CONTENTS

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

Kyellan considered.

“She’s one of those priestesses who condemns violence in any form. She’s unlikely to use her Power against us.” Still, the thought made him uneasy.

“What if she does? Do we have any means to use against a magical attack?” “Have you seen any wizards in our company?” Kyellan asked irritably.

Istam was silent for a moment. “And you have no Power to face her with?” The words were less than a whisper. “I have wondered how you killed wizards alone, without priestesses or Gwydion to help. You must be a sort of wizard yourself.” Kyellan stiffened.

His body was ready to fight or run, but this was a man he trusted. “It was true once. But I have lost the part of me that had Power, and the Power that went with it.” It would be convenient to face Ocasta with the Shape-Changer’s Power, but the slavery the wizard spirit offered was too high a price.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

THE HIDDEN TEMPLE

Copyright © 1988 by Catherine Cooke All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A TOR Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

49 West 24 Street

New York, NY 10010

Cover art by Victoria Poyser ISBN: 0-812-53388-7

Can. ISBN: 0-812-53389-5

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-50627

First edition: November 1988

Printed in the United States of America 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my brother Bill, in memory of adventures shared

Chapter One

Kyellan blinked his burning eyes and tried not to cough. His boots were inches from the nearest smoking incense pot. His new dress uniform would probably smell like burnt oranges for months to come. He was in the honor guard for the dead King’s coffin, along with Tobas and the captains of four army divisions. The coffin stood before the dais of the Temple hall, draped in black silk and wreathed in the sweet-smelling smoke. The incense was necessary. Cavernon City was a warm place for a corpse even in midwinter, and Arel den Ardavan had been dead three days. As it was, preparations for the state funeral had been hurried.

Tobas wore mourning black, and his face was somber, but Kyellan knew he did not grieve for Arel. The late King had exiled Tobas, imprisoned the woman he loved, and threatened to kill their child the moment he was born. When Tobas had led an attempt to rescue Queen Valahtia on midwinter night, he had found Arel at her bedside. The baby born that night had lived. The King had died. His death was officially an accident. He had fallen down the tower stairs—but he had been driven to those stairs on the point of Tobas’s sword.

More people had turned out for the funeral than had been expected. Nobles and wealthy commoners crowded the Temple’s public hall, pressed together inside archways and behind pillars, a storm cloud of black satins and brocades. Their expressions were uncertain. They did not know if they should pretend to mourn. Even those who were loyal to the Queen suspected her brother had been murdered. They did not dare speak of it. They did not want to join the close advisors of the late King in the dungeons of the Tiranon.

The funeral had begun early in the afternoon. Now the light from the high windows cast long shadows across the flagstones, and it was losing its battle with the haze of incense. The priestesses on the dais beyond the coffin were hoarse from chanting. They gestured and moved in odd rhythms, black-clad figures from a shadow play. They were hooded, and obscured in smoke. Kyellan had been unable to find Briana among them. She should be there. The Queen was still too weak from her confinement to leave her rooms, but she had sent word to the Temple that she expected Briana to take part in Arel’s funeral.

The priestesses had no choice but to obey her. Their leader Ocasta had fled the city when she had learned that Valahtia had returned to power. It was no secret that Ocasta had aided Arel when he had seized the throne. Moreover, according to Briana, the pretender First Priestess had failed in a vital ritual of midwinter, proving herself unfit for her position. Kyellan hoped the Cavernon Temple would realize its mistake in supporting Ocasta, and finally make Briana First Priestess. He had better reason than most to know that this was what the Goddess intended.

“Look,” Tobas whispered, brown eyes wide beneath dark curly hair. The Earl of Laenar and Consort to the Queen, he looked younger than his twenty-one years. He was happy to have Valahtia back, and he was delighted in his newborn son Duarnan. Now he forgot his funeral expression altogether in admiration of the priestesses’ magic.

Singing a high, wordless chant of grief, the priestesses stood in a half circle on the dais just behind the coffin. Their arms were raised, and the white flame of the Goddess sprang up into the air in a flickering arc from their fingertips. The flame was no illusion, Kyellan knew. It was a thing of Power that could be used in battle, though now it was just a pretty effect. It floated up toward the mosaic patterns in the ceiling, lighting them with pale fire. Kyellan wished Alaira was here to see this. She enjoyed the lesser arts of magic; she had learned something of them at the Wizards’ College. She was with the Queen in her new role as a lady in waiting, and had not wanted to come to the funeral. Kyellan did not blame her.

The ritual was almost over. Soon it would be time for the honor guard to take up Arel’s coffin and carry it out to the carriage that waited in the Temple square. Kyellan looked past Tobas at the other members of the guard. The four division captains had all been hired by Arel. They were mercenaries, mostly, with long records of service; Kyellan did not doubt their competence or their loyalty to their new employer.

Marat of Second Division was forty years old, a soft-spoken, dark-skinned Parahnese with curly black hair. He had a reputation as the best cavalry commander in the Kingdoms. Oman of Third Division was a Hoabi islander with bleached white hair and beard, and sun-reddened skin that was continually peeling. He had the heavy shoulders of a wrestler. He was known to be a practical and cautious soldier, concerned with the comfort of his men. The Fourth Division captain, Debrell, was a heavyset Ryasan with a lined face and a quick temper. He had a name for recklessness in battle, and for luck.

Kyellan had known Captain Narden of First Division years ago, when he had been a cadet and Narden a lieutenant. The man was highborn, one of the many sons of a noble Erinon family, and his aristocratic manner grated on Kyellan. Thirty-five years old, Narden was tall and sternly handsome, with a record of service to the Caerlin throne that included some brilliant actions against the S’tari. He had spent the war against the wizards on the island of Syryn, leading the resistance there. Arel had brought Narden back with him when he had taken the throne.

There were three other divisions, whose captains had other duties today. Kyellan envied them. He wished he had been able to get out of this. He watched as the flame vanished and the priestesses lowered their arms. At last. Kyellan and the rest of the honor guard moved forward to take up the coffin.

Kyellan bent down to grasp one of the gold-plated handles. New orders and decorations clinked together on his uniform. The Queen had gotten him to accept the post of Commander of the Army at last, now that it looked as if the Kingdoms were going to be at peace for a while. Kyellan suppressed a smile as he straightened with the other officers to lift the coffin from its stand. Arel would have been furious at the promotion. They were old enemies.

With a creak of hinges, the coffin lid began to rise. The black silk that covered it rustled and slid off onto the floor. Two of the nearest priestesses screamed, and there was a horrified murmur in the crowd. The weight of the coffin jolted down out of Kyellan’s grasp as the rest of the honor guard let go of their handles and backed away, staring. The lid rose slowly as the coffin settled back onto its stand. Kyellan scrambled back with the others, running into Tobas. They stood together and watched in disbelief, as a clammy rush of cold air swirled toward them.

Arel’s corpse was mercifully shrouded, but Kyellan could imagine what it looked like under the gleaming linen cloth. It sat up with a series of jerks, as if being raised by an invisible winch. People screamed in the crowd and tried to back away, but there were too many of them in the crowd to retreat far. Most of the priestesses broke their formation and fled back against the far wall behind the altar. A few held their places. One walked forward to the edge of the dais. Even through the smoke, Kyellan could see that it was Briana. Her pale, fine-boned face was calm as she pushed back her hood. If she had been surprised, she had gotten over it. She looked beautiful.

Kyellan almost wished the Shape-Changer was still a part of him. The wizard spirit would not fear this. Without magic or Power, Kyellan gripped the hilt of his sword and wondered if he should draw it from its ceremonial sheath. His skin tingled with fear. His stomach was gripped with it. The corpse was fully upright now in its coffin, and one arm rose slowly. A swollen finger protruded from the edge of the shroud and pointed toward Kyellan and Tobas and the terrified people behind them. There was a harsh, grating sound, and a tortured voice forced its way from the decayed throat.

