Chaotic will -

With a choked-off shout he reeled back and fell on to
the bed, and as his body struck the pallet something
seemed to wrench free from his skull and disintegrate
with a sound that was no sound but a jarring, sickening
sensation. His head spun dizzily and he clawed at the
pillow beneath him, needing something real and earthly
that would give him an anchor. After a few moments the
spinning receded, though it left him sick and drained.
Slowly, painfully, Tarod sat upright.

He hadn't been prepared for the power of the pri-
meval hatred that had surged up within him as he
encountered the White Barque of Aeoris. It had been an
enmity too ancient to comprehend, and he had reacted
with all the loathing and contempt locked away in mil-
lennia of preternatural memories. Clinging to his iden-
tity at the last, he had fought the power and conquered
it; but he had paid a price for the victory. And though he

might have found Cyllan, he couldn't cross the barrier
that separated them.

Still dazed, and hardly knowing what he was doing,
Tarod reached for his clothes and began to dress. Every-
thing took too long; he was acutely conscious of being
hampered by the constraints of a physical body, and
memory of the power that still lurked, though dormant
now, in his soul tore at him.

It would be so simple ... He paused, staring at the
ring on his left hand. Chaos was a titanic force - but on
this earthly plane he was master of Chaos. Once he had
banished Yandros, destroying his one sure foothold in
this world, and the golden-haired lord couldn't return
unless Tarod were to revoke the banishment and sum-
mon him again. If he did, the White Barque and all its
crew would be no match for such an adversary . . .

Appalled rejection came hard on the heels of the
thought, and Tarod was shocked to realise how close he
had come to falling prey to the temptation. With the
aftermath of the Chaos force still making his skin tingle
he had felt the old affinities rising; had wanted Yandros's
presence as ally and long-time companion . . . and he
knew that such a temptation was the opportunity for
which the Chaos lord had been waiting all along.
Yandros would answer the summons, should he utter it.
And with his return, all Tarod's hope of petitioning
Aeoris would be ashes. If he was to prove his loyalty to
Order, then to call on Chaos now, even in desperate
need, would be the ultimate betrayal.

Even to save Cyllan's life . . .   ?

The silent question was as insidious as it was deceitful.
To summon Yandros might save Cyllan from the peril
she faced aboard the barque, but beyond that it could
achieve nothing. The Circle wouldn't harm her, not yet;
with the White Isle and the Conclave so close, Keridil
would have other plans for her. And that gave him time
- little time, true, but enough.

Tarod's hands were steadier as he continued to dress.
Though the unholy thoughts were banished, the dark
seemed to have closed in about the room; had he not

known better, he might have imagined that a presence
stood motionless in the deepest shadows of the far cor-
ner, watching: if he attuned his mind he could almost
convince himself that he wasn't entirely alone.

He made to gather up his cloak, then thought better of
it. There was no need for disguise now. As he moved
quietly to the door he paused, and smiled towards the
dark, silent corner.

He said softly: 'Not this time, Yandros . . .  '

The door tapped gently to behind him.

The second Moon's distorted crescent was sinking into
the sea, and, with dawn less than an hour away, mist had
stolen up from the water to drift patchily through the
town and lie in pale, deceptive pools about the streets
and the market square. Tarod, dark as a shadow in the
plain black clothes for which he'd abandoned the richer
merchant's garb, moved silently down a long alley, past
shuttered taverns, and emerged on to the harbour
docks.

The harbour was deserted. With only the last scatter-
ings of starlight to relieve it the dark was almost absol-
ute; only the silhouette of a fishing boat hunched at its
mooring and rocking lightly showed blacker against the
leaden water. Tarod moved towards it, found the jetty
steps and climbed down until a faint shifting glimmer
and a sullen, rhythmic slapping sound told him he had
reached the tide level.

He crouched on the algae-coated stair and gazed at
the water, clearing his mind of all but the one, immedi-
ate thought that concerned him. To his left and above a
shadow moved; he saw the eyes of a feral cat reflecting
the sea's faint phosphorescence as it peered curiously
over the wall at him; then, noiselessly, it ran away.
Tarod took a fresh hold on his concentration, and sent
out the soft mental call . . .

He had never attempted to communicate with such
creatures before, but something beyond even his normal
instincts told him that they would come. They had aided
Cyllan once when without them she would have

drowned in the ferocious seas off the Castle stack. And
he felt intuitively that they would aid him now.

When the first sleek head broke surface a short dis-
tance out from the dock, Tarod released the pent breath
that had been tightening in his lungs and smiled with
relief. He had thought he might sense their presence
before they arrived, but the fanaani had allowed him no
forewarning. Curious, but aware that his was a mind of
an order they had never touched before, they had made
their approach in secret, and only when three of the
beautiful, cat-like sea beasts had risen to the surface did
Tarod feel the first faint brush of telepathic contact.

Strange . . . The word was the nearest interpretation
a human being could make of the thought that reached
him from the fanaani's alien minds. They were unsure of
him, and nothing he could say or do would persuade
them to hasten their judgement, or influence it. These
sea-creatures were a law unto themselves; no one could
fathom their thoughts or motivations. But, if a mind
were truly open, it was possible to communicate with
them in their own bizarre way.

He let his thoughts touch them in turn, sensed the
curiosity again.

Will you aid me? Like them, Tarod used concepts
rather than words, images which he translated into a
form they might understand far better than speech. The
nearest of the three creatures rolled in the water, hardly
creating a ripple; it was man-sized and he had a glimpse
of deep intelligence in its eyes as it solemnly regarded
him.

Secret. The thought was accompanied by a quiver of
voiceless laughter, and he realised that the fanaani had
read in him the need to reach the White Isle unbeknown
to anyone, and were amused by the idea. Then came
another concept: a land-animal slipping down through
green depths, not breathing, fading, dying. Tarod
smiled faintly as he realised that he was that land-animal
and the fanaani were commenting pityingly on his
inability to swim a distance which was, to them, nothing.

He responded with the idea of a fanaan attempting to

walk on land, completing the image with an ironical
query. The fanaan blinked, rolled again, then slid
beneath the sea's surface with barely a ripple. When it
reappeared some seconds later, there was a new concept
in its mind.

Why?

It was probing his purpose, and Tarod sensed that any
attempt to dissemble would alienate it and its fellows.
The fanaani demanded honesty in return for their aid,
and he opened his thoughts to them, allowing them to
probe his intentions and his purpose and make what
sense they could of them. The wait seemed inter-
minable; but at last he felt the strange, seeking minds
withdraw from his. And then:

Too soon. Light above.

Tarod glanced involuntarily upward. The stars were
gone, and the sky had begun to lighten. When he looked
again at the fanaani he saw that their dense, brindled fur
was losing its night phosphorescence.

Dark above. Come then. Come to this place. . . And,
clear in his mind though the image was from a seaward
viewpoint, he saw a cove where waves rushed on a
narrow bar of grey sand. To one side the cliff jutted
aggressively out, and here the tide's constant assault had
worn away a soft stratum and cut a soaring arch through
the rock spur. It was an unmistakable landmark, and it
was all he needed.

Two of the fanaani, which throughout the exchange
hadn't come close to the jetty, were already turning and
moving slowly out to sea. Tarod exchanged a last look
with the third creature and projected gently, My thanks.

They were gone with scarcely a ripple, and he rose,
flexing cramped muscles and satisfied with what had
been achieved. Uncertain allies though they were re-
puted to be, the fanaani hadn't failed him; and when the
Sun set tonight they would return to fulfil their promise.

A line of colour like dark, dried blood lay along the
Eastern horizon now. Tarod climbed the jetty steps,
paused a moment to look back at the slow swell of the
sea, then walked away towards the tavern.

The cove which the fanaani had shown him lay some
nine miles East of Shu-Nhadek, where the previously
gentle shoreline changed to form the far higher and less
hospitable cliffs that dominated the coastlines of three
provinces before finally falling away to the Great
Eastern Flatlands. The place was known locally as
Haven Point and had been the salvation of many a
fisherman caught far from harbour in bad weather; but it
was only rarely used, and there was no habitation near
by. Tarod had left the tavern early, telling the landlord
that he intended to spend the day riding for pleasure,
while his wife, who was feeling tired, would remain in
bed. By the time anyone tapped on the door to ask if the
vintner's lady required food or drink he would be long
gone, and the money he had left in the room, when
added to the value of Cyllan's abandoned mare, would
more than pay for their lodging.

He was glad to leave the busy town behind for the
peace of the countryside, and took the narrow track
along the coast. His horse was skittish after being con-
fined in the inn stables and he gave it its head, enjoying
the sensations of a ground-eating canter as he rode
towards the climbing Sun.

He saw the cove's location long before he reached it; a
long spur of rock jutting out into the sea ahead, with an
almost perfectly symmetrical arch cut through its narrow
finger. He had perhaps a mile or two more to go, and
slowed the gelding to a walk, allowing it to loiter and
crop at the lush Spring turf. He had the day ahead of him
with nothing to do but wait; there was no need to hurry.

Half an hour later Tarod reached the cove and sat in
the saddle gazing down the steep, crumbling cliff to the
triangle of beach below. Noon was approaching and the
bay was filled with red-gold light; from here he could see
a narrow gulley in the cliff that formed a steep but
negotiable way down to the sand.

He slid to the ground, and with relief shrugged off the
heavily embellished cloak which had helped him main-
tain his assumed role as a merchant of substance. He
also discarded his soft leather boots, knowing that from

now on he'd be better served by going barefoot, and his
belt-pouch, dropping them all carelessly on the grass.
Then he turned his attention to the horse, unsaddling it
and leaving the harness beside his cloak. He rubbed the
animal's nose and it whickered softly at him before
turning its attention eagerly to feeding. It didn't as yet
realise that he had given it its freedom; but rather than
sell it for money that he'd have no use for, Tarod pre-
ferred to let it go. Doubtless in time someone would find
it and take it for their own, as they'd find the clothes and
coin he had left behind. If the abandoned possessions
were recognised as belonging to the vintner who had
stayed in Shu-Nhadek there would no doubt be specula-
tion as to his real identity and his fate - but by then he
would be beyond caring.

The gelding raised its head and watched with mild
curiosity as Tarod walked away towards the head of the
gulley, then it lost interest and resumed grazing. He
didn't look back at it, but stepped on to the steep path
and began the precarious, slithering descent. It was
easier than it had looked, and within a few minutes he
reached the beach and walked out across the narrow
strand to where the sea licked and surged. The sand was
cold and damp underfoot, and sharp; composed of the
tide-worn remains of uncountable millions of tiny shell-
fish. He stood at the water's edge staring out to where he
judged the White Isle must be, but the horizon was lost
in haze and he could see no trace of it.

By now, the barque must have reached its destination
. . . thoughtfully, Tarod turned back to where tumbled
boulders provided a resting place. He believed Cyllan
must still be alive and unhurt; knowing Keridil as he did,
he doubted that the High Initiate would make any hasty
decision on her fate. More likely he saw her as the
perfect bait to lure his enemy to the Isle - and he was
right; though the manner of Tarod's arrival wouldn't be
quite what Keridil anticipated.

And when he did arrive, he asked himself, what then?
He had made his plans and was determined to see them
through; but prior to this moment he had always turned

aside from thinking too deeply about the consequences
of what he meant to do. Now though, with the long
afternoon stretching before him and nothing to do but sit
and watch the sea, he had little defence against the
questions and apprehensions that lurked unanswered in
the back of his mind.

He was gambling not only his life but his very soul in
the hope that he could appeal to the ultimate arbiter and
be heard with sympathy. But so much had happened
since he had first pledged to surrender the Chaos stone
on the White Isle that he was no longer sure he could
trust his own judgement. Innocent people had died at his
hand and at Cyllan's; and however great his justice or his
mercy even Aeoris could not overlook those deeds or
excise them. His own word must stand against Keridil's
when he made his plea - would the greatest of the Seven
Gods be willing to hear an accused servant of Chaos,
when the accuser was his High Initiate?

Tarod turned abruptly, angered by his thoughts.
There was no room for doubt; he daren't let it get a
foothold, for once it did it would take root and grow too
fast to be contained. He had made his decision and
mustn't waver now; and besides, the choice was clear.
Order or Chaos - there was no middle way. He had
begun on this path; he would see it through.

Nonetheless, his mood was far from happy as he
returned to the rocks and settled himself for the long
wait.

He realised later that he had slept a good part of the
afternoon away, and when he woke the last light was
glaring sullenly in the West, setting the cliff edges on
fire. The cove was plunged in shadow; with the tide at
the ebb it looked dank and chill and unfriendly, and cold
was striking through Tarod's thin shirt.

He rose, flexing his limbs to ease stiff muscles, and
walked slowly down the beach to the tideline. Foam
showed as a pale fringe at the water's edge but beyond
the waves all was dark, sea and sky no longer dis-
tinguishable. He wondered when they would come, and

suppressed a shiver that had little to do with the bitter
air.

Tarod couldn't calculate how long he stood on the
shore while the light faded finally into complete dark-
ness. But at last he heard a faint, eerily sweet note, far
away but discernible amid the hush of the sea. Moments
later it was joined by another and then another, a bit-
terly pure harmony that thrilled through his bones and
made his throat constrict. The song of the fanaani . . .
they were here, and they were waiting for him.

Tarod drew a deep breath and opened his mind to the
first stirrings of the alien thoughts that probed his. At
first they were composed of nothing but strange, phan-
tasmic sea-images, but gradually they coalesced until
clear words took form in Tarod's mind.

Come . . . Join us . . . join us   . . .

The dark was all but absolute, but as a wave rose to
break at his feet he could see them, blacker shapes
against the swell. Doubt and fear assailed him; he forced
the feelings down and walked forward.

The sea swirled around his ankles, around his knees.
The beach shelved steeply, and the first wave that broke
over him was an ice-cold shock that set his teeth on edge.
Tarod waited for the following wave and dived to meet
it, surfacing in its backwash and shaking water from his
hair and eyes. He had one last glimpse of the silent,
brooding cove, then he struck out strongly for open
water.

The fanaani met him as he cleared the cliffs' embrace;
three of them, as before, though whether they were the
same creatures with whom he'd communicated at Shu-
Nhadek harbour he couldn't tell. Sleek, lithe bodies
flanked him and he felt one beast brush against his body;
treading water he reached out and laid an arm over its
back to grasp the powerful, thickly furred shoulder,
while a second swam to his other side to complete the
link. Ahead of them now he could see the third clearly; a
bigger animal, its coat dappled and its eyes, as it turned
to regard him, calm and wise. He smiled, formed words
of thanks in his mind, and the leading fanaan uttered a

series of shivering, silver notes on an alien scale. As
though the sound were a signal, the two creatures to
either side of him surged forward. Tarod felt the heavy
muscles bunching under his hands, saw the sea's swell
surging to meet him, then the fanaani were swimming
easily and swiftly away, bearing him towards the black,
empty horizon.

Chapter 11

The most eerie thing of all, Cyllan thought, was the
profound silence with which the White Barque sailed
slowly into harbour. There were no shouts or cries from
her strange crew, no rattle and thunder as her towering
sails were furled and the lines made fast; she seemed
almost to have a life and a will of her own, for the ease
with which she manoeuvred to her resting place and
finally docked was unnerving.

A gaunt, indifferent Guardian had loosed the knots
which bound Cyllan's ankles, and though her wrists
were still tied she had been able to kneel on deck and
watch the sacred island approaching in the first cold light
of dawn. Mist shrouded it until the ship was almost
under its lee; then the Sun's weak rays slanting in from
the East had severed the mist and the Isle rose before
them with shocking clarity. Grim rocks that seemingly
offered no landing-place loomed out of the sea, domi-
nated by a single titanic crag at the island's centre; the
huge, brooding shell of a long dormant volcano, a black
silhouette against the paling sky. Cyllan had felt some-
thing of the aura that radiated from the place and turned
her head away with a fearful shudder.

The barque sailed on, her crew caring nothing for the
treacherous rocks that lurked just beneath the ocean's
surface and sometimes showed savage teeth above the
creaming water. Then with no warning she turned land-
ward, heeling in straight towards the cliff face so that
Cyllan shut her eyes and hissed an imprecation under
her breath. But there was no grinding, jarring impact,
and when she dared to look again she saw that the vast
rock face before them had split countless centuries ago

to create a narrow channel through which the tide
surged, and the barque was heading into its maw. They
slid between giant, spray-soaked cliffs whose surface she
felt she could almost reach out and touch; then gradually
the tide-race quieted until the barque sailed in deep,
calm water, silent as a white ghost.

And before them was their final destination  . . .

Overhead the cliffs towered and almost met, the sky a
thin, vicious dagger of brilliance far above. The shadows
were so deep that the pier where the barque had come to
rest was half hidden in gloom; but Cyllan could see that
everything about this harbour, such as it was, had been
hewn to a scale that bore no relation to human dimen-
sions. The stones of the pier were monstrous blocks that
an army of labourers would have been hard pressed to
move an inch, and now men, pale as phantoms, were
emerging from some unseen place to secure the ship to a
gigantic capstan that dwarfed their figures. Behind them
a flight of steps had been cut into the rock face, so huge
that they might have been the work of giants; and she
shivered as she recalled the nature of the unhuman feet
that trod those stairs a millennium ago.