“You …” The corpse took a rattling breath, and the shroud was sucked inward over the mouth. A sweet, rotting smell was stronger than the incense now. “You killed me … killed me …” The arm was rigid. It was pointing straight at Kyellan. He could feel dead eyes staring at him through the linen cloth. If Arel was going to accuse anyone, it should be Tobas. Kyellan heard a rising murmur from behind him. He glanced back.

Fearful eyes flickered back and forth from the dead King to the apparent object of his accusation. Faces were ugly. They had come to this funeral with suspicions they dared not voice. It scarcely required the words of a revived corpse to convince them. “Murder!” sounded in whispers and then shouts. “The King was murdered!”

“The King is three days dead.” A clear voice rang over the clamor. Kyellan guessed Briana was using Power to pull attention to her. Her arms were spread and her face shone as if with a white light. The sun from the high windows sparked fires in her deep auburn hair. “His soul has left his body. Arel den Ardavan no longer exists. He cannot speak. This is an illusion, a trick, the work of some enemy …”

The shouts overcame her calm voice as the crowd surged forward. Kyellan saw Briana making gestures toward the coffin and speaking something unintelligible, and then the first grasping hands pushed at him and he heard his name in the uproar. “Kyellan … the new Commander … killed the King …” No one shouted Tobas’s name. They did not know what had happened in the tower. They had seen Aral’s rigid arm point toward Kyellan as his murderer, and they were ready to tear him apart on the strength of a dead man’s words. Kyellan turned to face them, backing up past the coffin to the edge of the dais, seeking room to draw his sword.

Tobas shouted for them to stop, but was ignored. The other officers of the honor guard were separated by the rush of angry men and women. Kyellan saw a thoughtful expression on Narden’s face; perhaps the highborn officer believed the accusation.

“Murderer!” a lady of the court shrieked in front of Kyellan. Her hands were lifted up, her fingers were claws raking toward his face. He stumbled backward. The lip of the dais stopped him. It rose to the middle of his back. The coffin was still open next to him, but the corpse had fallen back inside, its limbs askew, lifeless once more. Briana’s doing, no doubt. Two men close to him had drawn knives—slim, elegant little weapons with jeweled hilts. Kyellan managed to free his sword from the awkward, soft dress-sheath.

“No!” Briana’s voice cried from above him. She reached down from the dais. “This way, quickly.”

Kyellan fended off a knife-swipe with the edge of his sword, and turned to take Briana’s hand. The other knife raked down his back as he scrambled up onto the platform with the priestess’s help. The cut stung, but he thought it was shallow. The dais was forbidden to all but priestesses. That might make the crowd pause, at least.

“Quickly,” Briana repeated, pulling Kyellan toward the rear of the hall where the other priestesses clustered. “And put the sword away, in Cianya’s name.”

He kept it drawn. Black-robed women scattered from their path, seemingly more horrified by Kyellan’s invasion of their holy place than they had been by the dead King speaking. Kyellan turned for a moment when they reached the altar. Tobas, Marat, and Oman had climbed onto the platform with drawn swords. They faced the crowd, ready to cut down anyone who dared to follow. No one seemed willing to challenge them.

There was a door behind the altar. Briana opened it, tugged at Kyellan’s hand, and led him outside into the clean bright afternoon. A flight of polished steps went down from the back of the Temple hall. The priestesses’ compound stretched around them under the blue sky: tall, graceful buildings of white and colored stone, newly built to replace what the wizards had destroyed. Briana ran with Kyellan down the steps and across a square of tilled earth that had not yet been planted for a garden.

“Where are we going?” He glanced back. The Temple door was closed. He could hear the uproar from inside.

“The Teaching House,” Briana said, breathing hard. She stopped at the side of one of the smaller buildings and thrust open a wooden door. Kyellan ducked inside before her, and found himself in a long room with a wooden floor, high windows, and no furniture or decorations. Briana closed the door and leaned against it. “Are you hurt?” she said. “There’s blood on your back.”

“A scratch. But it might have killed me if you hadn’t pulled me out of there. Thanks.” He smiled at her.

“This is where the Dances are taught,” Briana said. She did not meet his eyes. “It’s empty in the afternoons. You can wait here until the people leave. Then it ought to be safe to go back to the palace.”

“Safe? They think I killed the King.”

“The Queen and Tobas will deny that. The nobles will remember they dare not anger the Queen.” She spoke like a teacher, like a priestess, impersonal and precise. “They’ll be too frightened to accuse you, no matter what they think happened here today.”

“What did happen?” Kyellan paced across the floor. The wood sounded hollow beneath his boots. “You said it wasn’t Arel’s spirit.”

“It wasn’t.” Her voice sharpened suddenly. “Will you put that sword away? This is the Goddess’s house.” She went on. “It was a sending by someone living, someone with Power who wanted revenge for Arel, or who wanted to make trouble for you.”

“I don’t think it was meant for me.” Kyellan sheathed his sword. “Tobas and I were standing together. If anyone could be accused of killing Arel it would be Tobas, not me.”

“Who would believe Tobas of Laenar as a murderer? It’s much easier to believe that of a soldier.”

“Tobas was a captain in the Royal Guard, the same as I was.”

“But he was never a servant of Rahshaiya, as you are.”

“I don’t serve your death-goddess,” Kyellan said coldly. She had accused him of this before, as if he sought out killing, as if he enjoyed it. He was a soldier. He did not kill to offer sacrifices to Rahshaiya.

Briana shrugged. “But if I hadn’t pulled you out of that crowd, you’d have killed half a dozen people. Some power gave life to Arel’s corpse, and incited the crowd against you. It didn’t give any of them the weapons or the skill to face your sword. And you wouldn’t have thought of escape. I know you, Kyellan. You would have gotten out of it, but Rahshaiya would have been well pleased first.”

“Is that why you helped me? To keep me from killing somebody?” Damn it, sometimes Briana could irritate him more than anyone else he knew. Kyellan looked at her, seeing exhaustion in her pretty face. Her sea-green eyes were bloodshot, rimmed by dark bruised circles. Maybe the reason she could anger him was that he cared so much what she thought. Her disapproval wounded him more than the stinging cut on his back.

“That was part of it,” Briana said. “I was afraid for you, too. I was afraid you might not get out of this one so easily. Your luck has to run out sometime. I don’t want to be watching when it does.”

Kyellan smiled slightly at this admission of her concern. “The priestesses aren’t going to like your bringing me here.”

She met his eyes soberly. “They don’t like anything I do. They’d like to throw me out into the street. Ocasta banished me from the Order. But she’s gone, and they’re afraid of the Queen. They’re afraid of me, too. They know I have more Power than any of them.”

Maybe that was why she looked so tired. It did not seem worth it to Kyellan. “Why don’t you just live in the palace until they make you First Priestess?”

Briana shook her head. “There is work for me here. I’ve spent the nights since midwinter, and the days, in the Temple of the Altar trying to undo the damage Ocasta did. I’ve been trying to invoke Rahshaiya and bind her properly. It may not be possible. The right day has passed, and I’m not the confirmed First Priestess. But if I fail, if the ritual remains undone until next midwinter, we face a year of death and destruction on a horrible scale. It may already have begun. I have a feeling it has.”

Kyellan watched the red sunset that lit the high windows. “Even your Death-Bringer would have a hard time starting a war now. With Arel dead and Valahtia back in power, Caerlin is at peace again. The other Kingdoms are content to have driven the wizards out. I don’t think it can happen.”

“It may not be a war. Disease, failed crops … I don’t know. A year of Rahshaiya. I’m afraid I can’t stop it. You’re the army commander now, aren’t you? Keep your men ready.”

“I was going to dismiss half of them. Most of the mercenaries. It didn’t seem necessary to keep such a huge payroll.” Yet he had learned to trust Briana’s insight. “I suppose I can convince the Queen to keep paying them for a while.”

“You’ll need them. And soon, I think.”

“Is that a prophecy?” he said lightly. “Are you speaking as the Voice of the Goddess?”

“Maybe. I have to go now. I have to try to explain this to Rithia and the others. I’ll send someone to tell you when the crowd has gone. Tell the Queen I’ll come see her and her baby soon. We should have a public ceremony to give Duarnan the Goddess’s blessing again. I was wrong to do it alone on midwinter night. The city needs to see it. Tell Valahtia that. And give Alaira my greetings.”

“I will.” Kyellan held the door for her and closed it behind her. Gods, he wished things were different. He still loved Briana. That was never going to change, no matter how close he was to Alaira, no matter how much Briana pretended there was no longer any bond between them.

Briana had loved him once, enough to want to bear his child. The baby was being raised in some safe hiding place, fostered by Erlin, who had been a soldier in Kyellan’s command, and Pima, who had been one of Briana’s novice priestesses. The child was a wizard, and would be in danger in Cavernon City. Briana was supposed to be a virgin, so she had borne him in secret and could not keep him. She had abandoned her son to serve the Goddess, as she had turned her back on Kyellan’s love.

There was not much Kyellan could do about it now. He sat down cross-legged on the wooden floor. The shallow wound on his back annoyed him. He tried to ignore it as he waited for someone to come tell him it was safe to go.

As the sun began to set, Alaira wandered through the winter gardens of the palace, bored with the day and ready for Kyellan to return. She wanted a night away from the cold, glittery society of the nobles, a night in the familiar haunts of Rahan Quarter. On days like this she wondered if she was grateful to Kyellan for taking her from her life there. She had been a thief, a dancer, and when she was hungry sometimes a whore, but she had rarely been bored.

The past few months had not been dull. The journey north, the Wizards’ College, the ride from Laenar to rescue the Queen had mostly been frightening. Now Alaira could see nothing before her but an endless round of palace parties and ceremony. She had agreed to be a lady-in-waiting to the Queen for lack of anything else to do. That was proving to be a waste of time. Nurses were taking care of Valahtia and her baby. All Alaira could do was sit around and make conversation. That was something she had never learned to enjoy.

She had been with the Queen for a few hours today, but Valahtia had not been in the mood for company. She was depressed on the day of her brother’s funeral. She had not mourned Arel’s death, but her inability to grieve had made her feel guilty. She was almost as despondent as she would have been if she had loved Arel deeply. Alaira had given up trying to talk her out of it, and had sat quietly in the Queen’s chambers until Valahtia dismissed her.

Alaira knelt down beside a small pool in the formal garden and trailed a hand in the water. Idly, she watched her fingers move. The lace on her sleeve was getting wet. She wore a fanciful gown of black and red swirls, with a gold shawl across the shoulders in defiance of the general mourning. Her black hair was pulled forward in a short side braid that did not quite hide the scar that puckered her cheek. With the scar and her lower-class Rahan accent, she could never be mistaken for a noblewoman. She did not belong in the garden, Alaira told herself. Or in the gown, or in the blasted palace. Maybe she should get Kyellan to find her a house in the city.

An agitated hum of voices came down a path, winding behind a leafless shrubbery sculpted in the shape of a minaret. Alaira quickly tucked her feet beneath her skirt and sat up straight, but she knew it was hopeless. No noble lady would be seen alone on the grass. They traveled in clumps and sat on marble benches. There was a bench near Alaira. She thought of hopping up onto it, but then the first of the nobles appeared and saw her.

They wore black, and they were talking all at once, at a furious pace. Alaira got up, remembering not to brush off the seat of her gown, and hailed them. “Excuse me, noble ladies, gentlemen. Have you come from the funeral of the late King? Can you tell me if you have seen Commander Kyellan?”

It seemed a reasonable request to Alaira, but the nobles stopped walking and stared at her as if her dress had fallen off. “She doesn’t know,” a woman whispered. “She doesn’t know what happened.”

“She’s wearing the Queen’s colors,” another said in a low voice of warning.

“What happened?” Alaira asked uncertainly.

They all began to talk at once, eager to assure her of their loyalty to the Queen. They insisted they did not believe a word of what the corpse had said. Alaira gathered finally that Arel’s body had leaped out of its coffin and declaimed a speech accusing Kyellan of his foul murder and demanding justice so that his soul would rest peacefully. Kyellan had been attacked, and had escaped into the Temple. One lady suggested he might have sought sanctuary there; another thought he might have fled the city. But of course, they assured Alaira, the accusation must be false.

Alaira did not know what to believe, but it frightened her. She excused herself and hurried away, out of the garden toward the southwestern palace building where she and Kyellan shared an apartment overlooking the wall and the city. Their rooms were on the fourth floor. Alaira was breathing hard by the time she had climbed the stairs and unlocked her door.

Kyellan was not there. Alaira paced from the sitting room to the bedroom to the sunroom and out onto the terrace. Sunset colors still played quietly over the city. From the railing, high over the ramparts of the palace wall, Alaira could see down the steep slope of the hill the Tiranon was built on. A wide road led straight through the city, toward the Temple square and the harbors. To the southeast were the clustered flat roofs of Rahan Quarter.

She was not interested in the view. What had happened at the Temple? Alaira had seen enough impossible things to believe Arel might have risen from the dead. But why would he have accused Kyellan of his murder? His own clumsiness and stupidity at swordplay had killed the King. Arel had died unmarked by any man’s blade.

An hour passed, then another. Alaira left the balcony. She closed the shutters and lit lamps, and curled up into a soft chair in the front room to wait for Kyellan. After half an hour more had gone by, she got up and built a small fire in the hearth. It was winter, and though the city had pleasant days the nights were cold. The fire lit easily on her first try with flint and steel. At least she had learned some skills in her journeying.

“Where is he, the Goddess damn him?” she muttered to the little flames. She sat on the rug before them with her knees drawn up and her arms around her bent legs.

“With Briana.” She heard the words clearly. There was no one else in the room. Alaira frowned. Then she saw the face in the flames.

She stared, willing it to go away. It did not. She felt the chill of an old fear. “The Shape-Changer,” she whispered, recognizing the handsome, gaunt features so much like Kyellan’s. The hair was pale, lit with gold flame; the brows were arched higher than Kyellan’s; the yellow eyes had the slit pupils of a cat. It was the wizard spirit.

“Alaira.” The thin lips moved. Fiery eyes sought to trap her gaze. Alaira looked away and told herself she did not have to be afraid. He could not hurt her. He was trapped on the spirit road, with no way to enter this world. He had appeared like this once before, when he had tried to convince Kyellan to let him back into the body they once had shared.

“Go away,” she said. “Kyellan isn’t here.”

“I told you where he was,” the Shape-Changer said, wavering in the hearth. “Or didn’t you believe me? Briana helped him escape the mob in the Temple, and she has been hiding him in the compound all this time, while you waited here alone and frightened.” Power hummed in the air. Alaira’s skin tingled unpleasantly.

“If that’s true, then I’m glad,” she said. “It means he’s safe. Did you come all the way from the spirit readjust to tell me that?”

The uncanny face smiled. “Pretty Alaira. At least I can come to you as myself. It takes much more effort to appear in another shape, with another voice. It can be exhausting. I have to appear again soon to a fanatic young priestess who believes me to be her Godess’s messenger. I’m beginning to learn how to affect your world, even if you made it so I can no longer live in it.”