There was movement on deck, and she turned her
head to see the barque's other passengers emerging
from whatever quarters they had inhabited below. At
first, she didn't recognise Keridil Toln; he had changed
his clothes for more formal garb, and on his shoulders
was a heavy ceremonial cloak, the fabric invisible
beneath the weight of its gold-thread embroidery. The
cloak's high collar shadowed his face, but she could see
the gold circlet that banded his fair hair, and in his hands
he carried the staff of office of the High Initiate. He
walked slowly towards the barque's side, flanked by two
of the Guardians, and Cyllan's lungs and throat con-
stricted; however much she hated him, however great an
enemy he might be, she couldn't help but be awed by the
figure he presented.

Behind Keridil came Fenar Alacar, whey-faced and
looking pitifully young in his ceremonial garb, his cloak
a cascade of white fur over crimson and the huge single

ruby that was the High Margrave's badge glittering at his
right shoulder. And lastly, with the careful tread of old
age and infirmity, the Matriarch Ilyaya Kimi. As always
she was dressed in the white robe of the Sisterhood, but
her usual belt had been replaced by a silver sash, and on
her head she wore a silver filigree circlet from which a
cloth-of-silver veil swept almost to her feet.

Cyllan stood rigid as the small procession passed by
only three paces from her. For a brief moment her gaze
met Keridil's; she saw the strain in his face and thought
he gave her a look that mingled pity with contempt; then
he was past and she turned away from the scrutiny of his
companions.

The massive wall of the pier was on a level with the
White Barque's deck, and as the three members of the
triumvirate crossed over, the waiting Guardians formed
a tightly ranked escort to flank them as they stepped on
shore. Cyllan stared after their retreating shapes until
only a dim blur of white in the gloom marked their
whereabouts - then her pulse lurched sickeningly as a
hand, cold and light as a spider's web, touched her
shoulder.

The pale-eyed crewman didn't look at her and didn't
speak. He simply gestured towards the rope-railed gang-
way that separated the ship from the dock, and before
she was aware of what she did Cyllan found herself
walking unsteadily towards it. She heard movement at
her back but didn't dare look round; then she was cross-
ing the narrow divide over still, black water, to set foot,
afraid and awestruck, on the White Isle.

Another hand touched her shoulder - she shuddered
at the contact, finding it repulsive - and she was guided
to the foot of the monstrous steps that wound up and out
of sight. Keridil and his companions were no longer
visible and she wondered if they had been taken this way
- it was hard to believe that the aged Matriarch would
have the stamina for such a climb. The stairs drew her
gaze, frowning and fearsome; again she felt the chilly
touch of the island's aura, and shivered.

Other people were now being escorted from the ship -

two men she'd not seen before, wearing the badges of
Adepts; another, older man whose garb suggested a
scholar; two Sisters of Aeoris; and - Cyllan felt her jaw
tighten - a tall, patrician girl with auburn hair that
rippled over her shoulders. Sashka Veyyil . . . Tarod's
one-time lover, who had betrayed him to the Circle and
who was now enjoying her triumph as the High Initiate's
new consort. They had met once before, at the Castle,
and the encounter was still a goad in Cyllan's memory.
Sashka saw the fair-haired girl staring at her, and a
flicker of a scornful smile crossed her beautiful face.
Then a white-clad Guardian moved between them, and
gestured silently towards the gigantic stairs.

Cyllan had steeled herself for an exhausting climb to the
gods alone knew what destination at the top of the
terrible flight, but it was not to be. Instead, the small
party had toiled a bare hundred stairs when their escort
led them off into the black maw of a tunnel that gaped
out of the dark rock. For a while they walked in dark-
ness, the quiet broken only by the stertorous breathing
of the old scholar as he tried to regain his wind; then the
tunnel opened into a high but narrow chamber, lit from
some undetectable source above and furnished only
with a wooden table and several benches. They moved
into the chamber, uncertain what was required of them,
and one of the dispassionate Guardians spoke.

The Conclave of Three is about to begin.' His voice
echoed thinly in the vault. 'Those who have accom-
panied the triumvirate will remain here until
summoned.'

One of the Sisters spoke up, though diffidently. 'The
High Margrave's adviser has been adversely affected by
the climb, Guardian. He needs something to help him
recover his strength.'

'Sustenance will be given.' The Guardian's manner
didn't waver and Cyllan was unnerved by the way in
which these strange men - if men they were - seemed
incapable of addressing anyone directly. He started to
turn away, but suddenly Sashka stepped forward.

'Guardian.' She clearly wasn't hampered by the Sis-
ter's diffidence, and there was an indignant edge to her
voice. 'You're surely not intending to leave this creature
here?' One finger pointed imperiously at Cyllan. 'She's
the High Initiate's prisoner, and an ally of Chaos! She
should be confined somewhere where she can present no
threat to the rest of us!'

The white-clad man turned his disinterested gaze on
her and appeared to stare straight through her; and two
spots of colour flamed high on Sashka's cheeks.

'All will remain here until summoned,' the Guardian
repeated flatly. There will be no opportunity for mis-
chief.' And turning on his heel he left the chamber,
closing the door behind him.

Sashka whispered something under her breath and
swung angrily about, pacing towards the far end of the
vault. The Sister intercepted her path and spoke to her,
clearly intending to soothe, but she snapped a harsh
word and the other woman retreated. Cyllan sank down
near the door, squatting on her haunches and ignoring
the others as they milled about and murmured uneasily
to each other. Sashka's remark to the Guardian had
stung, but was no less than she might have expected; at
their first encounter intuition had told her that there was
more to the auburn-haired girl's enmity than met the
eye. No matter; Sashka was nothing to her . . . and she
had far more immediate and deep-rooted worries to
concern her.

The Conclave was taking place at this very moment;
and Tarod's future hung in the balance of its outcome.
Since the moment when Keridil Toln had mockingly
challenged and encouraged her to call on Tarod and
bring him to her aid she had known that her presence
here was playing into the High Initiate's hands, and she
bitterly regretted the fact that Tarod's love for her would
make him seek her out, no matter what the risk to
himself. If he had heard her psychic call, the scruples
that had so far prevented him from using his power
would count for nothing. He'd use it and he would come
to find her - as Keridil well knew. It was a perfectly

baited trap, and nothing she could do would put matters
to rights. Even as the White Barque glided slowly into
harbour she had sensed the peculiar isolation of this
island, and knew that any attempt she made to contact
Tarod again and warn him would fail. He'd follow her
here, and when he stepped on to the White Isle's shore
his enemies would be waiting.

Her unhappy reverie was broken by the sound of the
door beside her opening, and she looked up to see an
empty-eyed youth in the now familiar white garb of the
Guardians entering the vault. He carried a tray laden
with a pitcher, several cups and a plate of what looked
like coarse black bread, which he set down on the table.
He didn't utter a word, no one spoke to him, and sec-
onds later he was gone and a key grated metallically in
the lock.

Glad of a diversion, however small, Cyllan watched as
the Sister who had asked for sustenance filled a cup from
the pitcher's contents and took it, with a piece of the
coarse bread, to the old scholar. Their hushed voices
reverberated in the rock chamber although it was impos-
sible to discern what they said, and Cyllan looked away
again, slumping forward and resting her head on her
folded arms.

'You must be thirsty.' The voice impinged on her
thoughts and she looked up with a start to see Sashka
standing over her. She held a cup in one hand and the
faint traces of a smile touched her features. 'Or do you
have other matters on your mind?' the girl added with
undisguised malice.

Cyllan ignored her, and with a graceful movement
Sashka seated herself on a convenient bench. She sipped
at the cup's contents, grimaced and said, 'Water, and
brackish water at that ... I suppose we can expect no
better in these barbarous surroundings. Although I'd
advise you to make the most of it. It's quite probably the
last drink you'll ever taste.'

Her taunt was a clear indication of her temper, and
gave Cyllan an insight into the depths of Sashka's anger

and resentment. She allowed a small bark of laughter to
escape her lips, and the other girl's cheeks coloured.

'I'm glad to find you in such good heart, Cyllan.
Lightness of spirit is a rare quality in one on the brink of
death - you're an example to us all.'

Cyllan's only response to her sarcasm was to lean her
head back against the wall and close her eyes. Sashka's
mouth tightened into a vicious line. 'So you're not
moved by the idea of dying?' Her voice had risen in pitch
and some of the others were watching her curiously; she
ignored them, caring nothing for their opinion. 'You're
very courageous. I'm sure that courage will prove most
entertaining when you watch Tarod destroyed before
your turn comes!'

That provoked the reaction she had hoped for.
Cyllan's eyes snapped open, filled with a mixture of rage
and misery which gave Sashka considerable satisfaction.
She would have been more gratified had it been Tarod
rather than Cyllan bearing the brunt of her venom - she
had often lain awake at night, imagining how she would
taunt him, what she would say - but this was pleasurable
enough, and a small revenge.

'Ah,' she said softly. 'So you are afraid . . . Have you
only just realised that your lover isn't invincible? That
he will die, and his death will be no less ugly and agonis-
ing than your own?' She stood up, took three slow paces
until she was directly in front of Cyllan, and sighed
theatrically. 'I believe I rather pity you.'

Cyllan wanted to maintain her stony silence, but the
churning, bitter rage inside her was too strong.

'Save your energies,' she said ferociously. 'I want
none of your taint.'

Sashka made a moue and studied her fingernails with
an air of infinite, martyred patience. 'It's a shame that
you're so stubborn, Cyllan. You could still save your-
self, you know.' She looked up, saw Cyllan glaring at
her, and smiled with sweet kindness. 'Even after all
you've done, I believe the High Initiate could be per-
suaded to show clemency towards you, if you were to
renounce your - let us say, your misguided loyalties.'

Oh yes, Cyllan thought; that would serve your vanity
very well! Not only would Sashka succeed in depriving
Tarod of his one true ally, she would doubtless take
great satisfaction from letting him know that ally had
deserted him; and her motives were painfully clear.
Mingled with her hatred of Tarod was a warped echo of
the desire she had once felt for him, and perhaps felt
still. And though she claimed to loathe him, she couldn't
bear the thought of his allegiance turning elsewhere. She
wanted him to love her still, so that she could have the
pleasure of hurting him by her rejection. Suddenly,
Cyllan could almost feel sorry for Keridil Toln.

Disappointed by her lack of reaction, Sashka shrugged
carelessly. 'It's of no moment to me, of course. But you
can hardly be blamed for lacking the wisdom to under-
stand matters such as these.' She smiled again, and
added with a patronising confidentiality, 'I suspect I
know Tarod better than you could ever hope to do, and
he has always had a talent for persuasion. But there are
those who are capable of seeing through his deceptions,
and those who are not. In truth, Cyllan, I feel it's a little
harsh to condemn you for what is, after all, only unwit-
ting ignorance.'

For one blinding moment Cyllan wished with all her
being that she had the Chaos stone in her hands once
more. She remembered the blazing glory of its power
when it had flooded and overtaken her; the indescrib-
able thrill of revenge and bloodshed when Drachea
Rannak had fallen before her Chaos-driven fury . . .
getting a grip on herself she drew a deep breath and
banished the images to the dark recess where they
belonged. Sashka Veyyil was no Drachea, no threat; she
was no better than a jealous and spiteful child, and to
make more of her taunts than was warranted would be
folly.

But whatever wisdom dictated, her self-control
refused to bow to it. Nothing she could say or do would
harm Sashka; the girl was triumphant and relishing her
ascendancy. Yet - for Tarod's sake if nothing else -

Cyllan couldn't bear to allow her vindictiveness to go
uncountered.

She looked up, her eyes glittering, and said huskily,
'Have you ever looked upon Chaos, Sashka Veyyil?'

The words had come unbidden to her tongue, and as
she spoke she felt an alien sensation, like a psychic
charge, welling within her, fuelled by her anger. It was
akin to the uncontrollable and unpredictable power she
had sometimes been able to command as a fortune-
reader, but stronger; far stronger. And it made Sashka
tense with sudden unease . . .

Cyllan smiled, coldly. 'No ... I thought not. But
you will. One day.' She felt the psychic charge taking a
tighter grip on her, as though some unnameable power
were speaking through the medium of her voice, and the
soft laughter that issued from her throat wasn't pleasant.
'That's my promise to you, Sashka - and it's my curse on
you.'

Sashka blanched, and the hand that held the cup
shook. For a moment stark fear showed in her eyes -
then fury replaced it, and with a violent gesture she
hurled the remains of the water directly into Cyllan's
face, whirled, and strode away.

The shock of the water shattered the hold of the
peculiar power, and brought Cyllan jarringly back to
reality. She blinked, shaking her head to clear her eyes -
her bound wrists made it impossible to do more - and
looked towards the far end of the vault, where Sashka
had retreated. In the dimness she could just make out
the colour of the other girl's gown, and the faces of the
rest of the company, who were all staring curiously at
her. She looked away, resuming her slumped posture.
The brief surge of furious psychism had left her feeling
desolate, and her threat to Sashka now seemed a hollow
sham. She had no power to curse, and hatred alone
couldn't translate her words into reality. She had had the
momentary pleasure of seeing terror in Sashka's eyes,
but it gave her no comfort.

She wondered whether Yandros knew what had
become of his plans and of the promise she had made to

him. Here on the White Isle, the seat of Aeoris's
strength, he could bring no influence to bear; even
Tarod, were he to be willing, might find his power so
diminished in this place that he was unable to call on the
Chaos lord. And without some aid from a plane beyond
this earthly world, what hope was there?

A shuffling footfall close by made her look up, and she
was surprised to see the elderly scholar bending over
her.

The old man smiled a lopsided smile. 'You seem to
have greatly displeased our High Initiate's consort,' he
said drily. 'And I saw that you didn't receive a drink, at
least not in the accepted sense.' He proffered a brim-
ming cup. There's more than enough to go around.'

Nothing in his tone suggested mockery or sarcasm,
and Cyllan returned the smile hesitantly. Then she held
up her bound hands. 'I'm afraid I can't take advantage of
your kindness.'

'Allow me ... ' He held the cup to her lips, waited
while she drank, then smiled again. 'Better, I imagine?'

Cyllan swallowed. 'Yes - thank you.' She hesitated. 'I
hope you're recovered from the climb.'

'Well recovered - though you're the only one apart
from Sister Malia who's been courteous enough to ask.'
He studied her for a few moments before adding,
'You're not entirely what I'd been led to expect.'

Cyllan's initial feeling of gratitude towards the old
man soured a little at that; and her tone took on a frosty
edge. 'And what had you been led to expect?'

'Oh, the usual products of superstition,' he told her,
unperturbed. 'Something less and yet more than human.
Certainly not an obviously intelligent and - forgive me -
ordinary girl who might be anyone's daughter or sister.'

Cyllan bit her lip hard. 'If you're about to tell me that
I've reached this pass through no fault of my own, and
that it isn't too late to save myself, you might as well save
your breath.' Her amber gaze flickered to meet his in
angry resentment. 'I made my choices a long time ago.'

'I don't doubt that for a moment.' The old man's wry
smiled returned briefly. 'I'm simply interested by your

story. I'm a scholar, you see - Isyn by name - and I have
a particular interest in the wide varieties of human
nature. I'm always seeking to extend the boundaries of
my knowledge and understanding.'

Cyllan's lip curled. 'You'll find little for your
researches here, Isyn. I have nothing to offer you.' Her
anger was returning, though in a quieter form. 'Unless,
of course, Tarod should come here in search of me. That
might satisfy your desire for new knowledge.'

Isyn chuckled. 'I trust not! But tell me - and I ask only
in a spirit of understanding - aren't you afraid?'

'Afraid?' said Cyllan dully.

He gestured towards the vault door. 'Of what lies
ahead of you. For want of a better word, your fate.'

Cyllan realised suddenly that to Isyn - perhaps to all
of them - she was a curiosity, like the unfortunate mu-
tants sometimes exhibited at Quarter-Day fairs; some-
thing to be tormented, or exclaimed over and discussed
in erudite language, depending on the viewer's pro-
clivities; but not a thinking, feeling creature in her own
right. She had joined the throngs of market-square
gawpers often enough in the past; she knew, now, how
such mutants must feel. And suddenly she understood,
in a way she had never done before, Tarod's contempt
for them all; Circle, Margravate and Sisterhood alike.
She must hold to that feeling - whatever else might
befall her, she must hold to it.

She said with dignity, 'No, I'm not afraid.'

Cyllan's stony indifference at last deterred Isyn, and
Sashka made no more efforts to taunt her; she was left
alone with her thoughts while the others kept osten-
tatiously away. And she couldn't judge how much time
passed before the sound of a key turning in the lock drew
the attention of everyone in the vault.

Two Guardians appeared in the doorway; beyond
them Cyllan could see at least two more in the tunnel.
One spoke in the now familiar flat tones.

The Conclave is ending. The attendance of those who
have accompanied the triumvirate is required.'

Glances were exchanged; slowly the vault's occupants
got to their feet. Only Cyllan didn't respond, and one of
the Guardians moved to stand over her.

'The attendance of all is required. There are no excep-
tions.' He stared at the wall as he spoke, and Cyllan felt
an impulse to lash out and kick him, just to see if it was
possible to provoke a reaction in one of these bloodless
zombies. She resisted it, along with the temptation to
ignore him and simply sit here refusing to co-operate. If
she didn't go with the party of her own volition she
would doubtless go by force; and the loss of her dignity
wasn't worth the hollow satisfaction of resisting.

She struggled to her feet, hampered by her tied wrists,
and followed the rest of the party through the door and
along the dark tunnel beyond.

As they emerged from the tunnel's mouth, they were
bathed in the dim and deceptive light of approaching
dusk. Full day had come and gone while they waited in
the underground gloom, and the Sun was an angry crim-
son ball against the sky's murky backdrop. The Guard-
ian who led them stared directly at the red inferno for a
few moments, then turned to his charges and gestured to
where the giant stairs continued on and up. Cyllan
looked at the flight stretching away ahead and climbing
the island's humped shoulder, and saw that it seemed to
terminate at a thin and razor-sharp ridge, barely discern-
ible in the fading light. Beyond the ridge, a wall of dull
grey-brown rock towered into the sky, its summit lost in
darkening mist. The crater of an ancient and long-
extinct volcano . . . and there, she knew, lay the sacred
shrine, and the casket which had remained unopened
since the seven Lords of Order had fought the last battle
against Chaos.

The Conclave was over and the decision had been
taken. Night would fall long before the party reached
that brooding summit, but when they did she would
learn which way the decision had gone - and learn, too,
what fate lay in store for her, and for Tarod should he
fall into the trap set for him.

She had clung thus far to a fierce pride and determi-
nation not to weaken, and they had sustained her
through the voyage to the island and the long wait in the
vault. But now, gazing up at the volcano's unrelenting
and lifeless slope, and knowing what lay beyond, she felt
fear eating into the core of her soul.

*****

The fanaani had let him go as the pinnacles of the Isle
loomed out of the dark, waves crashing glaringly white
against their sheer slopes. He felt their sleek bodies slide
away from beneath his hands, heard a thrilling cascade
of notes above the sea's roar, then he was striking out
towards the towering rocks under his own volition. A
powerful cross-current caught him and bore him at tre-
mendous speed towards a savage gash in the cliff, where
titanic boulders had smashed its symmetry in an aeon-
old fall. He glimpsed the yawning mouth of a cave half
submerged under the tide, then fanged rocks rose out of
the blackness and he had to exert all his physical strength
to avoid being dashed against them. Seeing clear water
momentarily ahead he struck out towards the cliff fis-
sure; another wave, breaking, swept him into the shore,
and twisting about at the last moment, he felt his hands
graze on rock as he struck hard against the cliff. The rock
was rough and broken enough to grip; he hung on as the
huge undertow drew back, and before the next wave
could come thundering in he had pulled himself clear of
the sea.

He was on a steeply sloping ledge, and, gaining a
foothold, he climbed higher until he reached a point
where the tide could no longer wash over him and drag
him back. Salt water streamed from his hair; his clothes
clung to him and his body was bruised and lacerated by
the impact; for some minutes he could only crouch on
the precarious ledge struggling for breath.

A sound, faint but clear, mingled with the rolling
thunder of the sea; the fanaani's shivering, farewell song
as they swam clear of the island. They were away to

whatever strange depth or shore was home to them; he
raised a hand in a salute of thanks though he knew they
could no longer see him, then their bittersweet voices
faded, faded and were gone.

Both Moons were up; one a thin, chill crescent, the
other a vaster, dimmer sphere at the full. The speed at
which the sea-creatures bore him here had been awe-
some; there were hours yet to go before dawn began to
break ... he turned his head, gazing up at the stone
ramparts rising behind him. The dead volcano at the
centre of the island was invisible, hidden by the night
and the cliffs, but the cliffs could be climbed, and he
knew he could reach his final destination before the Sun
came out of the East to reveal his presence.

He felt the answering tingle of power in his left hand
as the stone of his ring flared with sudden brilliance. Yes
. . . here, he could trust himself to use the strength of
Chaos, knowing that it couldn't overtake him or sway
him from his goal. He flexed his fingers, and felt a new
and unhuman strength course through his blood, negat-
ing tiredness and exhaustion. Tarod smiled and, rising to
his feet, moved silently across the ledge to where the cliff
fissure gaped black and waiting.

Chapter 12

The High Margrave Fenar Alacar rose from the cen-
tremost of the three carved stone chairs. The peculiar
light that suffused through the musty, windowless cham-
ber etched lines of shadow on his young face, making
him look older than his years, but it couldn't disguise the
uncertainty in his eyes as he cleared his throat and then,
nervously and with frequent hesitation, spoke the for-
mal words that ended the Conclave.

'I, Fenar Alacar, elevated by grace of our lord Aeoris
to rule as High Margrave, declare that the triumvirate
has spoken as one, and all have set their seals to this
resolution. The decision of the Conclave is that the
casket of Aeoris shall be opened. And I charge and call
upon the High Initiate, Keridil Toln, to be the instru-
ment through which this sacred task shall be under-
taken.' His gaze flickered to Keridil's impassive face and
he licked his lips nervously, certain that he had spoken
the words correctly but still unsure of himself in the
presence of his older and more experienced peers.

Keridil returned the gaze for a moment, then he too
rose from his seat and stepped forward until he faced the
young Margrave. Slowly, stiffly, he bowed low before
Fenar.

'I am sensible of the honour done me, and sensible of
the grave responsibility which I undertake.' Now he
turned to face the third and final member of the trium-
virate, who was also rising, though with some difficulty,
from her chair. He bowed to her in turn. 'I ask the
blessing of the Lady Matriarch, mother and comforter of
us all, to grant me succour in this momentous hour.'

Ilyaya Kimi, magnificent in her silver veil, reached out

an arthritic hand to touch Keridil's brow as he made a
knee before her. 'The clear light of Aeoris shine upon
you, my son and my priest. May you walk always in His
path of wisdom.'

Keridil straightened, and both he and the Matriarch
turned to face Fenar once more. The High Margrave
nodded.

'It is done,' he said. 'Let the portal be opened and the
decision of this Conclave made known.'

They made a strange threesome, Keridil thought with
a curiously detached part of his mind as he led them
across the faintly shimmering stone floor; an old, old
woman barely able to walk, an unfledged boy, and a man
who, whilst he presented a properly confident face to the
world, was besieged by doubts and fears which he
couldn't even name. But they were the best the world
had to offer to its gods. The ultimate temporal power
had been invested in them and, whatever their misgiv-
ings, they must do their utmost to be worthy.

He reached the portal - a huge stone slab which
pivoted on some hidden and indescribably ancient
mechanism - and raised his right hand to rap, once, on a
diamond-shaped section of crystal set into the otherwise
blank stone face. A terrible grating, grinding sound
rumbled beneath their feet, and slowly the portal began
to turn. Cool, clean air rushed into the chamber - he
heard Ilyaya drawing a deep and grateful breath - and
they stepped out to meet the deputation of Guardians
who had kept vigil through the long hours of Conclave.
Each pair of pale, expressionless eyes was focused on
Keridil, and the Guardians clearly read the result of the
Conclave in his face without a word needing to be ut-
tered. Their spokesman inclined his head in acknow-
ledgement and said in his toneless, distant voice, The
triumvirate will be conducted immediately to the
Shrine. Those who have waited behind are now
gathered outside and may stand witness to the rite if the
triumvirate so wish.'

Fenar cleared his throat again and glanced at Keridil
with the odd mixture of deference and resentment that

he always seemed to feel for the other man. 'I promised
my adviser, Isyn, that he might accompany me if it was
permitted . . . '

In other words, his confidence was flagging and he
needed his old tutor's support. Keridil could hardly
blame him. He was about to smile back at Fenar but
thought better of it; with his nerves in such a state the
boy would probably interpret a smile as patronage.

'It's entirely your decision and privilege, High Mar-
grave,' he said.

'Yes ..." Fenar's face cleared. 'Yes, of course.'

'I will need two of my Sisters at my side,' Ilyaya Kimi
declared fussily. 'If I am to endure another lengthy
ritual, I will need their support, quite literally. I never
thought I'd be called upon to undergo such trials of
exertion at my time of life.'

Of them all, Keridil thought, the Matriarch was the
only one who seemed capable of accepting this extra-
ordinary and daunting situation with ease. She was
involved in the making of history, yet she behaved as
though she were merely undertaking one of the more
tedious everyday duties of her office. He envied her -
whether her calm pragmatism stemmed from self-con-
fidence or senility, it was a feeling he would have liked to
share.

Keeping his feelings to himself, he nodded. 'Two of
my Initiates will guard our prisoner, but aside of them I
shall ask only my consort to accompany me.'

Ilyaya was adjusting her veil with small, impatient
movements of her hands. 'And what of that girl, High
Initiate - our prisoner?' She pursed her mouth. 'Our
baited trap doesn't seem to have yielded up a victim. I'm
beginning to wonder if the Chaos demon has decided
that discretion is the better part of valour, and aban-
doned her.'

They were walking along a narrow, unadorned tunnel
that burrowed through the shoulder of the volcano.
Guardians walked before and behind, carrying torches,
and there was a faintly sulphurous smell in the stale air.

Keridil thought for a few moments before replying to the
Matriarch's barbed remark.

'No, Lady. He'll come; I'm sure of it.' He knew Tarod
well enough not to have wavered in his conviction that
the trap would work. Earlier, before the Conclave
began, he had requested a few minutes alone and,
escorted to another of the seeming myriad of empty
rooms and vaults that honeycombed the mountain - and
whose function he couldn't begin to imagine - had
cleansed his mind of all extraneous thoughts and, after a
short Prayer and Exhortation, used the techniques of
mind-searching that he had first learned long ago as a
new Initiate, in an attempt to discover Tarod's where-
abouts. He had found nothing; but the fact that his
enemy was untraceable was in itself, he thought, a
favourable omen. If Tarod was seeking to invade the
White Isle and rescue Cyllan, secrecy would be his great-
est weapon; and though he still couldn't locate him by
magical means, Keridil sensed in his bones that he was
near.

Ilyaya Kimi sniffed. 'And if he does not?'

'If he does not, his fate - all our fates - will no longer
rest in our hands.'

The High Margrave shivered, and made a poor job of
disguising it. 'I still say that girl should have been
executed without the need for all this subterfuge,' he
said. 'It could have been done in minutes, and we'd have
had one less risk to worry about. But I was overruled.'
This time, the hot look he gave Keridil mingled the old
resentment with a new and more personal dislike, and
Keridil choked back the temptation to suggest that, if
the High Margrave was so set upon that course, he might
like to take a knife or sword and show the courage of his
convictions by cutting Cyllan's throat himself. It was
easy now for his peers to carp and criticise, he thought
angrily; Ilyaya Kimi cast aspersions on his judgement in
the matter of Tarod's capture, Fenar on his wisdom in
allowing Cyllan to live as a lure to their adversary. But
he had made his decision, and he wouldn't be influenced
by arguments made from the relative comfort of their

positions. Theirs weren't the hands that must unlock the
casket and lift its lid; theirs weren't the shoulders that
must bear the full brunt of responsibility for summoning
the White Lords to the world. If he refused to give way
to them, that autonomy was surely the least they could
grant him in exchange for undertaking such a burden.

A paler rectangle showed ahead, indicating that they
approached the end of the tunnel. As they emerged on
to the volcano's gigantic flank Keridil saw that the Sun
had set, leaving only a last, pallid shimmer in the sky.
Twilight had drained all colour from the blank rock
faces, and the Guardians with their white skins and
clothing looked like great, phantasmic moths in the
gloom. Ilyaya's veil shone with a weird inner radiance of
its own; Fenar's circlet glowed nacreously, and for an
instant something about the scene struck Keridil as
unhealthy, tainted with an edge of corruption ... he
shook the thought off hastily, aware that it was little
short of blasphemous.

They were conducted along the narrow walkway by
which they had come from the great staircase to the vault
of the Conclave, and where the parapet ended, the rest
of the party awaited them. Sashka saw Keridil, and
didn't wait for anyone's consent before she ran forward
and embraced him. She didn't speak - something in his
face told her it would be wiser to stay silent - but she
took his hand firmly in hers as they walked together
towards the stairs. The others greeted their companions
with less of a show; all but Cyllan who stood at the back
of the group, between two tall, thin Guardians. Just
once she caught Keridil's gaze, and he blanched at the
cold, controlled hatred that burned behind her amber
eyes.

Sashka squeezed his fingers. 'It's done?' she
whispered.

He nodded. 'It's done.' He didn't need to tell her what
the outcome had been, and heard her draw in a long
breath. Then: 'And now? Will they let me come with
you?'

Keridil had been staring ahead, to where the mon-
strous stairs wound ever further up the flank of the
mountain. The sky was almost dark, but he could still
make out the menacing truncated peak of the ancient
crater at the volcano's summit. They would climb those
terrible steps, on and on, and when finally they reached
the end there would be nothing before them but the
Shrine itself. Now he looked at Sashka, searching her
face for signs of fear and finding none. With her beside
him, he wouldn't feel so appallingly alone. 'They will,'
he said. 'That is ... if you'll consent?'

She could almost pity him for being so naive as to
think that she'd not grasp this giddying chance. She,
Sashka Veyyil, would witness the opening of the casket -
and when the historians came to write their accounts of
this momentous night, her name would be inscribed
alongside Keridil's as the consort of the High Initiate
who had summoned Aeoris to the world.

She clasped his hand more tightly in hers and gave him
the sweet smile that could always win him over. 'Of
course I'll consent, my love,' she said softly. 'Nothing
would keep me from your side now!'

Cyllan climbed with one Initiate before her and one at
her back, blocking any escape route, but was incapable
of giving her attention to anything beyond the huge,
endless stairs. She seemed to have been climbing for
hours, each step a strain that made her muscles throb in
protest, and her mind was numb with the ceaseless,
toiling effort. Ahead, Keridil Toln led the procession,
flanked by two more of the white-clad zombies - a new
escort, for it seemed that only a small and carefully
chosen few in whatever peculiar hierarchy existed here
were allowed within reach of the mountain summit.
Behind him came the High Margrave, then the
Matriarch, now carried in a strange, carved chair by two
more Guardians. Torches glittered like small, feral eyes,
a snake of light winding higher and higher into the night
and dwarfed by the threatening peak.
And when they reached the shrine, what then? She had

given up praying that Tarod would not come to her, for
the fear that had begun to eat at her when they were
brought from the vault now had a stranglehold that she
couldn't fight. She was too alone, too lost and too threat-
ened not to long for his presence, for no one else would
help her. And if he came too late - she didn't once
consider that he wouldn't come at all - she would be
dead, and her soul, having failed both Order and Chaos,
would be damned for ever . . .

She was so enmeshed in her fearful thoughts that she
wasn't aware of the procession ahead of her coming to a
halt, until she collided with the Guardian before her as
he stopped. Blinking, Cyllan looked up.

The cone of the volcano, which before had seemed so
distant as to be unreal, now loomed with terrifying
immediacy ahead and above. She could see the crater
like a vast, insensate mouth edged with jagged teeth,
reaching up as though trying to devour the sky; see the
ugly scar of a fissure where, aeons ago, lava had come
blazing in a river of fire from the earth's heart, the
malformations of rock torn and twisted and melted
under unimaginable heat and pressure. It was pre-
historic, savage, an aberration; and her fear began to
transmute into a palpitating sickness.

It seemed that they were waiting for some signal, and
after long minutes it came. A horn, sounding from
somewhere near the heart of the crater itself, amplified
by the towering rock walls so that it echoed like the call
of some supernatural denizen of a ghost-world. The
sound wound on and on, finally dissipating out over the
sea and swallowed by the night, and as the last echo
faded the party began, slowly and with a new purpose, to
move again. Onward, upward . . . and the gigantic
stairs were at an end.

The gateway had been hewn into the rock face of the
crater; a plain, foursquare portal formed of a single
massive lintel supported by perfectly angular uprights.
At the lintel's exact centre a design had been cut and
filled with gold; an unblinking eye from whose iris a
single bolt of lightning emanated. It was the ultimate

sign of Order, the sigil of Aeoris himself- and it marked
the entrance to the heart of the crater, and the Shrine.

The two Guardians who had led the procession with
Keridil stepped aside and took up new positions, one to
each side of the huge gate. Their fellows joined them
and the white-clad figures formed a rigid guard of
honour at the entranceway.