Alaira stood up, and the Shape-Changer’s yellow eyes watched her. “Why do you want me to be angry with Kyellan—saying he’s with Briana?”

“He is. Oh, he loves you, too. You’ve heard him say so. It should be some consolation.”

“Why should you care?” She did not want him to succeed in whatever he was attempting. Still, it hurt her to think about the priestess.

“Because you deserve better than what he’s giving you. I want to see you happy, Alaira.” The wizard’s voice was gentle.

She remembered an afternoon beneath fur coverlets in a tower room at Akesh. The Shape-Changer had worn Kyellan’s form to please her. She had made love to him to buy time for her friends, and she had gotten Kyellan back. Small thanks she had had for that. She did not need the Shape-Changer to tell her Briana was always first in her lover’s heart.

“You said you loved me once,” Alaira whispered. “But I called Kyellan back and left you stranded in the Otherworld. You must hate me now.”

“How could I hate you?”

“Why are you here? Do you want me to try to call you back into this world? I won’t do it. I don’t trust you.”

“Pretty and wise.” He laughed. “But unless you can convince Kyellan to invite me to return, you can’t help me in that way. There may be other ways.” He broke off suddenly. “I cannot stay. You will speak of this to no one.”

The last words were voiced in a flat tone that seemed to strike through the thick bone of Alaira’s skull and into her brain. He had used Power against her, she realized. He had bound her to silence. The flames blazed up, obscuring the wizard’s features, and then they died and he was gone. The hearth was dark.

The door to the suite opened. Alaira whirled, half expecting to see the Shape-Changer walk in. It was Kyellan. The same face, but his skin was dark, his hair was black and wavy, and his eyes were brown. It was a striking face, older than his twenty-three years, but reassuringly human.

Suddenly Alaira did not care where he had been. She ran to hug him with all her strength. “I was so afraid!” she said. “I heard what happened, and I could scarcely believe it, but then you didn’t come back. I started to wonder if it was true.”

Kyellan bent to kiss her. He was more than a head taller than she was. “I’m all right. I should have sent word to you from the Temple. I stayed there until everyone had left, and Tobas and his palace guards came to escort me back.”

“Did Arel’s body really come to life?” She felt something sticky on her hands, and looked. It was a smear of blood. “Are you hurt? Turn around.”

“It isn’t deep.” He turned to let her look. “I guess it came open again on the way back to the palace.”

“Your new uniform will need mending. Get it off and let me tend that cut.” She helped him remove the heavy tunic. His gold sash of Commander rank was bloodied. The wound was a half inch deep in the thick muscles of his left shoulder, and trailed down from there. It did not look serious.

“Probably nothing will come of what happened today,” Kyellan said. “The nobles are too afraid of the Queen to accuse me formally.”

Alaira had seen that fear in the group in the garden. “Even if they did, the charge isn’t true. Did Arel really say you killed him?”

“Not in so many words.” He shrugged. “Briana says it wasn’t even Arel’s spirit. Some other Power was responsible. She doesn’t know who.”

So he had been with the priestess. Alaira thought it might have been the Shape-Changer at the funeral, but she found she could not speak the words. She turned away to hide her silence, and went to find a rag and water to clean Kyellan’s wound. It was a familiar task. She had been patching him up from knife fights since they were both children. That was something Briana could not claim.

Chapter Two

Chela woke slowly. She ached in every muscle, and her thoughts were painful, sluggish, confused. She smelled smoking damp wood and heard the fire-tools clattering at the hearth, and opened her eyes. It had been a cold night. Her face was half buried beneath the coverlets, and the fur edging of the comforter tickled her nose. Gwydion lay beside her in the huge bed. He had taken most of the backlash from yesterday’s spell; he might not waken for days. His angular face was slack in his deep, healing sleep. His long golden hair spread in tangles against his pillow. Chela reached over to kiss his cheek.

“Mistress Chela,” whispered the apprentice at the hearth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’m glad you did. I didn’t want to sleep all morning.”

Eryt was fifteen years old, Chela’s own age, but like all the others at the Wizards’ College he spoke to her with deference. Her lover Gwydion was Master of the College now, since the Shape-Changer’s defeat and exile into the Otherworld. The apprentices were learning new lessons. Gwydion hoped that someday the Kingdom might welcome wizards trained at Akesh. Chela shivered. First they would have to get through this winter.

The young woman slid out of the high bed, thrust her bare feet into furry boots, and pulled a heavy cloak over her nightdress. Eryt gathered his bundle of wood together. The fire was burning well. Chela guessed he had added a minor fire-spell to spark the damp wood. Like everyone at the College but her, Eryt was a wizard, with bright golden hair and yellow eyes. She had grown so used to it that when she looked into a mirror her blue eyes and red hair surprised her.

Eryt whispered, “There’s breakfast downstairs, if you’re hungry. Gruel from the last of the grain.”

Chela made a face. “Have any hunters gone out today?”

“Yes, but they won’t find anything.” Game was getting scarce in the forests around Akesh as the winter wore on.

“After I eat, I want to go down to the Small Sea and look at the thing we killed yesterday. Maybe parts of it will be edible.” Chela was serious, but she could see that Eryt did not think so. He laughed softly, and opened the door for her.

The wizards of the Kharad had left the College guarded by huge, grotesque, slug-like creatures that lived in a vast lake a few miles to the south. Since Gwydion had become Master of the College, they had lost two apprentices in attempts to kill the monsters. It had been a long struggle to learn where the creatures were vulnerable. The spell Gwydion and Chela had used the day before had been the most complex they had yet attempted. Chela had controlled the structure and direction of the spell, while Gwydion had supplied most of the raw Power needed to pierce the monster’s magically enhanced shields. It had worked well, but there were still more of the creatures left in the Small Sea. It would probably take all spring to clean them out.

Chela followed Eryt out onto the third floor landing and down the dark, carven staircase that led to the great hall. The large, circular room was cheerfully lit, and the boys were at their lessons in circles around their aged teachers. The weather had been too cold, and fires were too precious, to justify holding classes in the other buildings. The children slept in the Masters’ Tower instead of in their dormitory.

Chela paused on the bottom stair. A few of the students turned and smiled at her before the teacher called them back to attention. From five-year-olds to youths like Eryt almost out of their apprenticeships, all were thin and threadbare, their golden hair dull and lifeless. Chela and Gwydion and the old wizards who were the teachers shared the boys’ meager diet. Chela’s own long hair was brittle and came out in clumps in her brush.

She wished Kyellan and Alaira would return with the promised load of winter supplies. They had been gone for more than three weeks. There had been no further appearances by the Hidden Temple priestesses. Perhaps Gemon’s people realized that the Shape-Changer was no longer a threat to anyone, trapped as he was on the spirit road. It would be safe for Kyellan to come back. The College needed grain, cloth, dried and salted meats, seed to start vegetables indoors by the fires. Besides, Chela missed her friends.

Outside the wind rose with morning, chilling the ancient stones of the towers. There had been no sunrise for months, nothing to show that day had come beyond a lightening of the clouds. At least midwinter had passed, and Chela could look forward to spring.

One of the old wizards suddenly sprang to his feet with a look of fear on his bearded face. Chela had been about to pass him on her way to the kitchen. It was Morfan, who had been the leader of the College before the Shape-Changer had taken over. Like the other wizards left behind, he had been too weak to join in the invasion. He had not dared call himself Master, and he had been glad to give up his responsibilities. He did have some Power.

“Mistress,” he said, “someone has come through the wards in the western meadow. Someone not of Akesh.”

“Really?” Chela turned to one of the older students in Morfan’s class, a cheerful boy of thirteen whose use of Power was still erratic. “Deny, can you sense what Morfan is talking about? See if you can describe what just passed the wards.” Could it be Kyellan and Alaira, in answer to her thoughts? Chela’s own Power was so drained that she could not sense the presence of a spider hanging over her head.