Keridil realised that these strange men would come no
further. From now on, he and his companions were
alone. He stared ahead and saw a chasm-like tunnel
stretching away, lit by a faint and sullen glow that
appeared to seep from the rock itself, then heard move-
ment at his side as the High Margrave and the
Matriarch, who had dismounted from her makeshift
litter, moved up to join him. Keridil swallowed, took a
deep breath, glanced at the nearest of the stiffly atten-
tive Guardians; and with what might - unless imagin-
ation deceived him - have been the ghost of a smile, the
man raised his right hand and made the Sign of Aeoris.

It was the signal to embark on the last stage of this
ritual journey, and Keridil knew he couldn't delay it
any longer. He stepped through the maw of the gaping
portal, heard Fenar and Ilyaya a pace behind him, and
forced down the sudden inrush of dread that tried to grip
him. It must be done - it would be done. Quickening his
pace as determination overcame the fear, Keridil strode
forward into the chasm.

The rift which millennia ago had been torn in the vol-
cano's side by an eruption of lava, and which now
formed the one and only entrance to the ancient crater,
was not a long passage. It cut directly through the cone,
following an uncannily straight path, and after only a
bare few minutes Keridil saw a pinpoint of light ahead.
He couldn't identify its source, though instinct and
knowledge of lore prompted him to guess, and his throat
constricted with apprehension. Only a short way more

The chasm opened abruptly and shockingly, and they

emerged on to a wide ledge that overlooked a vista
awesome in its sheer simplicity.

All around them, dizzying, the crater walls rose in vast
ramparts, pitted and scarred and creating a terrible
sense of vertigo. Perhaps two or three hundred feet
below lay the bowl, a plain of pumice and basalt fused in
incredible patterns and lit by the faint night radiance
filtering down from the open sky. In the bowl's centre
was a single, gigantic slab of volcanic stone which some
long-dead hand had carved into a perfect cube to form
an altar - and here, the pinpoint of light which Keridil
had glimpsed from the chasm revealed itself as a golden
chalice in which burned an unwavering, eternal white
flame. This votive light, he knew, had shone since
Aeoris and his brethren left their awesome gift to the
world; it was the Guardians' task to tend it; one they had
never neglected. And before the chalice, shimmering
blindingly in its spilling light, was a simple casket no
bigger than a man's clenched fist, also made of solid
gold. The casket of Aeoris . . .

Fenar Alacar made the Sign with awed and clumsy
haste, while the Matriarch lifted one edge of her veil to
her lips and kissed it, murmuring a prayer. Keridil
couldn't begin to define the feelings that this first sight of
the Shrine awoke in him - awe, yes, and fear and rever-
ence, but also a sense of destiny which was impossible to
put into words, but which made him forget everything
beyond the short ritual, and its culmination, which lay
ahead.

From the ledge a steep but far from impossible path
wound down into the crater's bowl, and the High Initiate
turned to his companions. 'Those who wish to witness
the ritual at close quarters may come to the Shrine with
us,' he said quietly. 'Though if any of you would prefer
to remain here and watch from a distance, you're per-
fectly at liberty to do so.'

Silence greeted his words. Though he had the impres-
sion that one or two of the party felt trepidation, no one
would be first to back away. Only Cyllan seemed
unmoved, standing now with two of Keridil's Initiates

flanking her; her gaze, when he reluctantly met it, was
blank and empty.

'Very well. I ask only that you all keep silence until the
rite is over.' And with a small bow to Fenar and Ilyaya in
turn, he began the descent to the crater floor.

Beyond the volcano's wall, the Guardians who had
escorted the triumvirate and their company still stood in
twin rigid rows at the portal. They had brought their
charges this far, but the laws laid down for this even-
tuality centuries ago forbade them to go further. Their
duty now was to wait, and they would fulfil it with the
same impassive stoicism with which they approached
every task. If they were curious or apprehensive about
what might befall before the night ended, their distant
expressions gave nothing away.

The slight movement in the shadows, some minutes
after the last of the company had vanished in the gloom
of the chasm, caused the two Guardians furthest from
the portal to turn their heads in surprise. Both Moons
were now well risen, illuminating the titanic stairway
cascading back down the mountain slope - and on the
first stair they sensed an untoward presence. Their fel-
lows picked up the psychic disturbance an instant later,
but before any of the Guardians could react or issue a
challenge, the air before them shivered as though dis-
turbed by an invisible hand - and a figure, silhouetted
against the Moonlit staircase, stood before them.

As one, the Guardians moved to block the way, still
keeping to their precise formation.

Those without sanction are not permitted to set foot
on the island.' Their spokesman's tones were clipped,
but there was a trace of disturbance in his voice. The
intruder laughed softly, and something glinted with a
starburst flicker of brilliance on his left hand. 'One
without sanction has already done so. The Guardians
will stand aside.'

To touch their minds was child's play, making a mock-
ery of the awe in which they were held. Centuries of
isolation, undisturbed in their stronghold, had caused

the Guardians to overestimate their invulnerability -
any occult skills they had once possessed but never
needed had atrophied as their complacence grew, and to
a will such as Tarod's they presented no obstacle.

'The Guardians will stand aside.' This time the words
were a sibilant command, and the white-clad figures
shrank back as the interloper took a pace forward, then
another. He looked from one pale face to another and
another; slowly, like hypnotised children, they drew
back to their old positions, reforming the double guard
of honour as all motivation drained from them. The
stranger waited until the formation was complete. Then
he walked quietly between them, and away into the
towering rift towards the crater.

The opening words of the ritual were, to Cyllan, like a
death-sentence. She didn't want to listen, but a terrible
fatalism made her concentrate on the High Initiate's
gold-robed figure as he offered up a solemn prayer to the
gods, while behind him the Matriarch and the High
Margrave knelt in homage before the Shrine of the
Casket. Her last hope was gone, and she bitterly regret-
ted that she'd not thrown herself over the appalling drop
as they neared the top of the staircase, or, perhaps
better, hurled herself into the sea from the deck of the
White Barque before it reached its grim destination.
Now, it was too late. She must live through this night-
mare and face what was to come as best she could. Tarod
had failed in his attempts to find her, she could not
contact him, she could only pray - and not to the White
Gods - that, somehow, he would survive the insanity
being loosed against him.

Despite the night's cold the atmosphere pervading the
crater was stifling, and growing more claustrophobically
intense with every moment. It was like the rising tension
before a storm; a sense that something was coming,
lurking beyond the horizon and marching nearer, build-
ing up its power towards fever-pitch before the first roll
of thunder would boom out and shatter the breathless,
unnatural calm. Keridil spoke - a prayer now that

Aeoris might forgive what he was about to do, echoed by
the chanting of Fenar Alacar and Ilyaya Kimi as they
lent their voices to his - but the words lacked all reson-
ance, swallowed, or so it seemed, by the thick air almost
before they could take full form.

Cyllan looked fearfully around at the other witnesses,
who formed a rough semi-circle at a respectful distance
from the triumvirate at the altar. The old scholar, Isyn,
craning forward to hear the ritual words; two Sisters
with their veils to their faces, silently mouthing prayers;
and furthest from her the tall, graceful figure of Sashka,
whose eyes were feverishly alight, face avid with excite-
ment and pride. There, Cyllan thought, was the greatest
betrayer of all - the fickle and greedy heart whose self-
interest had brought them all to this . . .

Suddenly a hollow silence fell as the prayer Keridil
had been intoning ended. Fenar and Ilyaya raised their
heads, and the High Initiate stepped forward so that the
light pouring from the sacred chalice fell on him, setting
his gold robe and circlet on fire with brilliance and
casting a vivid halo around his fair hair. Cyllan heard
someone - she thought it must be Sashka - gasp with
poorly controlled eagerness, and then Keridil raised
both hands high to begin the Exhortation to the
Ultimate, the final words that he would speak before
raising the lid of the gold casket. The High Initiate tilted
his head back to gaze heavenward - and stopped, move-
ment arrested as though a dagger had pierced his heart
and struck him dead. Everyone heard his sharp, invol-
untary intake of breath - then he turned, staring up past
the company, back to the opening of the chasm in the
rock wall.

Cyllan knew what he must have seen even before she
read the confirmation in his face. And there, on the
ledge overlooking the crater's bowl, a solitary figure
stood staring down at them. Barefoot, dressed only in a
black shirt and trousers, his hair salt-matted and dried to
wild tangles by the wind, he had none of his enemy's
magnificence - but a quiet, deadly power radiated from

him that dwarfed Keridil's ceremonial splendour to a
hollow parody.

Amid shocked silence the High Initiate took a step
forward. His right hand reached unthinkingly for a
sword that wasn't there, but he was the only one of the
company who moved as Tarod crossed the ledge to the
path and began to descend. He reached the crater floor,
and for long moments the two adversaries gazed at each
other from a distance while a myriad emotions crossed
Keridil's face. Then, slowly, Tarod approached.

Cyllan felt her upper arms suddenly and painfully
gripped by the two Initiates beside her, and as Tarod
drew nearer she was pulled roughly back, away from
him. He stopped. For an instant venom glittered in his
green eyes, then he looked at the High Initiate once
more.

Tell your Adepts to stay their hands, Keridil. I wish
no harm to anyone here.'

'How did you - ' Keridil started to say; then stopped.
The whys and wherefores of how Tarod had duped or
evaded the Guardians to reach the crater undetected
were irrelevant - he was here; that alone mattered. But
though he had planned for this moment, the manner of
Tarod's arrival had thrown Keridil's scheme into dis-
order and caught him unawares. He didn't know what to
do ...

Aware of Keridil's discomfiture. Tarod turned and
walked to where Cyllan was held by her guards. The two
Initiates fell back as he approached; with no direct com-
mand from Keridil they were unsure of themselves, and
afraid of the man before them. Tarod took Cyllan's
wrists; she felt a small tingling shock, and the cords that
bound her fell away, writhing, to the ground before
Tarod raised her hands to his lips and kissed her fingers
in a brief but significant gesture. As he raised his head
again Cyllan saw, over his shoulder, Sashka staring at
them. Her face was frozen into a look that confirmed
everything - hatred, blind jealousy, rage, the final re-
alisation that she had lost all sway over Tarod, and her
utter refusal to accept that such a thing could be true. By

his simple gesture to Cyllan, Tarod had delivered
Sashka a vicious blow, and her pride couldn't bear it. As
Tarod turned back to the company she continued to
stare at him, ready, it seemed, to tear him apart with her
fingernails in sheer fury; but he looked through her as
though she didn't exist, and his eyes focused on Keridil.

'There's no more need for conflict,' he said. 'And no
need for what the Conclave has resolved to do.'

Keridil's face went white. 'You dare to presume that
you can stop it? Gods, I thought you arrogant, but never
as arrogant as this!' He had recovered from the initial
shock of Tarod's appearance, and his confidence was
restored. 'We're not in the Castle now. This is Aeoris's
sacred place; the greatest stronghold of Order - you
have no power here, whatever your dark masters might
have deluded you into believing!'

Tarod shook his dark head and smiled thinly. He
looked tired, Cyllan thought - tired and drained and
troubled. 'I am not deluded, Keridil,' he replied, 'and
you misunderstand my meaning. I haven't come to chal-
lenge you.'

Keridil's eyes narrowed. 'You wear the ring of Chaos,
and you expect me to believe that?'

'Yes,' Tarod said. He looked at the High Initiate for
another moment as though trying to calculate whether
or not he would intervene. Then he drew the silver ring
slowly from his finger and, holding it in the palm of his
hand, turned to where Fenar Alacar was standing star-
ing as though transfixed at him. This was the first time
the young High Margrave had set eyes on the Chaos
demon of whom he had heard so many horrifying tales,
and when his gaze met Tarod's he blanched visibly.

Tarod took two steps towards him, then, to Fenar's
and Keridil's astonished chagrin, bowed formally and
with the greatest courtesy.

'High Margrave. I pledge to you my loyalty and my
fealty, and my word that I serve you in the name of
Aeoris.' He made the Sign and straightened, his eyes
suddenly intense. 'I have been accused of a great many
crimes, High Margrave - in some instances I am guilty;

in many I am not. Above all, my fealty to our gods, the
Lords of Order, has never wavered. I don't serve Chaos
-I renounce it and reject it, as I have done since the day
of my Initiation. And I surrender this stone as proof of
my good faith.'

Fenar Alacar, his eyes wide, backed away as though
Tarod held a Warp in his hand. Tarod hesitated, and his
fingers closed over the stone once more.

'Yes, sir; it's an evil gem; I won't deny it. But what-
ever might have been said of me, I don't want to bring
Chaos back to this world - I've already seen the madness
that the mere fear of Chaos has loosed on the land, and if
the Conclave's resolve is carried out, and Order and
Chaos conflict, that madness could erupt into full-scale
destruction. Enough harm has already been done. I
have the means to destroy this stone by commending it
into the hands of Aeoris himself - and I ask you to stop
this rite and allow me, instead, to carry out that pledge.'

'M-madness?' Fenar's voice squeaked on the second
syllable and his face flushed angrily. 'You speak of mad-
ness, but the only madness I see is that which you have
perpetrated - and which you try to perpetrate with your
lies now! You think that a few cleverly chosen words can
sway us from our rightful and holy duty - you're wrong,
demon! You're wrong!' He licked his lips and looked to
his peers for confirmation. Keridil's expression was
indecipherable but the Matriarch nodded grim
encouragement.

'You come too late to use your trickery, creature of
Chaos,' Ilyaya Kimi told Tarod with venom. 'You have
been the source of much evil in this world, but that evil
will be tolerated no longer! Aeoris shall return - he will
destroy you, and when you are destroyed he will root out
all who have strayed from the ordained path and they
will be punished! There'll be none of your wicked spawn
left behind to carry on your work when you are gone!'

Tarod had a sudden and terrible insight into the
Matriarch's vision of the gods' judgement. 'How can you
say that Aeoris will punish his own people, when their

only failing has been that of fear?' he demanded. 'There
has been no crime!'

Fenar, whose confidence was growing by the moment,
said contemptuously, 'Ha!' and Ilyaya's eyes glinted
coldly. There has been sin,' she said implacably 'We
have seen its corruption throughout the land, and we
have seen the brave efforts made to bring its perpetra-
tors to account - but it's not enough! It must be utterly
expurgated, and the greater the sin, the greater the
expurgation.'

Tarod stared at her, appalled, and remembered the
sickening injustices he had seen as he travelled; the
burning fields, the slaughtered animals, the mockeries
of trials that sent innocent folk to their deaths. And the
Matriarch spoke of brave efforts . . . He said, his voice
harsh with emotion, 'But there's no call to resort to such
savagery! The stone can simply be destroyed - surely
you can see the wisdom in that? This way, there will be
bloodshed and misery of such an order that it doesn't
bear thinking about. It could be avoided!'

'Aeoris will extract his price,' said Ilyaya stubbornly.
'And we, who are his chosen, will be the instruments of
his justice and mercy.'

'Mercy?' Tarod's face was haggard.

'Yes, mercy.' She all but spat the word back at him.
'And those whose souls are pure need not fear, for
though they suffer greatly in the trial, they will not be
found wanting.'

It was blind dogma - the Matriarch spoke nothing but
meaningless cant, and yet, Tarod realised, no reason in
the world would shake her. As for Fenar Alacar - per-
haps he could expect no better from an arrogant and
inexperienced boy in the throes of his first true taste of
power, but the High Margrave's refusal to listen made
mockery of Tarod's hopes. He was about to entreat
them one last time to consider what he had to say, when
a new voice spoke harshly behind him.

'Kill him, Keridil.' He knew the tones only too well.
'He lies, and he attempts to blind us, as the High Mar-
grave and Lady Matriarch have already seen. Kill him

now. Send him to Aeoris, and let's see how his pro-
testations of loyalty fare when he confronts the god he
professes to worship!'

A shocked silence followed Sashka's outburst, but as
everyone turned to look at her Tarod saw a glint of
approval in Ilyaya Kimi's eyes. The girl was staring at
Tarod, every fibre radiating loathing and fury, and
before Keridil could react Ilyaya Kimi said, 'Your con-
sort speaks out of turn, Keridil, but she speaks good
sense nonetheless.'

'Yes, Keridil.' Fenar Alacar was determined not to be
in the minority. 'Your lady is right - and you yourself
have warned us often enough of this demon's duplicity! I
say, kill him.'

Tarod was looking at Sashka, his eyes contemptuous.
'I'd expect little better counsel from the High Initiate's
consort,' he said almost gently, 'And, to me at least, her
motives are pitifully clear.' He bowed sardonically to the
girl, 'I'm sorry, Sashka, that I disappoint you by my
refusal to wring my hands in anguish at your rejection of
me.'

Sashka's mouth tightened into a vicious line and her
cheeks flamed; Tarod saw Keridil's quick, chagrined
glance in her direction and realised just how successfully
Sashka had blinded her new lover to her true nature. It
seemed that the High Initiate was about to make an
angry outburst, but Tarod forestalled him.