“This isn’t a time for lessons,” said the old teacher. “Men are coming this way with a train of beasts. I don’t like it.”

“It must be Kyellan and Alaira. Who else could it be?”

“I can’t be certain. But I don’t recognize your two friends among them.”

“They could both be shielded,” Chela said. Alaira had a little Power, and Kyellan probably retained some of his natural shield even without the Shape-Changer. “Come, Derry, Eryt. Let’s see for ourselves.”

The two youths hurried after her, grabbing cloaks from the hooks by the door. Morfan followed them, scowling into his long, white beard. Chela opened the heavy door and stepped out into the yard of the Masters’ Tower. It was on the highest hill of Akesh. She could see over the cluster of wooden buildings, once the home of hundreds of young and old wizards. They had left it to sweep over the Kingdoms; after the brutal war, a handful survived. A few were supposed to live on the island of Barelin, far to the south. All that remained at Akesh were the old men and the children. Gwydion and Chela had fought against the Akesh wizards in the war, but that did not matter now.

The freezing wind swirled the top layers of powdery snow around Chela’s face as she hurried across the yard and started down the hill path. Derry and Eryt kicked through the snow after her, with Morfan a few paces back. Chela could hear the soft sound of hooves ahead in the low path that ran between the hills. Light clouds of white rose above the travelers, heralding them as surely as the magical wards Gwydion had set. Chela walked and slid down the steep path, clutching her cloak about her against the cold. She wished Gwydion was awake and beside her.

Riders on sturdy mules rounded a corner in the path. They were wrapped in thick layers of white and grey winter clothing. Their faces were covered except for eye-slits, each man carried a pack on his back, and they were heavily armed. Chela saw swords and spears and crossbows. She counted twenty-four riders, two spare mules, and three ponies wearing furry saddles and bridles, carrying nothing.

“The ponies are ours,” Derry said. “Three boys went out on them to hunt in the forest this morning.”

A wave of sickness hit Chela. She was still caught in the spell backlash, or she might have sensed the hunters’ deaths. “They must have killed them,” she muttered. “They haven’t seen us yet. Get back to the tower. If we can reach it and bar the door, maybe we can hold them off.”

“You go, Mistress,” Morfan said. “Go quickly. We’ll do what we can here.” He linked hands with the two youths, and began to chant in the ancient wizards’ tongue. Chela had no Power to help them with, and none of the three was very strong. The best they might do would be a spell to confuse the riders, an illusion of fog or an impassable snowdrift.

Chela turned to run up the path. She did not think Morfan’s efforts would be enough. The riders were soldiers. Even without Power she knew that. The King of Garith lived far from Akesh, and usually ignored it, but all the Kingdoms hated wizards since the war. Chela had seen that hatred. She had hoped Akesh would be safe. It was so far from anywhere, and it had been there so long—she had thought King Marayn would leave it alone.

She turned near the top of the hill in time to see three crossbow bolts strike her friends all at the same time. They made no sounds as they fell with their hands still clasped. They landed like children making angels in the snow. Shouts and hoarse war-cries rose with the wind from behind muffling scarves. The riders urged their mules into a lope.

They charged toward the still bodies of the three wizards and eddied around them, half burying them with kicked-up snow. Chela gasped for breath to scream, and they were upon her. She expected to feel the bite of an arrow or a sword’s edge. But the riders swept by her with scarcely a glance. Snow flew up to stingher face and melt down her neck. She stared down at the bodies of her friends, small on the hillside, and turned to look after the soldiers.

Oh, dear gods, the children, and the old men … Gwydion was still sleeping. He could not wake, could not defend himself or fight back. Chela reached for Power to hurl violence back at the killers, but there was only a faint stirring of green fire inside her. Her Power was spent. It would take days to recover.

There were thin, high screams. The apprentices had left the tower door open to look out after Chela and the others. They had hoped as much as she had that it would be Kyellan and Alaira with the supplies from Atolan. Now Chela felt the swords as if they had entered her own heart. Icy steel, frozen in the winter morning, and warm blood and brief overwhelming pain. She had no shields to keep out the sensations. Faintness swept over her with the memory of a smoke-filled spring evening, almost a year ago, when the wizards of the Kharad had come to her village. Children had screamed then, too, a shrill chorus, echoing on the wind with the deep shouts of pursuing soldiers.

Dizzy and sick, Chela stumbled up the path in the churned snow where the mules had galloped. The wind caught her heavy lined cloak like a sail and bellied it out behind her. She ran gasping through the calf-deep drifts. When she topped the rise and saw the yard before the Masters’ Tower, she saw black for a moment and could not breathe.

Soldiers dragged children and old men out of the great hall, and others slew them where they found them, on the parquet floor, halfway up the carven stairway. Blood spilled everywhere. The wrappings of the bundled men were splattered with crimson. There were little Bickerings of magical fire everywhere, burning on the snow then vanishing. Some of the old men had tried to resist. But even if they had the knowledge, they did not have the Power for the great war-spells.

One of the killers turned and came toward Chela. She fled back down the path, but stumbled, and fell face first in the snow. The man grabbed her from behind and lifted her up. Chela kicked backward and muttered words of curses in the wizards’ tongue, lacking the breath to scream or weep, lacking the strength to break free.

“Hush, be still,” the man said. “No one is going to hurt you, girl. Now tell me, are there more here like you? No, no, don’t fight me. I’m not going to hurt you. We’re here to rescue you. Are there any more Garithian women here?”

Chela struggled, voiceless with shock. Her stomach cramped and gripped against emptiness. So many dead already, more dying each moment, and she felt each death as she had felt her father’s pain and her mother’s before.

“Cursed wizards,” said the soldier. “You’re no older than my daughter at home. Sweet Goddess, you even have her blue eyes. There now, girl. That’s it. Be still. Everything will be all right now.”

What did they think, that Gwydion had stolen her for his slave? Breath filled her lungs, and the last of her Power with it, and Chela put all her strength into a great cry. “Gwydion!” His name shot upward into the air, toward the tower room where he lay senseless. Surely he had heard her. Surely he would waken. She felt him start in his sleep and come near the verge of waking, but the backlash still weighed too heavily on him. “Oh, Gwydion,” she whispered. Her knees gave way, and the soldier caught her before she fell.

“That’s the leader’s name, isn’t it? Poor child. He has you under some kind of spell, I suppose. He’ll release you soon enough. We’re not to kill him, can you believe that? He’s to be taken alive for trial. And the whole place here will be burned, as soon as all the rest are dead. Long past time for it. Don’t cry now, girl. You’re safe. We’ll take you back to Atolan with us. Don’t worry.”

They were not going to kill Gwydion. Chela realized that she would have to hide her anger. She would have to be the frightened, grateful captive they thought they had rescued. It might be the only chance she and her lover had of getting out of this.

At first when the baby screamed Pima hardly noticed. It was a familiar sound. She knelt beside the frozen stream, filling a waterskin through a hole she had chopped in the thin ice, getting her woolen robe wet and muddy at the knees. The cry continued. It was Cian’s voice, louder and more sustained than Taryn’s. Pima smiled as she realized there was Power in Cian’s cry. It demanded she come now. She was not as strong as Cian’s real mother Briana; she was strong enough to resist such a call.

Goddess preserve us, Pima thought, he sounds as if he’s being murdered. She laughed, and hefted the full leather bag, tamping its stopper in at the neck. Cian had probably tossed one of his pinecone dolls into the hearth fire and wanted it back. It was a good thing Erlin had built a stone wall around the firepit to keep the babies from crawling in. Not that Taryn would be crawling for some time yet.

Both babies were three months old. It was hard to remember that. Cian was twice his foster sister’s size. He already had most of his teeth, he could crawl and throw things, and Pima would not be surprised if next week he decided to talk. She had not really known what it would mean to raise the infant Shape-Changer as her own. At least it kept her and Erlin from boredom, she thought as she started up the hill path to the cottage.

Now Taryn was crying too. Pima sighed. It was going to be a difficult day. Erlin would be down in the cove until late working on his boat, so he would be no help. Pima was as excited as he was about the chance to fish from the middle of the rocky little bay, but it meant she was stuck alone in the cottage to soothe two fretful babies. Maybe she would bundle them up later and take them down to watch their father work.

The steep path leveled off into the meadow. Tall, dry grasses swayed in a cool breeze around a few worn, wind-smoothed boulders. The one-room stone cottage was drab without the summer colors of wildflowers surrounding it. The winter was mild in the valley, though, sheltered as it was by high desert ridges and naturally terraced fields. The Goddess’s messenger, Va’shindi, had been right when she had promised they would be safe here. Pima had grown to love the place.

Recently, a small group of S’tari priestesses had established a camp on the southwestern ridge overlooking the hidden cove. The valley was a sacred place to them. They worshipped Va’shindi, and the Messenger had apparently commanded them to guard Erlin and Pima and the babies. The priestesses sometimes left gifts of food and cloth beneath a cairn on a ridge path. They did not come down into the valley, and neither Pima nor Erlin spoke their language. Still, Pima was glad they were there.

The babies were crying loudly enough to be heard in the S’tari camp. Pima opened the door of the cottage and felt a shock of fear like a physical blow. It was Cian’s fear, thrown out beyond his own mind. The golden-haired baby sat rigid on a fur throw beside his wicker bed. His head was back, and his cat’s eyes were open as he screamed. Taryn lay in her own basket, red-faced, kicking hands and feet in the air, but her cry seemed to be in response to Cian’s. Neither baby looked hurt in any way. Pima had fed them both just before she had gone down to the stream. What could be wrong?

She set down her waterskin and dropped to her knees before Cian, reaching out both hands to his stiff, small shoulders. When she touched him the shock of Power burned her palms. She picked the wizard baby up and cradled him against her stomach, stroking his hair. “What is it? Hush, Cian, hush, what’s wrong?” Pima could barely hear her own voice over his screams. She did not know what to do. She had never seen Cian use his Power so wildly. Before Briana had left the valley, she had given him shields to contain his magic until he was old enough to learn to control it. Pima did not know what could have happened to make the shields fall.

She could do nothing but sit and hold him, try to soothe him. The skin on her hands and arms tingled and began to ache as Cian’s terror battered at her mind. Pima felt her own weaker Power give way. Suddenly she and the baby were joined, and she sensed what he sensed.

A terrible, rending pain, agony that blocked out all else. She felt she was running, stumbling, looking back at pursuers who followed at a fast walk. Up the hill, slipping on the steep, muddy path. Burning with pain, growing weaker, but still coming on. She had to make it, had to warn them …

Pima jerked her mind free of Cian’s, knowing what he knew. It was Erlin, hurt, running and being chased. But Va’shindi had told them they would be safe. Pima set the shrieking baby back down on the fur rug and ran to open the door.

The morning sun lit the meadow. Erlin had reached the top of the hill and was staggering toward the cottage. He was a short, stocky youth of eighteen, with a square face beneath curly black hair. Now his face was contorted. His arms were spread as if to help him balance. His legs were not working right. Pima felt herself falling back into the nightmare she had thought had ended with the war.

She ran to him while Cian wailed from the cottage. Pima put her arms around her lover and found the broken shaft of a spear dangling from a point just to the left of his spine. Thick blood welled around the wound, soaking the white wool of Erlin’s robe. He moaned when Pima touched him, and leaned heavily on her. They staggered together down the path and across the threshold of the cottage.

Erlin sank to his knees and then fell full length onto the stone floor. Pima closed the door and came to kneel beside him. “Bar the door …” he whispered. His hands clenched tightly as he tried to raise himself and failed. “Where’s my sword? Bar the door, Pima.”

The doorl had no latch or lock. Erlin’s sword had been lost long ago, in the dungeons of Khymer, where he had almost died of wizards’ torture. He had been a soldier then, in the Royal Guard of Caerlin. Pima stared down at him, helpless. They were supposed to be safe here. Va’shindi had said they would be safe. She could not be wrong.

Deep male voices sounded in the meadow. “Who are they?” Pima cried. Cian had subsided into deep sobs, and Taryn had gotten louder. “Why did they do this?” She pressed the hem of her robe down against the gaping wound in Erlin’s back. It was quickly soaked with bright red blood.

“They want the baby,” Erlin said clearly. Then, when he did not blink again, Pima knew that he was dead. It could not be. It was not right. Va’shindi had promised. The S’tari priestesses were supposed to be guarding them; where were they?

The door opened, and five men stepped inside. They were wizards, as alike as brothers, with yellow hair and eyes. They must have known there was no danger. Pima got to her feet and backed away. One of them bent down over Cian and gathered the child into his arms with the awkward care of a man who had never held a baby. “The Shape-Changer,” the wizard said reverently, as another might say “the Goddess.”

The tallest of them still carried the broken half of a spear. Now he drew a sword and took a step toward Pima. An older wizard put out a hand to stop him. “We need the girl. The child will die without a nurse.”

“This one, then, to leave more milk for him.” The killer turned toward Taryn. The dark-haired baby reached both hands up toward him, whimpering, wanting to be comforted.

Pima shrieked and launched herself against the wizard’s back. He fell forward across the mattress of the bed. Rushes crackled beneath him. Pima picked her daughter up and turned to stand with her back to the wall. “Don’t touch her!” she shouted. Her voice rang in the small room.

Taryn took a breath and began to wail. Pima clutched the baby to her breast, staring at the wizards through a film of tears. The one with the sword regained his feet, scowling. The one that had Cian took him outside. The three others looked at Pima gravely, as if weighing her for market.

At last the oldest nodded. “Let her keep the girl. She’ll be obedient if she knows her baby’s life is the price of rebellion. Come.” He stepped across Erlin and took Pima’s elbow.

“The Goddess will destroy you!” Pima cried. “You brought death into Her valley. She will destroy you!”

“The priestesses on the ridge cursed us with Va’shindi’s name,” said the wizard with the sword. “As they died.” He laughed and went out the door.

Pima followed the older wizard, feeling numbed, frozen like the stream below the hill. Her leaden feet barely supported her as she walked. This could not be happening. Her robe was bloody. They had left Erlin lying there with the hearthfire burning. Pima turned again and again to look at the open door of her home until they had left the hill path and crossed the stream, headed for the southwestern ridge.

The wizards were pleased with their success. They told Pima they had been sailing up and down this part of the coast for the past three days looking for the right cove. Their ship waited five miles to the south where it had been safer to land. They had been looking for Cian. They said the baby’s father had commanded them to do it. They were to find the baby and take him back to Barelin with them.

Pima knew they were telling the truth. Why should they lie to her? Kyellan had betrayed them. Gemon had been right about him all along. He was a servant of the Dark. Pima vowed silently that someday he would pay for Erlin’s murder. She would see to that.

The fortress Arel had built in his exile stood overlooking a small fishing village on the northern coast of Syryn. There were bigger ports and stronger fortified towns in the island kingdom, but this bleak and secluded place had suited the exiled Prince’s self-pitying mood. It had suited the purpose of the Hidden Temple as well, when they had moved the Goddess’s Seat to keep it safe from the surviving wizards and the heretic Briana. Shielded by walls of its own Power, the Seat had rooted itself deep into the stony hill beneath the cellars of Arel’s fortress.