'Very well. Kill me now, Keridil - or try. But there is
an alternative, if what I've already said can't move you.'

Keridil stared at him. 'It cannot. And any .alternative
you may suggest is pointless.'

'Is it? Even if I were to ask that I be allowed to plead
my case to Aeoris himself?'

The slight frown that appeared on the High Initiate's
face rekindled the last slender hope that remained.
Unreason might prevail amongst his peers, but Keridil
had never been one to allow dogma alone to sway him,
and he could see that his adversary's offer left no room
for trickery. Before he could speak, however, the
Matriarch hissed deep in her throat and said,

'The demon has a silver tongue! I counsel you not to
heed him, Keridil. He must die. There is no more to be
said.'

Sashka smiled, and Fenar Alacar nodded vigorously.
'Kill him.'

Keridil glanced at the auburn-haired girl beside him
and saw the unholy light that gleamed with a clear
message in her eyes.

'He deserves far worse than death,' she said. 'But
death is a beginning . . . '

And Keridil, though he wished with all his heart that
he could have remained in ignorance, began to under-
stand . . .

Tarod watched them all, his unquiet gaze flickering
from one to another. It took great self-control to keep
silent but he knew that to speak now would be to wreck
this one final, perilous chance. Keridil's hatred of him
was intense but beneath the High Initiate's prejudice
reason was struggling to find a foothold. And Tarod was
gambling on his one-time friend's unwillingness to be
pressurised into a decision to which he might be irrever-
sibly committed.

Encouraged by Keridil's silence, Sashka said sud-
denly, 'My love, if - ' but got no further as, to her
discomfiture, Keridil looked quickly at her with suspi-
cion and anger in his eyes. Wo,' he said, then raised both
hands as his other companions made to protest. 'No. If
Tarod is willing to face the ultimate arbiter, I won't deny
such a request.' He looked at them all in turn, his eyes
suddenly cold and challenging. 'I haven't the sanction to
deny it. What temporal power may refuse any man - '
he touched his tongue to his lips, 'any man, whatever his
nature, the right to plead directly to the gods who rule us
all?' He looked at Tarod, his eyes suspicious and
unhappy. 'Ironically, you and I seem to agree on one
matter at least - that it is better if needless suffering can
be avoided. I grant your request.'

Sashka hissed, 'Keridil - ' and the Matriarch's face
reddened with impotent anger. 'Keridil, think what
you're saying! This demon has duped you before and it's

plain to me that he means to dupe you again! You cannot
do this; I forbid it!'

The High Initiate turned to her. Something within
him had turned to ashes, and the bitterness - which, as
yet, he couldn't even begin to comprehend - brought
anger and a sense of personal injustice in its wake.

'You cannot forbid it, madam.' His tone was cold,
bleak. 'Unless, that is, you would care to stand before
that votive light and raise the lid of the casket with your
own hands . . . ? Or you, High Margrave . . . ? No;I
thought not. That responsibility is mine alone, and if I
am to accept it - as I do - then I'll brook no interference.'
He smiled faintly but with no pretence at humour.
'Besides, to believe that any duplicity Tarod might be
planning could prevail in the face of Aeoris's power
would be, I think, tantamount to blasphemy.'

Ilyaya's jaw dropped and the High Margrave paled.
Sashka moved towards Keridil, one hand outstretched
as though to touch his arm then thought better of it.
Keridil faced Tarod once more.

'I give you this one chance, Tarod. Not for your sake,
but because I've seen what's afoot in this land and I want
it to end. I hope . . . ' he hesitated then shook his head.
'No matter. Let it be done.'

He had been about to say, I hope Aeoris extracts
payment threefold for the evil you've done, but suddenly
the words seemed hollow, meaningless; and Keridil was
no longer sure of their validity. This wasn't the time to
question his own subconscious motivations; all he knew
was that a goal which once had seemed so bright had
been tarnished and at the heart of the tarnish was doubt.
Sashka's eyes, as she gazed at Tarod, mixed hatred with
a desire that betrayed the High Initiate's deepest-rooted
suspicions; his peers' determination to have revenge at
any price and without thought for the consequences . . .
He had learned a good deal on the long journey South
through stricken villages and frightened towns and
ruined farmlands, and the harshest lesson of all was the
fallibility of human judgement, not least his own. If it

wasn't too late to redress the balance, history might at
least grant that achievement to his credit.

He said: 'I ask you all for silence. If anyone is not yet
prepared in mind and heart for what is to come, I exhort
you to prepare yourselves now.'

No one spoke. The two Initiates had relinquished
their hold on Cyllan but she didn't move. Tarod stood
motionless, the silver ring with its deadly stone glinting
in his cupped hands as Keridil turned his back on the
assembly and walked, with the slow deliberation of one
in doubt of his own strength, towards the votive altar at
the centre of the great bowl. The light from the eternally
burning chalice spilled over and around him, casting a
grotesque shadow; for perhaps two or three minutes he
stood with his head bowed. Tarod's arrival had inter-
rupted the Exhortation to the Ultimate, the final rite
which tradition dictated must be completed before his
hand touched the casket. Keridil had carefully memo-
rised the formalised phrases, the long, elaborate sen-
tences . . . and suddenly he thought: damn tradition.
Briefly, silently, his lips formed the words of a very
private prayer. Then he reached out both his hands and
brought his fingers to rest on the glittering casket.

It felt cold and yet hot together; a sensation his senses
couldn't assimilate and which defied description. No
human hand had touched this artefact since the day
Aeoris himself had commended it into the custody of the
first High Initiate of all ...

His fingers tightened on the golden surface and he
lifted the lid.

Chapter 13

Overhead, in the circle of visible sky, the stars went out.

The towering walls of the volcano's crater lost their
colour and texture, fading through the brown of long-
dried blood to grey to an utter absence of hue, as though
something were draining their pigment, their solidity,
their very existence. The figures grouped about the altar
seemed to lose their reality, becoming two-dimensional,
ghost images with no semblance of life. Only Keridil,
now framed by a glaring and brilliant halo, was real;
Keridil, and the blinding radiance that had begun to
issue from the open casket, a light that eclipsed all in its
path, gaining strength, growing, slowly taking form.

A sound like titanic wings clashing together, a noise
beyond thunder, beyond anything imagination could
conjure, crashed against the ears of the mesmerised
watchers, and in its wake came a slow, clopping, terri-
fyingly measured tread, as though some monstrous
supernatural horse bore an unnameable rider towards
them, stepping between dimensions and threatening to
break into a world too small to contain it. The two
Sisters who had accompanied Ilyaya Kimi fell to their
knees, sprawling in the dust of the crater bowl; one cried
out, but her voice was no more than a tiny, wounded cry
against the vast cliff of noise.

The brilliant light that poured from the casket inten-
sified, pulsed, intensified again until no one could bear
to look at it - no one save Tarod. Even the High Initiate
recoiled from the radiance as it threatened to burn his
eyes to ash in their sockets, flinging his hands up to
protect himself while behind him his companions turned
away and covered their faces. Only Tarod stood still,

staring fixedly at the incredible brilliance swelling above
the casket. And only Tarod bore full witness to the
manifestation when it came.

The wall of sound suddenly ceased. One moment it
dinned and echoed throughout the crater; the next it was
gone, and the shocking peace was broken only by a last,
incredibly pure harmonic before that too faded and
died. The white light still burned but its edges were
turning to gold and at its heart a face was forming;
proud, wise, beautiful. Then the sphere of radiance
seemed to rise above the altar stone; there was a
moment of utter silence -

A single bolt of white lightning sheared from the core
of the light in silent glory and the great stone split in two.
For a moment even Tarod was blinded, then his vision
cleared and he could see the stone once more.

The casket and the votive chalice were gone. The altar
was severed into two perfect halves - and before it stood
Aeoris.

The greatest of the Lords of Order had chosen to take
the form of a tall and perfectly proportioned warrior.
His clothing was a simple white jerkin and trousers, over
which a light white cloak had been cast, falling almost to
his feet. A plain golden circlet held back long white hair
that framed a strong, impassive, stern face. He might
have been human - but for his eyes. They had no pupil,
no iris; instead, the deep-set sockets were filled with
pulsing golden light.

Keridil dropped to one knee, bowing his head almost
to the ground in the ultimate gesture of obeisance. All
around him Tarod glimpsed others following his lead;
even Cyllan, stunned and awed by the implacable aura
that radiated, both physically and astrally, from the
White Lord's figure, sank, fearful and trembling, to her
knees in the dust of the crater. He, too, should have
knelt - this was the god he had revered all his life, the
supernal being, ultimate judge of all in and beyond the
world - but he couldn't do it. However loudly reason
and right cried out to him, he couldn't make the gesture

- and he didn't know why. Instead he stood, immobile
and alone, facing Aeoris.

The White Lord stepped forward until the light that
burned around him also encompassed the hunched fig-
ure of the High Initiate. He reached out and his right
hand came to rest on Keridil's brow. Tarod saw the
shudder that racked Keridil; heard his whispered words:
'My lord Aeoris . . . '

'You have called me, High Initiate, and I am here.'
Aeoris raised his head and surveyed the scene before
him. The terrible, featureless gaze, which looked blind
and yet saw far beyond physical dimensions, lingered on
Tarod's face for a moment, then dropped to the ring
cupped in Tarod's hand. His aura drowned the Chaos
stone's small brilliance, but nonetheless Tarod felt the
gem pulse hot against his palm.

Keridil spoke again, more clearly this time, and there
was real and painful fear in his voice. 'My lord Aeoris, I
beg your forgiveness if I have transgressed, or shown
haste or rashness in my judgement. I believe - we all
believe - that only your justice and your mercy can save
our land from the dark threat of Chaos.' Summoning all
his courage, he dared to look up. 'We have done all we
could, and we have failed.'

Aeoris was still gazing at the gem. His eyes were cold,
remote; his mouth set in a harsh line. 'You were not
wrong to call upon me,' he said. 'For I know that evil
walks abroad once more in this world and must be
expunged.' The golden eyes pulsed. 'And I see before
me the quintessence of that evil.'

Tarod took a deep breath. His throat was dry and
speaking was painful; but he forced himself to break the
silence.

'My lord, you see before you a loyal and faithful
worshipper of the Order which was your greatest gift to
this world. I come before you in humility and truth, to
commend this stone of Chaos into your hands, that it
may never again taint or threaten our land.'

There was an ugly taste in his mouth. Did his words
ring false? They surely couldn't; this was the goal for

which he'd striven since the day when he'd first under-
stood the Chaos stone's nature . . .

'A loyal worshipper who does not kneel to his god?'
There was an edge to Aeoris's voice; sharp, angry,
almost pettish.

'I face you as I am, my lord, that you may see me the
clearer. Not a thing of Chaos but a true follower of
Aeoris.'

'Yes, I see you the clearer.' The god did not smile, did
not unbend in any way. 'I see the worm of corruption,
the flouter of my law, the threat to my rule. There is no
place in the world, or in the life beyond, for such a one.
You have transgressed. And for those who transgress
against me there will be no mercy!'

Cyllan's head came up sharply, her face ashen, and
she cried out, 'No! Tarod isn't evil! Lord Aeoris, I beg of
you, grant him - '

'Silence!' The word had the impact of an Arctic wind
and Cyllan recoiled in terror. The White God's gaze
fastened on her with distant contempt. 'I will hear no
pleadings from the corrupt. You have sinned against my
law and there will be no forgiveness. You are damned.'

'My lord, I ask you to hear me!' Tarod stepped a pace
forward and the god's blank eyes turned to him. 'I don't
plead for myself: though I might seek to cleanse the taint
of my own nature, I can't deny what I am. But I entreat
you to show mercy to Cyllan. Her only crime has been to
fall under my influence, and - '

Aeoris interrupted him. 'That is crime enough. The
girl has sinned and sin will be punished. My word is law -
I judge her guilty and she shall be annihilated.'

Tarod's jaw-muscles tightened. 'And is there no room
for mercy in your rule, my lord?'

'You dare to question me?' Aeoris thundered. 'I am
Order, and Order is supreme! I have set the pattern of
this world and those who deviate from the pattern will
know my wrath!' His voice dropped but the menace in it
was the greater for that. 'Many have strayed away from
the path. There will be a reckoning, and the trans-
gressors will learn what it is to fear their lord and suffer

his vengeance.' He began, slowly, to walk towards
Tarod and the huddled figures about him cowered away.
The mercy of Order is justice. And justice lies in the
punishment of those who have erred. There is room for
nothing else!'

Tarod felt as though a shell of ice were forming
around his heart, freezing and constricting him. Where
was the clemency, the temperance, the open hand of
kindness which he had been taught to expect from the
greatest of all the gods? Instead, he faced an implacable
and savage avenger; that which didn't conform rigidly to
Aeoris's law, Aeoris would destroy; and there could be
no compromise.

The White Lord had halted a few paces from Tarod
and now he extended his right hand in a commanding
gesture. 'I will take that evil jewel,' he said coldly. 'I will
destroy it. When it is destroyed, the power of those who
seek to oppose Order will be broken and our rule will
once again be absolute. You and your paramour will
accept utter annihilation as your due punishment, and
then my brothers and I can begin the work of retribution
and the restoration of righteousness throughout the
land.'

Retribution and the restoration of righteousness . . .
Tarod's fingers clenched convulsively over the silver
ring. There was no righteousness in Aeoris's plan . . .
he would scourge all who had strayed from his rigid
path, with no care for the suffering and misery he would
inflict. In the wake of this ugly revelation Tarod was
reminded sharply of his own analogy concerning insects
trampled by warring swordsmen; but this was worse, for
the cruelty would be calculated and deliberate. If this
was the justice of Order, Tarod thought with bitter fury,
he wanted none of it.

We could challenge their sway . . . The thought came
unbidden to his mind, and in his hands the Chaos stone
pulsed again. He forced the concept away, telling him-
self it was too late. He had come this far; he couldn't turn
back now. There must be a way to break through the
White Lord's rigidity, to appeal to his mercy.

He looked again at Aeoris, who still stood with his
hand extended to take the ring, and hope died. The god
would never yield, never forgive. He would smash the
last vestiges of Chaos in the world and then nothing
could stand against him or temper his influence. The
reign of Order would be absolute - and it would create a
terrible imbalance that would set the world not on a
shimmering road to peace and harmony, but on a dark,
grim and inevitable path to entropy and death.

He remembered, though he'd been fighting to keep
the memory at bay, the dream-encounter with Yandros
while he lay sleeping at the Shu-Nhadek inn. You have
seen injustice, bigotry, persecution, murder, all per-
petrated in the name of Order, Yandros had said. Now,
with the White Lord's cold gaze blazing before him,
Tarod couldn't deny the truth of those words. Throw
yourself on Aeoris's mercy, Yandros had said, and where
there were seven, there will be six. Imbalance . . . the
realisation, the understanding, struck at the root of his
consciousness, and it horrified him. Chaos unchecked
was the ultimate insanity - but at the other end of the
spectrum, did not Order unchecked threaten to be the
same? As a man, Tarod had worshipped Aeoris, loved
this world, believed that Order must be supreme. But
now he could no longer think as a man thought. There
was more; so much more - unhuman experience and
wisdom that warned him of the consequences of letting
the balance slip beyond redress. Day must be countered
by night, cold by heat, love by hatred . . . and Seven
must be countered by Seven.

Your cherished ways are crumbling back into the arid
dust out of which they were born. It was as if Yandros
stood beside him and spoke the words aloud; and though
he had first heard them so long ago, and had rejected
them, Tarod remembered them now with dreadful clar-
ity. Without Chaos, there can be no true Order . . .

It had gone too far. There must be balance - for
without one force to temper the other, the world would
finally collapse into utter destruction. Yandros had been
right . . .

'I still wait.' Aeoris's voice cut into his tumbling
thoughts, and Tarod felt an involuntary surge of hatred
and contempt for the White Lord. He quelled it, licked
dry lips . . .

'Why do you hesitate, worm of corruption?' The god's
voice was a challenging mockery. 'Do you fear, at the
last, the retribution which you deserve? Well you might!'

Beside him Tarod felt Cyllan stir fearfully. He
reached down, took hold of her hand and felt a terrible
grief tear at him. He had been prepared to sacrifice
everything for her sake. But the nature of the sacrifice he
was about to make was greater than he'd dreamed; for it
would divide them more surely than mere death could
ever do. He would lose her, forever- and yet they would
both live on with the eternal knowledge of that loss.

He looked at her and knew it had to be. For the sake
of the world he loved, for the sake of life itself . . .

'Give me the jewel, demon of Chaos.' Aeoris's face
was darkening with the anger of one thwarted.

Tarod gazed back at him. His fingers relaxed, so that
the silver ring with its clear jewel shone, struggling
against the brilliance of the White Lord's aura. Then,
slowly and icily, he smiled, and said with soft mal-
evolence, 'I think not.'

'What is this?' Aeoris's voice was thunder.