Ocasta had fled here the morning after midwinter. The First Priestess had bribed a fishing boat’s owner to take her on the day’s sail south to Syryn. She had known she would be safe in a place so well guarded against Briana’s Power. Yet the Hidden Temple had scarcely made her welcome. The five women were busy preparing rituals and laying structures of Power to move the Seat once more. The fortress was to be abandoned. The place felt uprooted. Ocasta had waited for three days, mostly staying in the small bare room they had given her, with its bed and chair and four windowless walls. At last the Hidden Temple had deigned to meet with her.

“You should have stayed.” Gemon led her priestesses into Ocasta’s room in the middle of the morning. She was thin and pale and very young, Ocasta saw. Younger even than Briana. She wore a black robe of Second Ranking that she could not have earned. “You are the confirmed First Priestess. Neither the Queen nor Briana can change that. You left the Temple leaderless.”

Ocasta looked beyond the girl to the four older women who were originally from the Khymer Temple. If she had expected more sympathy from them, she did not get it. They glared at her, echoing their leader’s contempt.

“Briana did not recognize me as First Priestess,” Ocasta said. She kept her voice calm and reasonable. “She would have attacked me. She believes I stole my position from her. And who are you to tell me what I should have done? You are only a novice, young woman, for all your Power. You forget the respect that is due me.”

“Respect?” Gemon laughed in her face. “You failed to bind Rahshaiya at midwinter. You fled from your post. You are weak, and a fool.”

One of the old women spoke. Ocasta guessed she was near her own age, in the mid-sixties. “We made you First Priestess, Ocasta. We stopped Briana from interfering with your confirmation. You could not have stopped her. She is much stronger than you. We used the Goddess’s Seat to see you confirmed. Perhaps it was a mistake, but it is done.”

“We’ll continue to support you,” Gemon said. She sat down on the only chair in the room, and tossed her reddish-brown hair. “We’ll see that you get your place back at Cavernon, if only to keep it from Briana. But don’t expect to give orders. You’ll obey us, or we won’t help you.”

“I am the Voice of the Goddess,” Ocasta said tightly.

“Are you? Does she come to you in your dreams?”

“I pray to her,” Ocasta said, “and She grants me guidance.”

Gemon’s pale face was strangely intent. “Va’shindi comes to me, old woman, straight from the Goddess. She commands me to use the Seat’s Power against the last of the Darkness, the demon wizards. Do you have such a purpose, old woman? Do you have such a vision?”

Ocasta stared. Circles of flushed red stood out on Gemon’s cheeks. The girl is mad, the First Priestess thought. Mad, and in control of the strongest Focus of Power in the world. “The Goddess abhors violence, Gemon. You risk the error Briana made.”

“Rahshaiya is an aspect of the Goddess,” said one of the Khymer women piously.

“Briana’s crime is not that she invoked Rahshaiya,” Gemon said. “She betrayed her vows in other ways. You fear the Death-Bringer too much, Ocasta. That is why you failed at midwinter.”

“If the ritual did not succeed, it was not for lack of effort,” Ocasta said stiffly. She was still weary from the day and half a night she had spent on her knees before the underground altar. “And it was not because of fear.”

Gemon dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “There is a ship waiting to take you to Keris before us. Crown Prince Werlinen has a claim on the Caerlin throne. You will join your cause to his. You may be a weak old fool, but we will support you if you do as we say.”

Ocasta had never disliked anyone as much as she did this pale young fanatic. Even Briana seemed mild in comparison. Ocasta hated to accept Gemon’s offer, but she saw no other way to win back her position as First Priestess against Briana’s Power. “Very well,” she said, regaining some of her composure. “I will go to Keris as your ambassador. It seems to be the Goddess’s will.”

Chapter Three

Alaira announced it formally, bowing like a page in the doorway of Kyellan’s office in the northwestern barracks. “The Queen is receiving visitors this morning.” She looked very pretty in a slim green dress with a gold belt. Her hair was drawn back off her face, and she had made no attempt to hide the long scar on her cheek.

Kyellan looked up from a map of the city’s fortifications that was spread over the top of his desk. “Do you mean she wants to see me?” He had expected a summons all day yesterday, but the Queen had seemed to ignore the events of the funeral. All the court had tried to pretend nothing had happened. A few nervous men had even made the effort to speak to Kyellan, to congratulate him on his new command or ask after his health.

Alaira nodded. “She’s feeling better. She’ll probably hold court tomorrow, but today she wants to see some of her advisors. I already went after Senomar and Mirrem. Istam is off somewhere in the city, so I sent a messenger. You’re the last of them.”

“I’m coming.” He rolled the map and tucked it under his arm. If Senomar was going to be there, he wanted to talk to him about strengthening the gate to the inner harbor. Briana’s warning troubled Kyellan more and more. A year ago he would not have paid it any heed. He had no choice but to believe in magic now, and he feared Briana would be proven right about the effect the death-aspect of the Goddess could have on the world.

The Queen of Caerlin was twenty years old, and she was as beautiful as her most flattering courtiers claimed. She was recovering from her confinement. Her olive skin glowed again, her brown eyes were huge and clear, her glossy black hair was piled in a mass of loops and braids that set off her regal features. She held court this morning in the reception room of the royal quarters, sitting on a couch with her infant son in her lap and a nurse watching them both from the doorway.

Kyellan made a low bow after the page presented him. The old engineer Senomar had come before him, and knelt rather rustily before Queen Valahtia to kiss her hand. Senomar was gaunt, with a trim white beard, and he rarely smiled. He was an expert in siege warfare and defense who had stayed loyal to the Queen through her brother’s reign.

The reception room was elaborately decorated. Its walls were covered with tapestries and intricate carven panels of marble. Soft padded benches and couches strewn with cushions surrounded the central carpeted space. A curtained doorway led to the private gardens in the center of the royal quarters. Kyellan saw only one unfamiliar object. Where Valahtia had once kept a pet monkey in a cage, a huge stuffed tiger reared. Arel must have brought it from Syryn. The animal was the symbol of the Ardavan house, but it was a fierce decoration amid the scented beauty of Valahtia’s chamber.

The Crown Prince Duarnan was five days old, a tiny, fragile creature with Tobas’s curly brown hair and his mother’s huge eyes. Kyellan knelt before the Queen in his turn, looking at the baby in wonder. He thought of his own son hidden wherever Briana had put him, and could not help feeling jealous of the Queen and Consort.

He kissed Valahtia’s elegant hand, and she let it rest a little longer in his. Her smile was warm. They had briefly been lovers, and though that was over there was still a spark between them.

“I was so glad you accepted the command at last,” Valahtia said as he rose. “I was afraid you’d turn it down again and go back north. Didn’t Gwydion and Chela expect you back?”

“By now Haval’s men will have reached the College with the supplies, Your Majesty. They’ll tell Gwydion and Chela that we went south. I don’t think either of them will be surprised when they learn Alaira and I are going to stay here.”

“We should honor Haval for his help in getting you here,” the Queen said thoughtfully. “I suppose I could invite him to Duarnan’s coronation.”

Kyellan shook his head. “Haval would probably rather go unnoticed. He abandoned his mission for his King to take us to Laenar. And we don’t want to bring any attention to Akesh.”

“I agree, Your Majesty,” Senomar said, taking a seat on one of the padded benches. “You mustn’t honor him publicly. But you could include him in your invitation to the Ryasan royal family. No one would think it strange. He was at the siege of Dallynd, and befriended Tobas at Altimar.”

“Very well.” The baby was growing restless. Valahtia motioned to the nurse. “Cinra, will you take him back to the nursery?” A pleasant-looking middle-aged woman, the nurse was the mother of one of Kyellan’s soldiers. She took up the baby and bowed, and left through the garden door. Valahtia turned back to Kyellan and Senomar. “Do you really think any of them will come? Any of the royalty? They don’t like me, and that isn’t going to change with these rumors of my brother’s murder.”