Tarod laughed softly. 'You have become blind,
Aeoris of Order. You have reigned unchecked for so
long that you have forgotten what it is to be opposed. I
think the time has come for you to learn that lesson
afresh!'

At the periphery of his vision he saw Keridil rising to his
feet. The High Initiate's face was a study in shock as
intuition warned him of what was about to happen;
beyond him the Matriarch and the High Margrave
stared without comprehending. Tarod raised his left
hand which held the ring; he touched the stone against
his heart and saw Aeoris's arrogant confidence replaced
by astonishment - and then the first fires of the power
within Tarod took hold.

He knew the door and he knew what lay beyond it.
Through all his years in this world he had barred that
door fast, shutting out the knowledge and the memories
to which it led, shutting out the titanic, nameless, ageless
forces even as they cried for release. But no longer. In
his mind - in his soul - Tarod felt the bar lifting. He was
not human - he had never been human - and now it was
time to relinquish the mask of humanity he had worn for
too long . . .

A cry that might have been the last protest of a
fallible, mortal man was wrenched from his throat as the
door that had separated him from his heritage smashed
open and, as the long-dead volcano in which they stood
had once erupted, the power exploded to life within
him. A screaming, shrieking wind roared down on the
crater bowl, the rock floor bucked and heaved, throwing
the terrified company into sprawling tangles of limbs -
and a light as black as Aeoris's aura was white began to
emanate from Tarod's tall, gaunt figure. The semblance
of humanity was slipping from him; the wild mane of his
hair snatched and whipped in the gale about a white face
in which every bone was etched to razor sharpness, and
in their dark sockets his eyes burned like emerald
flames, alight with an unholy, insane joy. Black tendrils
smoked around his frame, forming a terrible cloak that
hid all but one skeletal hand, and as his lips drew back in
a smile he was the dark twin of Yandros, essence of
Chaos incarnate.

Somewhere, a world away, Ilyaya Kimi began to wail
on a thin, pitiful scale, rising and falling. Fenar Alacar
crouched, retching with blind terror beside her; others
covered their ears, hid their faces. Cyllan, who had been
flung aside by the monstrous power erupting from
Tarod, could only stare like a trapped, mesmerised ani-
mal at the man - being - she had loved, as understanding
threatened to split her mind apart. She had faced
Yandros, but Yandros had been able only to manifest a
fraction of his true self. What she witnessed now was
Chaos in its triumphant entirety, and Chaos had a
malevolent beauty and perfection that stirred pride, joy,

despair and a savage longing to clash and battle together
in her mind.

The wind died, and the silence was appalling. But it
lasted only a moment before a deep, shattering throb,
almost at the limit of mortal discernment, began far
beneath the rocks of the crater, in the mountain's heart.
The ring in Tarod's left hand started to pulse with its
rhythm, growing stronger with each grim beat so that the
stone's light began to challenge the aura of the White
Lord. And slowly, gradually, the ring was changing. The
intricate silver base faded, leaving only the soul-stone,
unsupported, hovering over Tarod's heart. And then
the stone, too, lost its solidity, seeming to merge with
the smoking tendrils that shrouded Tarod's form. Stab-
bing points of brilliance radiated out from it in rhythm
with the inexorable throbbing, and suddenly the jewel
was gone, and in its place, pulsing like a monstrous
heart, was a seven-rayed star - the emblem of Chaos.

Tarod raised his head and pointed towards the shim-
mering form of Aeoris before him. When he spoke, his
voice was a shifting, sibilant whisper that drew its
essence from dimensions beyond comprehension.

'Do you know me, Aeoris of Order?'

Aeoris's eyes turned from molten gold to white fire,
searing Tarod's black aura. 'I know you, Chaos! And I
will destroy you!'

'If you can, White Lord. If you can!'

Aeoris raised a hand, and a single bolt of lightning
smashed the crater floor at Tarod's feet, shattering rock
and fusing it into a new and tortured shape. The White
God smiled. 'If I can?' His voice was mocking. 'You
presume a great deal, creature of Chaos, if you presume
to challenge me! I am Lord of Life and Death. I and my
brothers are sole masters of the forces that govern this
world.' His tone grew harsher. 'Do you dare to defy the
reign of Life and Death? The rule of the Lords of Time
and Space, and of Earth and Air, Fire and Water?'

As Aeoris spoke, naming the ranks of the seven White
Gods, six iridescent columns shimmered into existence
at his back, in utterly perfect symmetry. They turned,

spun, their facets reflecting brilliantly; then they
coalesced into six appallingly beautiful human figures,
white-haired, golden-eyed, each bearing a massive dou-
ble-handed sword and each the perfect twin to Aeoris.
As one, the Lords of Order smiled pityingly on their
adversary, and their swords came up in a smooth,
sweeping movement to reflect their own auras into a
single dazzling coruscation of pure light.

Tarod raised his face to the ragged circle of sky and
the seven-rayed star at his heart pulsed anew. High
above in the black void a pinpoint of light flashed into
being out of utter darkness; a single, glaring white eye in
the centre of the firmament. It, too, began to pulse with
the same primordial rhythm until the two cold stars were
as one in terrible harmony.

Long ago it seemed now, and far away, in the Marble
Hall deep beneath the Castle of the Star Peninsula,
Tarod had banished Yandros from the world. He alone
had possessed the power then to thwart Chaos; and he
alone had the power, now, to reverse that banishment
and break the barrier which kept the dark Lord from
returning to challenge his ancient enemy.

Where there were seven, there will be six ...
Yandros's words rang again in Tarod's mind, and he
smiled an old, knowing and affectionate smile. The time
for doubt was past. He had shed his humanity, allowed
the mask to shatter and reveal what lay beneath,
accepted the truth of what he was. The Lords of Chaos
would number seven again - and, after long centuries of
waiting, they would reclaim their place in the world.

He looked at Aeoris and the six glittering figures who
flanked him, and spoke softly but with chilling pride.

'You seem to have forgotten, My Lord of Life and
Death, that you and your six brethren each has one who
shadows him in the realm of Chaos.' His gaze slowly
raked the six shimmering figures ranged at Aeoris's
back. 'Which of these great princes, I wonder, calls
himself the master of Time? I would be most interested
to meet my own pale twin.'

Aeoris's hot golden eyes blazed ferociously. 'You

dare to mock the gods who granted you your miserable
life - '

'The gods of Order granted me nothing!' Tarod inter-
rupted, his voice searing. There is another lord of Life
and Death, Aeoris; another who now comes to chal-
lenge you. And it is to him that I owe my allegiance.' He
raised his head again, staring through the dark to the
threatening, pulsing white star overhead. Then he
smiled, and gently spoke a single word. The word was an
acceptance and a summoning together, and it broke the
strands of the web that had, for centuries, held two
worlds apart.

'Yandros.'

For a time that no mortal observer would have dared
to judge there was silence; the stifled, oppressive silence
that afflicts the elements in the moments before the
breaking of a storm. Then maleficent laughter showered
down into the crater, skimming around the rock faces to
echo insidiously across the bowl. The empty space at
Tarod's left side seemed, momentarily, to become an
utter vacuum; he turned his head - and the gaunt figure
of Yandros stood where the emptiness had been.

The great Lord of Chaos had taken human form. Gold
hair, wild and unkempt, rippled over his shoulders; the
colour of his eyes changed and changed again, and his
perfect features were made harsh and preternatural by
the shivering rainbow of his own aura.

My brother of Time. You have learned - and you are
whole again. A surge of kinship, amusement, affection,
shared knowledge, accompanied the silent thought, and
this time Tarod welcomed it, and the sense of triumph
that suffused through him. He smiled in exquisite under-
standing. 'I am whole, Yandros. And returned to my
rightful place.'

Yandros looked at the rigidly motionless Aeoris, and
touched the tip of his tongue to his lips like a predator
contemplating its prey. 'And you . . . Greetings, old
friend,' he said softly. 'It is a long time since we last met.'

Aeoris's brows met in a savage frown. 'And it will be

long before we meet again, demon; for I will send you to
a place from which you may never return!'

Yandros smiled. 'Perhaps. But if you would reckon
with me, Aeoris, you must also reckon with my kins-
men.' He raised one hand in a calm gesture. 'With Chaos
that is Fire.'

A sound like a heavy door slamming shattered the
deep, throbbing rhythm which still beat far under-
ground. To Yandros's left another figure appeared; an
image of pride, disdain, incredible venom. Again,
Yandros smiled.

'With Chaos that is Water.'

A hiss this time, like a death-rattle. The fourth dark
lord lurked against the far wall of the crater. His hair was
the colour of rotting weed, his eyes insane; he made no
move.

'With Chaos that is Air.'

The rock floor shifted again. Something rose from a
fissure which moments ago had not existed; white-
haired, face like a bird of prey.

'With Chaos that is Earth.'

Another, disturbingly akin to Yandros, his calm,
peaceable smile deceiving no one.

'Chaos that is Space.'

And the seventh ... a dull noise like a single, dead
drumbeat blotted out all other sound for an instant, and
when Tarod turned his head he saw, on a ledge where
the chasm mouth opened to the crater, a shadow, darker
than any blackness, etched into the rock.

Yandros clasped his hands together, steepling his
fingers and contemplating them. 'Life and Death,' he
said. 'Fire and Water and Air and Earth and Space.' He
looked obliquely at Tarod. 'And Time.' Then his gaze
flicked back to his adversary, and now it was venomous.
'Challenge us, old friend - or be damned!'

While the Lords of Chaos took form, matching their
counterparts and enemies, Aeoris had stood motionless,
gazing down at the veined rock beneath his feet. But at
Yandros's taunt he raised his head, and his eyes burned
with a power that could shatter Suns.

'I pity you,' he said thoughtfully. 'I pity your pride and
your arrogance that compels you to stand against the
rightful rule of Order. Will you not accept the
supremacy of my reign and concede to me now? For if
you do, I might be moved to show mercy to those
unfortunate mortals who have been duped by your false
promises.'

Yandros laughed, and the laughter fell like poison,
melting rock where he stood. 'Order does not change,
order cannot change. My brothers, our ancient adver-
sary stands before us and pleads reason. What does
Chaos know of reason?'

Mirth shivered the crater; a vast sliver of stone
detached itself from high in the cone and crashed to
smithereens at Yandros's back. He glanced at the
shards; they disintegrated and became dust. Then he
smiled at Tarod.

'It is time,' he said.

Cyllan didn't know if anyone else was still conscious.
She had watched the manifestation of the six Chaos
Lords with a numbness that inured her to the worst
shock: after such an experience, nothing could appal her
now. But she heard the first rumbling of thunder in the
distance, the herald of a storm moving in towards the
island, and then in its wake a high, thin screaming that
turned her blood to water.

A Warp . . . Chaos made manifest. . . Bile rose in
her throat and she choked it back. Above the Warp's
faraway howl another sound was rising, clashing with
and countering the storm's terrible voice. A single note,
pure and piercing, its harmonics vibrating in incredible
accord as the Lords of Order summoned their power to
meet the challenge of Chaos. She felt the ground
beneath her shake with the onslaught of forces it could
barely contain. And in the midst of the warring cacoph-
ony, she heard a voice - molten silver, fearsome with
malignance - cry above the mayhem:

'NOW! WE SHALL DESTROY THEM!'

His form was a star and his dimensions spanned a uni-
verse. Screaming with the power that blasted from the
furnace within him he turned and wheeled, hurling vast
bolts of molten crimson at the stabbing, spearing comets
of light which surged out of the blackness to maim him.
Beside him a star exploded in a furious inferno; crimson
through yellow through white through blue, tentacles
hurtling across the void to snare the white comet-blades
as they seared at its heart. Beneath him black emptiness
gaped to swallow the singing, deadly bolts; iridescent
fire splashed against the black and it twisted, whimper-
ing, in on itself.

A new Sun erupted into life no more than a handspan
beyond the reach of his arm. Golden, blazing, Order
incarnate, it burned steadily, eating the darkness around
it. He howled a command, and black, formless creations
of pandemonium zigzagged and gyrated from nowhere
to attack and devour the gold brilliance. The Sun
flickered, faltered, gathered its failing strength for a last
defiant surge; died. Voices shrieked in triumph, were
drowned by a pure bolt of energy; something came at his
back and he turned, flinging red lightning at its core,
shattering, destroying. Chaos rampaged out of infinity
to tear at the struggling remains of his broken enemy and
he laughed, the laughter ricocheting from vast, invisible
walls. This battle was older than form, older than time;
in victory or in defeat it had never been resolved, but the
joy of the primeval conflict was enough. He glimpsed
faces twisted in malice or triumph or pain or all three
together; sound dinned and howled beyond the
threshold of bearing, hands clenched and clawed, and all
the memories, the experiences, the knowledge and the
understanding of the oldest conflict of all were fresh
blood in his veins, new adrenalin, a power that could
never be crushed but which would live, however bat-
tered and however bruised, to fight again and again.

Gold light blazed before him but it no longer had the
power to dazzle; and the laughter which greeted every
victory was merging into an endless, shrieking cacoph-
ony of sound. He felt other presences touching and

merging with his being, sensed the proximity of the
greatest of his brethren and the satisfaction that burned
at that being's heart.

They are falling back . . . they are defeated . . . We
have won, my brother of Chaos; we have won!

He heard the wailing cry of bitter defeat, felt a back-
lash from the sting of shame as his ancient adversaries
drew away, their light shining sullenly now, a poor
mockery of its old glory. He joined with his brother-
Lords to form the implacable dark that drove them
back, twisted and broke their hold, compressed and
compacted them within a pulsing ring of power through
which they no longer had the strength to break. The sky
darkened through purple to black ... it was done . . .

Images flickered like half-forgotten dreams across his
consciousness, and at first he couldn't assimilate them or
their significance. Bare rock; twisted forms that cowered
and cried and prayed; a shattered altar - Laughter rang
in his mind as his brethren poised themselves for the
final blow -

'NO!!'

His voice rang across dimensions, shattered the link
between the seven Lords of Chaos, and he felt their
shock as he hurled the full power of his will against their
intent. The two forces collided, and a titanic upheaval
snatched him and smashed him with the force of a ham-
merblow back to the mortal world he had left behind.
He felt the sudden, violent constrictions of flesh, blood
and bone as his consciousness exploded back into
human form; felt his body twist and wrench, rock flow-
ing beneath him, towering walls falling out of the sky.
Above and around him he heard the insensate scream-
ing of the Warp, and in his mind the sound swelled and
spread until other voices - myriad voices, but human this
time - joined the cacophony. It was as though his being
encompassed the entire world. Oceans raged in his
arteries and the roar of monstrous tides, whipped to
frenzy by the warring powers of Chaos and Order, was
the pounding of his own pulse. Mountains shook and
cracked in his bones, opening mile-wide fissures that

seared across the land and engulfed all in their path; he
saw villages crushed and obliterated by massive walls of
moving rock. Storm-gales that were his breath ram-
paged beyond control, smashing forests, destroying
crops, leaving devastation in their wake. And above the
pandemonium still came that vast throng of massed
human voices, a ceaseless wailing that seared him and
tore at him and racked him with its terror and its pain; a
damned and desperate cry for salvation.

Man, demon and god met and merged in Tarod's
mind, and in the crater-bowl he fell sprawling to his
knees as the raw, unleashed power threatened to over-
whelm him. He had to stop it-he had to control it, pull it
back, or it would destroy the world - He gathered his
will and felt the unchained forces fight back. Sternly,
though knowing he was at the limits of his endurance, he
commanded the raging seas, the quaking earth, the
thundering storms; taking their fury upon himself, draw-
ing it back, drawing it inward, holding it, calming it -

He couldn't do it! The power was too vast and he
couldn't contain it, couldn't overcome the pain and the
destruction that beat against him like a ceaseless tidal
wave. Alone, he hadn't the strength; it would destroy
him. There was but one hope.

He cried out across the world, across dimensions,
seeking his kin. 'Yandros, this must not be! Help me -
help me!'

In his mind the seven-rayed star blazed out of dark-
ness and he felt the presence of his brothers. Their minds
joined with his; slowly, slowly, the madness of the ele-
ments began to lessen, calming. The rushing in his blood
slowed, the mountains ceased to shake; the crying,
pleading voices were quieting at last - all fading,
fading -

Above the bowl of the ancient crater the Warp howled
once and flashed out of existence - and Tarod's con-
sciousness was slammed back into his mortal, physical
form. His mind reeled with shock and he fought for
breath; hardly aware of what he was doing, stunned by
the terrible contradiction between his true self and the

mortal memories that assailed him, he staggered to his
feet and at last was able to open his eyes.

The crater was a wrecked wasteland. Huge slabs of
rock had been torn from the walls and hurled down to
shatter on the floor of the bowl; great fissures had ripped
through the mountain cone; the volcano's North face
had split, and gaped to the indifferent sky like the open
mouth of a corpse. Aeoris and his brethren were gone.
Yandros and his own kin were nowhere to be seen. The
only witnesses to his return were a small group of fallible
and pitifully human figures who had somehow survived
the insanity and now crouched in the scant shelter of the
smashed altar-stone. One by one they raised their heads
to stare fixedly at him, like cattle sensing, though not
truly comprehending, that the hour for their slaughter
had come.

Yet there was one, just one, not bound by such mind-
less fear. Tarod's emerald eyes raked the gathering and
saw her. She got to her feet, unsteady but determined,
and her amber gaze met his, seeking the humanity she
had known behind the image of Chaos. What she saw,
he couldn't tell; but in her face was a pain and a love that
snatched him back to the humanity he had abandoned.

She said, her voice shaking, Tarod  . . .  ?'

He couldn't bring himself to speak her name; mem-
ories hurt him like a knife-thrust. Instead he took a step
towards her, knowing all the while that he dared not
touch her, that the gulf between them was immeasur-
able. At last he said, with the voice she knew, 'We are
victorious. Order is defeated ... ' He wondered why
the triumph meant nothing to him.

'Oh, Tarod ... ' Understanding broke her com-
posure, but despite what she knew she couldn't stop
herself from stumbling forward, towards him, her hands
reaching out as though in supplication.

Behind her, someone moved. Tarod didn't react
immediately; he was too intent on Cyllan and her
unspoken grief. Only when red-brown hair flickered in
the cold light from above, and a figure interposed itself

between himself and Cyllan, did he realise what was
afoot - and by then it was too late to intervene.

Sashka was screaming; formless, wordless obscenities
that spilled from her throat and lips as though she were
possessed by the ultimate corruption. Cyllan started,
swung round, tried to defend herself, but the knife in the
other girl's hand was already shearing down. Where
Sashka had found the blade Tarod couldn't begin to
guess, and it was irrelevant - she had it, and the jealous,
thwarted fury that possessed her was warped out of all
proportion by terror and a mindless lust for revenge.
Cyllan yelled as the blade came glittering at her
unprotected body, a drover's oath that flung Tarod back
in confusion to other, lost days - then the knife sliced her
upraised arm, drawing a fountaining first sacrifice of
blood, before the blade bit deeply, greedily through her
flesh and into her heart.

She didn't cry out again. Instead, she dropped her
wounded arm to clutch at her breast, fingers locking
round the hilt of the dagger protruding obscenely from
her ribs. Her coarse shirt flowered brilliant crimson and
she sagged to her knees, coughing, eyes filmed with
shock. For a moment her amber gaze locked with
Tarod's in what seemed a last, desperate plea. Then
blacker blood vomited from her throat, cascading over
her chin, and she keeled sideways to sprawl on the hard
rock floor, and her eyes stared at nothing.

There was utter silence. Tarod stood rigid, staring at
Cyllan's corpse, his face utterly without expression.
Sashka began to back away, her mouth working in a
spasmodic, rictus grin of shocked pleasure. The others
stared like hypnotised sheep . . . until Keridil broke the
spell.

He got to his feet, moving like an old, crippled man,
and stumbled one, two paces forward. At first it seemed
he would turn towards Sashka, and Tarod felt his whole
body begin to shake with an emotion he couldn't con-
tain. But then Keridil stopped, looked down, moved
again. He dropped to his knees beside Cyllan and
covered his face with both hands. The small part of

Tarod's being which had retained its humanity realised
that the High Initiate was crying.

Green eyes, fathomless and filled with a savage light,
lifted their gaze from Cyllan's huddled body to the girl
who stood, shivering with an ugly blend of fear and
defiant triumph, not seven paces away. Sashka met
Tarod's stare; for a moment only her defiance held, then
it was replaced by a look of horror.

'No . . . ' Her lips formed the word, but whether it
was plea or exhortation Tarod neither knew nor cared.
He took a step towards her; her eyes widened.

'Keridil . . . ' She stumbled backwards, one hand
flailing, groping towards the High Initiate. 'Keridil, help
me ... ' Her fingers found his shoulder and Tarod saw
him flinch violently at the touch.

'Keridil!' Sashka shrieked, and spittle flecked her lips.
'Stop him - you've got to stop him! Help me, damn you -
do something!'

Keridil stared at her and his eyes were utterly blank.
She was gasping incoherently, terrified now, but he
made no move to aid her. Instead he shook his head,
incoherent, incapable of communicating what he felt.
Then, with a shudder that racked his entire body, he
pulled himself out of her reach and turned away.

'Keridil . . . ' This time Sashka's voice was barely
more than a whisper; she was too petrified to move.
Tarod's left hand started to rise, slowly, steadily, fingers
forming a symbol; with the gesture came a resurgence of
the power that had crushed gods, fuelled by a loathing
that transcended all human limitations. He raised the
hand, outstretched his arm, spoke a single word in a
tongue never uttered by a human throat.

Sashka began to moan. She moaned as her cascade of
rich, red-brown hair shrivelled as though consumed by
invisible flames and fell in shredded clumps from her
scalp. Her hands came up, snatching at her skull; Tarod
smiled a savage smile of pleasure, and the skin and flesh
of her hands lost their form and began to melt
repellently into her wrists, leaving bones stark and white
in their place. She touched her own face and screamed;

this time there was no challenge but only naked, animal
panic. Tarod whispered another word and her face
began to disintegrate, layer after layer of skin peeling
back to reveal raw, crimson flesh beneath; sinew and
muscle and vein exposed to the stricken gaze of the
company. Someone gagged, vomited; Tarod smiled. As
the girl dropped to her knees, he caught hold of her
mind, twisted it, drew from its struggling tendrils the full
knowledge of what was happening to the beauty and
power which she had wielded as a weapon for so long.
He felt her hatred of him, her desire for him, writhing
under his control; he turned them into grovelling fear
and let her consciousness flail in the emotion until he
knew that agony and terror had devoured the last ves-
tiges of her sanity and there was nothing more to be
drained from her empty shell.

Keridil, kneeling on the uneven rock, stared trans-
fixed at the scene, though he was shocked beyond all
ability to move or speak. Tarod continued to hold the
shrieking girl in a pain-racked thrall, but bleak reason
was struggling within him to be heard. There was
nothing to gain from prolonging Sashka's suffering; his
revenge was done and in ashes, and no savagery he
might inflict on her could bring Cyllan back to life . . .

His vision misted as tears filled his eyes, a legacy of
mortality that ate at his soul, and he spoke for a third
time. Sashka shrieked, once; then her body twisted and
collapsed to the crater floor, blackening, losing form,
her flesh falling away from staring bone, bone darken-
ing, crumbling as the last echo of her scream died with
her withering corpse. A white, bloated worm writhed
briefly on the fused rock; he pointed, carelessly, and it
was gone.

As Sashka's last traces vanished into the hell to which
he had consigned her, the mortal man that had been
Tarod struggled back to the surface of the Chaos Lord's
mind. He looked down at Cyllan and found himself
biting back a grief that couldn't be assuaged; that owed
nothing to Chaos's legacy but stemmed solely from the

humanity which had taught him what it was to love and
be loved.

Keridil was moving away. He had abandoned all pre-
tence of dignity, and crawled on hands and knees to put
as much distance between himself and the place where
Sashka had been as he could. The hideous manner of her
death was burned indelibly on his mind, but as yet it had
no power to affect him; he could only stare, mesmerised,
at his one-time friend and old adversary. His breath
rattled in his throat.

Around them, others were rising. Tarod sensed them,
saw them moving uncertainly, sensed the crazed terror
in their minds as they realised what he had done. He
hated them all, and that hatred could make him destroy
again . . .

No. Not that. They didn't deserve such blind retali-
ation; to harm them without reason would make him no
better than Aeoris.

He flung out a hand and felt the power surging in him.
They dropped where they stood, like felled trees, cast
into an instantaneous sleep that would bring few dreams
and fewer memories. Now, only he and Keridil were
awake and aware.

Tarod looked at the High Initiate's stricken face, and
his loathing lost all meaning. What point was there in
vengeance, when between them lay the dead body of the
one human being who had mattered, whose life had
been worth the price he had paid?

He reached towards her and gathered her into his
arms. Her blood was warm and wet against him and he
raised her head, kissing her stained face, willing her to
respond. She didn't respond. Even Chaos couldn't call
back the dead.

'Damn you . . . ' Tarod whispered, his voice break-
ing. 'Damn you all . . . '

Chapter 14

They faced each other across a mental abyss. Somehow
Keridil had found the strength to get to his feet, though
his body was shaking feverishly and his facial muscles
twitched with uncontrollable spasms. Between them,
Cyllan was a still, stark testimony to Sashka's last act of
revenge. The knife she had used had been Keridil's own;
he had tried to stop her as she snatched it but in the
confusion she had evaded him. Now Sashka was gone
and he couldn't bear to think on what manner of torment
Tarod might have committed her soul to suffer. She was
dead; that was all he could ever know. And while his
mind screamed out in grief for her, his heart was torn in
two by the savage lesson he had learned. Sashka had
betrayed him. His love had meant less to her than the
chance to vent her unassuaged spite on Cyllan, and
through Cyllan on Tarod. Keridil had doubted her
motivations for some while, but had pushed the doubts
aside and refused to face them until this moment. Now,
he felt shamed and used. The knowledge couldn't kill his
love for her - memories of her sweetness, her lithe body,
her beauty, haunted him and would continue to haunt
him through whatever life he had left; he would mourn
her as any ardent lover would and should mourn. But he
knew, now, what she truly had been.

And Tarod . . . bizarre though it seemed, he knew
that his friend-turned-enemy, despite the fact that he
had shaken off any pretence of mortality, mourned for
his lover just as he did. Though he'd never really known
Cyllan except as an adversary, Keridil couldn't help but
admire the loyalty and courage she had shown, and her
steadfastness. She, far more than Sashka, had proved

herself worthy of the one who loved her, and the know-
ledge was bitter wine. Keridil deeply regretted Cyllan's
death - though how he could hope to convey that to the
being who confronted him now, and hope to be
believed, he didn't know.

He raised his head at last and said, stumbling over the
words, 'I'm sorry. She didn't deserve to die.'

'No . . . ' The voice was so like the Tarod he had
known in the old, lost days that its familiarity made
Keridil shiver. He felt tears springing to his eyes, and
they weren't for Sashka but for something deeper; a
trust, a kinship, something betrayed and gone beyond
recall. There was so little left to salvage from this night-
mare, yet he wanted to try. And if nothing else, he had a
vestige of self-respect left to him.

He said: 'So, you're victorious. At least now I know
where I stand . . . but I won't worship you, Tarod. I am
what I am; nothing can change that.' He looked up. 'It's
one trait, I think, that we still share.'

A startlingly human pain showed in Tarod's green
eyes, then he shook his head. The black aura still blazed
around him, his face still bore little trace of humanity;
but his resemblance to the one-time Initiate of the Circle
was so strong as to be discomforting.

'I don't deny that, High Initiate; I've no reason to
challenge it.'

Keridil swallowed. 'High Initiate? It used to be
Keridil, in the old days.'

'The old days are gone.' A nacreous light glittered in
Tarod's eyes. 'We can't recall them.'

Keridil nodded. 'It could have been cleaner. Gods, I
-' he paused, smiled self-deprecatingly. 'I must be care-
ful. I no longer know which gods I call on.'

'Does it matter?' Tarod's voice was cruel.

'Perhaps it doesn't; not when so much has been lost.'
He hesitated. 'I sensed - at least, I think I did - some-
thing of what took place when you . . . defeated them.
So much of it could have been avoided.' He blinked, bit
his lip. 'Couldn't it?'

Tarod didn't answer. Instead he closed his eyes,

sighed, and the sigh became a soughing wind that skit-
tered across the crater. Far overhead the seven-rayed
star still pulsed in triumph, but the victory was dust in his
heart. He needed to forget, but he couldn't forget, not
while he still suffered the terrible conflict between the
essence of Chaos within him and the humanity which he
had adopted and which held him in a tighter grip than
he'd believed possible. That humanity had driven him to
stop Yandros from destroying the forces of Order
altogether, and it had driven him to risk his own destruc-
tion in a frantic effort to stem the forces unleashed on
the helpless world by the warring gods. Yet he couldn't
remain in this limbo between the two states of being; he
had chosen a path, and it was impossible to turn back.

Silently in his mind he formed a name. The wind rose
to gale force; above them in the sky the seven-rayed star
flickered as though a cloud had passed across it. Then
came a sound like a door softly closing, and Yandros
stood at Tarod's side. His many-hued eyes were quieter
than usual.

'Brother.' Yandros laid a hand on Tarod's shoulder.
The world is calm now, and Order vanquished if not yet
entirely destroyed.'

Tarod smiled tiredly but affectionately at him. 'And
again I am in your debt, Yandros. If you'd not lent me
your strength when I called to you, I couldn't have
stemmed that tide alone.'

Yandros made a dismissive gesture. 'Why should we
not have answered? We have no true quarrel with
humanity, and certainly no wish to bring destruction on
this world. And this world is now ours to command. Our
only enemies are Aeoris and his insipid brood - and
those mortals who have actively connived with them
against us.' His gaze flickered to Keridil and the perfect,
malevolent mouth curved in a smile which made the
High Initiate flinch away. 'It will please you, I think, to
see them take a long while in dying.'

Tarod looked bleakly at Keridil, then said, 'No.'

'No?' Yandros echoed the word. 'My kinsman, I don't
understand you. The battle's over; we have won. Order

can be crushed to shards under our heel and will never
trouble us again. All that remains is for us to see the
destruction of their servants - beginning with vermin
like this!' He pointed at Keridil.

Tarod hesitated, then shook his dark head. 'No,' he
said again, and smiled sadly at his brother of Chaos. The
barriers that had separated him from Yandros for so
long were down now; there could be no more
misunderstanding.

'I made a great mistake, Yandros,' he said. 'I turned
my face from my heritage - my own nature - and I fell
into the trap of believing in the ultimate righteousness of
Order.'

Yandros's lips quirked, but before he could comment
Tarod continued. 'I know what you're thinking - you
warned me before I took incarnation on this world, and
you've tried to warn me since. I would be tainted by
those I moved among, and the purity of Chaos would be
diluted by the catechisms of Order.' His eyes narrowed.
'You were right - and yet you were wrong.'

'Wrong?' Yandros shifted a little; his voice held
thoughtful amusement and the rock beneath his feet
changed form with disturbing abruptness.

'Yes. I was tainted - and yet I learned lessons which,
without the shackles of humanity, I couldn't have begun
to understand.' Tarod's eyes clouded for a moment.
'I've brought us perhaps the greatest advantage over
Aeoris and his kin that we've ever possessed, Yandros.
The advantage of understanding, from experience, the
hopes and fears and ideals that plague those not imbued
with our immortality.'

Yandros looked speculatively at Keridil, who was
watching him uncertainly. He touched his tongue to his
lips. 'You intrigue me. When we first sought to infiltrate
Aeoris's stronghold, I didn't imagine that such com-
plications would result from the experiment.'

'No more did I. But perhaps it isn't possible - even for
the likes of us - to masquerade as mortals, and to take on
mortal form and life, without gleaning something of
mortal thought and emotion.'

'Emotion?' Yandros raised his eyebrows.

Tarod looked back at Cyllan's body; felt something
within him constrict. 'Emotion, yes. Though that isn't
the province of humanity alone.'

The Chaos Lord acknowledged the point with an
inclination of his head. 'She served us well; she was
faithful to you. It seems such a waste ... ' he drew the
coruscating brilliance that cloaked him more closely
about his frame and stepped around the corpse to con-
front Keridil directly. 'And you. We meet again, High
Initiate of the Circle, and under happier circumstances -
at least for us. What have you to say, now that your gods
are vanquished?'

Keridil didn't flinch. Once he had been afraid of
Yandros, and he knew that to face up to him now was
insanity; but it didn't seem to matter. So much had been
lost, so much had changed; if all he had left was his
integrity, he could at least hold to that.

'I have served Order all my life, Yandros of Chaos,'
he said. 'And whatever else I may be, I'm no hypocrite. I
won't change my allegiance to save my neck; or to save
my soul, for that matter. I'll admit to you - and if I'm
damned for it I don't think I care any more - that my
conscience didn't rest easy with what Aeoris meant to
do, and I ... ' he hesitated, 'I'm not entirely sorry that
Tarod chose as he did. But that doesn't mean I'm pre-
pared to forsake all I've ever believed in, and worship
Chaos simply because Chaos has triumphed.' He looked
at Tarod. 'I like to think you might understand that.'

'It's as it should be,' Tarod replied softly, causing
Yandros to look at him in surprise. His green eyes were
narrow, but he smiled as he turned to his brother.
'Keridil Toln was the first true friend I had in this world.
He betrayed me, but he betrayed me for what he
believed was a sound principle. He's learned a great deal
since then, I think. Above all he's learned the meaning
of equilibrium, and if we destroy him, we'll waste some-
thing that could prove invaluable.'

'Equilibrium?' Yandros queried gently.

'Yes. Your own words, if you recall them. What use is

Order without Chaos to challenge its rule? And by the
same standard, what lies ahead for us if nothing opposes
our ways?' He looked up at the empty sky. Both Moons
had set, and the seven-rayed star no longer shone over-
head. There was nothing but darkness. 'Will we stag-
nate, as Aeoris and his brothers stagnated, so secure in
our reign that we become anachronisms as he has done?
The world sickened under that regime, and almost died.
I wouldn't want to see us make the same mistake.'

Yandros was watching him, and the expression in his
deep-set, ever-changing eyes ran a full gamut of reac-
tion. Amusement, anger, speculation, respect, affec-
tion; it was impossible to judge the thoughts behind his
unhuman gaze.

Tarod said: 'Perhaps Aeoris would have demanded an
eye for an eye; but we know better. That's why I say that
Keridil should live - wherever his loyalties lie.'

Yandros considered for a few moments. 'If he can
learn, perhaps he deserves the chance to profit from his
past mistakes. You speak of equilibrium, Tarod, and I
think you are right. Order and Chaos are old enemies,
but old enemies are also old friends. Aeoris must be
taught that he has nothing to gain from tipping the
balance so far in his own favour. The conflict between us
can never be resolved - the balance must be maintained,
for anything that is to grow and prosper must by nature
contain its intrinsic opposite.' He smiled wolfishly.
'Opposition will prevent us from becoming complacent.
Very well.' He looked at the High Initiate with a new
interest. 'Keridil Toln may live.'

Keridil shut his eyes tightly. He had been prepared
and willing to die, yet the relief of his reprieve was
indescribable. He couldn't assimilate the reality of his
situation; part of him was still convinced that this was a
nightmare from which he would, at any moment, wake.

He opened his eyes again and saw the two unhuman
figures gazing at him. He was beyond fear now; all he felt
was a strange, detached sense of sorrow to which he
couldn't give a name.

He looked down at Cyllan and said involuntarily, 'I
wish - '

'No.' Tarod's voice was savage. 'Don't say it. Don't
ever dare to utter it!'

Yandros regarded him, and a faint frown creased his
cruelly perfect features. 'Did she mean that much to
you? Don't answer me as a man or as a Lord of Chaos.
Answer me as Tarod, who is both.'

The green eyes narrowed with pain and Tarod looked
away. Yandros sighed. He gazed down at Cyllan, then
held out his left hand. At first Keridil thought it must be
an illusion, but his doubt didn't last. Cyllan's eyelids
fluttered; a soft sound escaped from her lips and her
body tautened. Then intelligence flooded into her
amber eyes where there had been nothing but the glaze
of death, and she whispered a word, just recognisable.
'Tarod . . . '

Tarod turned quickly away, his face tortured.
'Yandros, you can't - she's dead; I watched her die!'

'Peace.' Yandros was still looking at Cyllan but he
reached out to touch Tarod's arm. 'I've not reanimated
her. This is not merely her soulless body which moves
and speaks. She lives.'

Tarod stopped, turned his head to regard the Chaos
Lord in shock and confusion. The power to defy death,
to reverse the stroke of its hand, was one that he knew
Yandros alone in the Chaos realm possessed . . . but it
was a power Yandros had not chosen to command for
thousands of years.

Yandros took Cyllan's hand and drew her to her feet,
though she could do nothing but stare back at him in
mesmerised confusion. He smiled and laid one hand first
on her bloodstained face, then on the ugly wound
between her breasts. At his touch, the blood and the
gaping gash vanished.

'I owe Cyllan a personal debt,' Yandros said with
gentle amusement. 'And if by paying it I can also ease
my brother's distress, so much the better.'

Cyllan was beginning to recover from the inertia of
shock; she put a hand to her face, tried to speak, but

found no words that could express what she felt. Her
eyes, suddenly wild, focused on Tarod and she made a
violent movement to free herself from Yandros's hold.
He released her and she ran to the dark Lord, stopping
only when they were face to face as though at the last she
lacked the courage to reach out and touch him. He said
nothing, but held out his hands towards her; hesitantly
she went to him, and her shoulders began to shake as
tears streamed down her cheeks.

Yandros approached them. 'Make your farewells,
Cyllan,' he said. 'Tarod and I must depart this world,
and you must remain behind.' He paused, smiled.
'Unless, that is, you are prepared to make the sacrifice
that will allow you to come with us?'

Slowly she turned to look up at him, not comprehend-
ing. Tarod, however, realised what Yandros was saying,
but the Chaos Lord forestalled him as he made to speak.

'Chaos is in your debt,' he said to the bewildered girl.
'And it is within my power to grant you a gift which will,
should you accept it, allow you to stay with Tarod.' His
eyes changed suddenly to a burning, searing crimson.
'For all time.'

Cyllan began to understand, and her skin crawled
with a resurgence of hope which she hardly dared
acknowledge. Her throat dry as the dusty crater bowl,
she whispered. 'You mean that I -I might - '

Yandros smiled again, this time with a touch of ironi-
cal humour. 'Is the prospect of life in our realm so very
daunting, Cyllan? You know more of Chaos, I suspect,
than any other mortal in your world.' He reached out
and lightly touched her arm, tracing the scar which he
had inflicted back in the Castle of the Star Peninsula.
'And you would not experience our world in the vul-
nerable guise of a human being. You would become a
part of Chaos, immortal in your own right. I offer you
this in recognition of your courage, and your loyalty to
my brother. Such a life is yours, should you wish it.'

To leave her existence behind, leave humanity
behind, and enter the unimaginable realm of Chaos
itself ... to become immortal, unbound by earthly

things, untouched by time or by the prospect of death
. . . Cyllan couldn't assimilate the gift Yandros prof-
fered; understanding and even imagination failed her.
But one fact stood out like a clear jewel in the miasma of
her confused reactions. If she accepted what Chaos
offered, she and Tarod would be together through eter-
nity. If she did not, then she would never see him again.

Distressed, she turned to the dark figure at her side.
Man, demon, god, whatever he might be, she loved him
more than the world, and she needed his guidance now
as never before.

'Tarod, what shall I do?' Her voice was close to
breaking.

Tarod shook his dark head. 'I can't help you, love. I
haven't the right to try to sway you, not in this. But
Yandros speaks the truth.'

His green eyes, so unhuman now, were focused in-
tently on her face. She knew that look so well, and it told
her what she had hoped above all else to learn. Without
him, there was nothing worth the having.

She let her fingers close tightly over his, and her
amber eyes closed. 'I'll come. If Tarod will have me, I'll
come - and gladly.' She blinked, looked at Yandros
again. 'How can I ever thank you?'

Yandros made a careless gesture, his face suddenly
vulpine. 'It's a whim; no more. Chaos has no logic, as
you should know. It simply pleases me to please Tarod.'

Tarod laughed softly. 'If that's what you like to
believe, Yandros, so be it.'

Yandros inclined his head in faint self-mockery. 'And
now,' he said ,'there is one last matter . . . ' He turned
on his heel and faced Keridil Toln.

Keridil had watched the exchange between the three
in numbed stupefaction, unable to move or to react in
any way. He comprehended - or thought he compre-
hended - what Yandros had granted to Cyllan, and the
knowledge of it awoke a sore, ravening hurt deep within
him. Yandros had proved more merciful than Aeoris -
and if the greatest of the Chaos Lords could restore the
dead to life once, then surely he might do so again . . . ?

Sashka's face, beautiful as it had been before Tarod
wreaked his vengeance, materialised before his inner
eye and made the pain worse; he thrust the image away
though it took a great effort, and knew when he looked
at Yandros again that what he had, for a brief moment,
hoped, could never be. And perhaps - though he
couldn't yet acknowledge it - he wouldn't have wanted it
to be ...

Yandros and Tarod were moving towards him. Still
Keridil couldn't quite accept the knowledge that the
gods he had worshipped all his life were vanquished, and
that these reckless, mercurial and unpredictable entities
had taken their place. Chaos had returned . . . and
what future could there be for him now?

Yandros read his thoughts, and the golden-haired
Chaos Lord smiled. 'The future, High Initiate, is what
you will make of it,' he said, and his silver voice seemed
to strike sparks in the depths of Keridil's being. The
world will change. Order no longer rules - but we will be
very different masters. We welcome conflict, and if you
wish Order to have a role here, to stand against Chaos, it
is your privilege to fight for it. Go back to the Star
Peninsula, Keridil Toln. That is your rightful place.
Make what you can of what we have left you. It's more
than you yet realise.'

Keridil couldn't answer him. He looked, momen-
tarily, at the cruelly beautiful face, into the changing
eyes, then had to look away. Tarod stepped forward.

'Where there is conflict, there can truly be growth and
life,' he said. 'Understand that, and you'll understand
everything. I believe - ' He glanced at Yandros, and a
private communication passed between them. 'I believe
that you, above all other mortals, are equal to the tasks
ahead, Keridil.' To the High Initiate's surprise and con-
fusion he stretched out his left hand and took Keridil's
right in a grip that sent a shock through his arm and into
his shoulder. 'I wish you well, old friend.'

The hand that held his relaxed its grasp, the long,
gaunt fingers curling as Tarod withdrew them. He
smiled - and for a moment the smile echoed that of the

12-year-old waif who had come, a stranger and an out-
sider, to the Castle and befriended the son of the High
Initiate. It echoed, too, the rebellious, black-haired
Initiate who had grown and developed within the Circle;
the Adept who, leaving that Circle behind, had wielded
a power that smashed the barriers of Time; the demon
who had challenged the ultimate, and won. It was the
smile of a Lord of Chaos. Keridil watched, unable to
speak, as Tarod drew Cyllan to his side and the three
faced him. He thought he saw - afterwards he could
never be sure, although the image was to haunt his
dreams for the rest of his life - a landscape so alien, so
indescribable that his mind couldn't truly register it
superimpose itself over the harsh, dead rock of the
crater; a place where colour and form and sound clashed
and mingled in mad pandemonium. Chaos - Keridil
glimpsed it only for an instant; then, with a sound like a
vast door being gently closed, the three figures before
him were gone.

He stood still for a very long time. Behind him was the
split altar where the casket of Aeoris had stood, but the
casket itself had vanished now. All around him lay his
companions; Fenar Alacar, Ilyaya Kimi, the old scholar
Isyn, two Sisters, his own Adepts: they all slept on, and
the silence that had descended on the dead volcano's
crater was almost unbearable. Keridil looked around as
though seeking inspiration or comfort from the towering
rock walls, but there was nothing. All he saw was the
first tell-tale glimmer of light in the sky high above which
told him that dawn was starting to touch the eastern
horizon. In his present mood, it gave him little solace.

Someone stirred with a breath no stronger than a
zephyr, and he turned to see the High Margrave moving
slowly, like one in a trance, shivering as his con-
sciousness rose up through the deep levels of sleep
towards morning. Others, too, were showing signs of
waking, although the elderly Matriarch still lay motion-
less, pale, a shrivelled and fragile doll.

Fenar   Alacar's   eyes   met   Keridil's,   but  Keridil

couldn't respond to the mute, bewildered plea that
burned in the High Margrave's stunned stare, and
turned away. Perhaps in time he could begin to answer
the myriad unspoken questions; but not yet. Not yet.

So much was gone; so much that he had taken for
granted all his life now swept away. And yet Keridil felt
an unwarranted sense of release beginning to settle on
him, as though a burden of which he'd never been fully
aware had been lifted from his shoulders. As yet, it gave
him no comfort . . . but there was a promise in it,
echoing the promise of the dawn that crept slowly,
quietly across the sky. Whatever the future might hold,
he had been granted a chance to live and to rule as his
conscience dictated, freed from any unquestioning
fealty to Order or to Chaos. And he hoped - believed, he
told himself sternly - that he could prove worthy of that
responsibility.

Slowly, Keridil sank to his knees on the hard rock
floor. His head bowed as he hunched over his own
clasped hands, and he began to pray.

But he no longer knew which gods to pray to.

Epilogue

If he turned his mind to that dimension, he could see the
Castle. Such an old edifice, built by hands that were
not quite human, inhabited by ensuing generations,
usurped by others whose vulnerability and mortality
were painful to behold. Now, the circle had come full
turn - or almost.

The watchers on the heights of the four dizzying spires
were at their stations, faces stained by the last gory light
of the Sun as it slipped towards the western horizon.
They were waiting, as they waited each evening, for the
supernatural storm that would come wailing out of the
North at the moment of Sunset, hurling its chaotic flares
of lightning across the heavens while the great, pulsing
bands of colour marched inexorably in its wake. They
waited for the Warp that heralded the night, that spoke
of the power of Chaos in their world, and when it came,
the rites would be conducted and the supplications
made, and the balance would be maintained once more.

He had an odd affection for the grim black Castle. It
held recollections which amused him to contemplate; in
the confines of its walls he had learned a great deal,
suffered a great deal, and finally had regained the mem-
ory of his own true nature. He had, too, encountered the
human soul for whom he had been prepared to sacrifice
everything . . .

At his side she moved, and he felt her smile. Here, in
the realm beyond human understanding but which now
was her own, she chose to adopt the guise of a pale-
haired woman, solemn-faced, amber-eyed, only the
shimmering stuff of Chaos that clothed her slim frame
belying the illusion of humanity. She chose the image

because she knew it pleased him; he turned towards her
and adopted a form that complemented hers, black hair
tangling with her white-gold, green eyes regarding her
affectionately as he drew her to him and held her close.
Somewhere in the distance a voice sang an awful har-
mony; he frowned, and the sound changed to a pure,
shivering note that reminded him, pleasurably, of the
brindle-furred sea creatures he had once known, and
who had served Chaos well.

The blood-red Sun was slipping into the sea far
beyond the Castle stack, and he felt in his veins the first
pre-echoes of the coming Warp. The storm was his
blood, his sinew; he exerted a little of his will and felt the
power rise, sweeping and screaming over the sea
towards the land. And as it came roiling towards the
Castle he saw, as he had seen before, a solitary figure at a
high window facing out to the darkening North. A man
who, once, had been his friend.

He called himself High Initiate because the title was
an old and noble one; and, more than any of his peers
Tarod believed, he was deserving of it. He no longer
wore a badge of rank because the old sigil of Order had
lost its significance and he could not bring himself to
wear the emblem of Chaos. Perhaps one day that would
change; but it didn't truly matter. The balance was
restored, and Keridil was free to choose his loyalties as
he pleased.

The memories which had drawn Tarod to the Castle
caused his thoughts to dwell on the figure at the window.
He remembered what it was to be mortal, and a stirring
of pity for the man with his drawn face and haunted eyes
beneath the tawny hair moved him. Keridil had learned
what it was to betray and be betrayed, and the lesson had
changed and hardened him. He had looked on the faces
of the gods of Order and the gods of Chaos, and knew
that neither could prosper without the other. He had lost
the woman he loved, and in losing her his eyes had been
opened to her true nature, so that while he grieved for
her he was nonetheless painfully aware of how she had
duped and almost corrupted him. He had seen the death

of the old Matriarch, whose frailty had succumbed dur-
ing that last monstrous encounter with Chaos on the
White Isle, and with her had gone the last bastion of the
old, rigid ways. The Lady Fayalana Impridor, who had
in surprise and trepidation put on the mantle of
Matriarch when the ailing Kael Amion declared herself
unequal to the task, was young enough not to be touched
by her predecessor's inflexibility. And Fenar Alacar, 19
now and deeply sobered by his recent experiences,
deferred to the High Initiate and was striving to learn
wisdom.

The world was at peace; perhaps more at peace than it
had been in the memory of any of its inhabitants. It
wouldn't last - Chaos thrived on conflict, and even now
Tarod's mind was roused by the anticipation of the next
confrontation with the Lords of Order. It would come;
the balance had been set and must be maintained, but it
would be constantly challenged, and he and his brethren
would relish their joy when that ancient battle was
enacted yet again. But the pivot of that conflict, the final
axis about which its outcome would revolve, lay in the
hands of the fallible mortals who for centuries had wor-
shipped Order, and who now found themselves released
from its strictures and free to choose their own way.
How they would choose, neither Tarod nor Yandros nor
any of the entities that served them in the Chaos realm
could tell; invincibility was not omniscience, and
besides, uncertainty added spice to the future. But what-
ever his path, Tarod thought with a faint stirring of
affection, Keridil had shown, at the last, that he could
withstand the challenge of his new role. There would be
change; for there must be change. And Keridil, he
believed, would prove a worthy instigator.

Fingers brushed lightly against him, and colours that
vibrated far beyond the visible spectrum shimmered
about the figure of the woman at his side. Tarod smiled,
and the tiny microcosm that was the Star Peninsula and
the world it ruled quivered away into the stuff of mem-
ory. He rose, holding out a graceful hand to her; white
fingers curled about his and together they moved away

from the watching place. For a moment two pulsing
columns of radiance took their place; then they too
merged back into the swirling mists of Chaos from which
they had formed. Somewhere, laughter that was almost
but not quite human rang sweetly; then the two figures
were gone, leaving a brief-lived but profound stillness in
their wake.