Alaira had gone to find Tobas. Now the two of them entered with Mirrem, the new Lord Chamberlain, who had once been Valahtia’s scribe. The previous Chamberlain was the traitor Foerad who had smuggled Arel into the palace for the coup. He was in the dungeon now awaiting trial. Kyellan liked Mirrem. The man was common-born, the son of a farmer, a studious clerk unlikely to become entangled in court intrigue in the way his predecessor had been.

Alaira came to sit with Kyellan on a bench near Senomar. The young Consort kissed the Queen on the cheek and took his place beside her. Mirrem bowed and sat down at a little desk where writing materials had been set up.

“Has there been any reaction yet to Arel’s death from the other Kingdoms?” Kyellan asked.

“Nothing,” Valahtia said. “But there’s scarcely been time for them to return a reply, and they can’t have heard about the funeral yet. I don’t know how they’ll react. I fear they won’t accept me. They’ll accuse me of having him killed. They may not recognize my right to succeed him.”

“They have to recognize you,” Tobas said cheerfully. “You’re the last of the Ardavan line, and Duarnan is your son. The Council of Royalty believes in tradition. How can they oppose you?”

“I know these people. They don’t like me, and if they can see any way to make it seem I shouldn’t have this throne, they’ll use it.”

“We should get Duarnan crowned as soon as possible, and make you Regent,” Tobas said. “That should satisfy them. Briana already gave him the Goddess’s blessing to rule. We just need her to do it again for everyone to see.”

Mirrem turned from the parchment he had been smoothing. “The Goddess’s blessing must be given by the First Priestess. Not even the Cavernon Temple recognizes Briana. And it’s traditionally only given to a grown heir after he makes the pilgrimage to the Sanctuary.”

“And so the Council of Royalty may not recognize the blessing as valid.” Valahtia sat back wearily against her cushions. “That’s why I need your advice. Should we go ahead with it? Or should I simply call myself Queen and wait until Duarnan grows up and the Temple accepts Briana?”

“There is no Sanctuary anymore,” Senomar said. “No one can make that pilgrimage again.”

“They’re sure to accept Briana soon,” Kyellan said. “Ocasta has fled. She may have given up her claim to be First Priestess. She certainly isn’t fulfilling her duties.”

“We should order the Temple to recognize Briana,” Tobas said. “They’d do it. They’re still afraid we’re going to punish them for supporting Arel.”

Mirrem spoke earnestly. “The Temple already dislikes the Queen for her leniency toward the wizards. Ocasta is gone, but many of the other priestesses believe that all the wizards should have been killed. Your Majesty, you can’t afford any more resentment. You must have the support of your people. I say wait until they accept Briana. Then have the Prince blessed and crowned.”

“Briana thinks it should be done right away,” Kyellan said. “She told me so after the funeral.”

“Of course she’d want that,” said the Chamberlain. “She wants the people to see her in a public ceremony acting as First Priestess. It would put pressure on the Temple. But I don’t think we should do it.”

“Briana is counting on the Queen’s support,” Kyellan said uneasily. “But I don’t think that’s why she wants to see Duarnan get the blessing now. She sounded worried. We can’t ignore that.”

Senomar stroked his beard and nodded at Kyellan. “I agree. It should be done now. Who knows what might happen in a few months’ time?”

“We should wait,” Mirrem said, folding his hands into a peak on the table. “Allowing Briana to perform the ceremony now would force the Temple to accept her. The priestesses are supposed to be independent of any rule but their own. They can make a lot of trouble for us.”

Tobas glanced at the Queen beside him. “I agree with Mirrem. Remember how the Temple dealt with Briana before. They accused her of heresy. They could do the same to us, turn the people against us. We must wait. Besides, I think Briana is capable of convincing them to accept her without our help.”

“Very well.” Valahtia sounded relieved. “We will wait. I believe we must. Alaira, will you go to the Temple and tell Briana what we’ve decided?”

Alaira rose and left the room. Kyellan supposed it did not matter either way. It was too early to know where the other Kingdoms stood. Tobas, Mirrem, and the Queen began to discuss a letter that was to be sent to the S’tari Kingdom. Kyellan turned to Senomar and unrolled his map across both their laps to point out the weaknesses he saw in the inner harbor gate.

Briana knelt alone before the heart-stone of the Temple. Three candles were all the light in the underground chamber, and they were nearly gone. The white flame of the Goddess that had burned above the altar stone had vanished. Briana was too exhausted to renew it. Her legs were numb in tendon and joint. Her back throbbed all down the spine. Her eyes burned with lack of sleep. She had not noted the passing of time, but she guessed that it was mid-morning.

Her fourth attempt to summon and bind Rahshaiya had been as futile as the previous ones. If she had known Ocasta would fail, Briana would have spent her efforts at midwinter on prayer and ritual instead of helping her friends get into the Tiranon to rescue the Queen. Now she feared it was too late. And although she knew she was the Goddess’s chosen First Priestess, she had not been confirmed in that position. Maybe that was why Rahshaiya would not come to her.

The Goddess was three-fold: Wiolai the Maiden and Cianya the Mother demanded only worship and celebration, but Rahshaiya the Death-Bringer was a darker spirit. Each midwinter She was reminded of all those who had died in the past year. It was hoped that those would be sacrifice enough to placate Her. A true First Priestess could bind Rahshaiya to a state of half-strength, in which She could still cause deaths, but not at Her every whim. Even then, with the aid of outside forces like the wizards and their Kharad, Rahshaiya could be released in the horror of war. The Death-Bringer had been granted more sacrifices in the past year than in the previous ten. She should have been satisfied, Briana thought. She should have been easily bound. Either Ocasta was very weak or she had not tried very hard.

Briana struggled to her feet before the heart-stone. She did not have the strength to draw on its peaceful Power to renew her body and mind. For the past few days, Briana had been drained to such an ebb that she could not have sensed the death of someone close to her in the next room. She had spent herself further in driving the alien spirit out of Arel’s corpse at the funeral.

Now sharp spikes of pain lanced through her knees and hips as she bent and gathered the candles to take them with her. The Temple of the Altar was still and silent as Briana climbed the stairs to the first level of the Great House.

Bright sunlight pooled in the hall and reflected off the white stonework in the walls and floor. Briana blinked rapidly, seeing a confusing display of streaks and sparks. A blurred white figure sprang up to take her elbow.

“Priestess,” a young girl’s voice said. “There is a messenger for you from the palace. From the Queen. She’s waiting in the Hall.”

Briana nodded. “How long has she been waiting?” The priestesses had orders not to disturb her. They would not acknowledge her First Priestess, but none of them dared attempt to call Rahshaiya, and they dared not interrupt Briana in her efforts.

“Not long. Perhaps an hour.” The girl was twelve years old or so. She was not pretty, but she had lustrous black hair that hung over the shoulders of her white novice robe, and she moved with grace.

“What is your name, daughter?”

“Erissa,” the girl said. “Priestess, may I ask you a question? They say that you are a dancer, and that you once danced a Dance of Binding. The teacher here won’t show me the steps. I don’t think she knows them herself. Could you teach them to me?”

Briana was surprised into silence. The Binding Dance. She had only danced it once, to bind Arel to the old First Priestess’s wishes at the Sanctuary. It was a pattern of steps that held dangerous Power. How could the priestesses here know of it?

“I know the dance,” she said at last. “If you know of it, Erissa, you know it is not a thing to be taught lightly. First I must see you dance. And I must get to know you, and know why you want to learn this.”

“You have to see if I’m worthy to learn it? I understand that. Come.” The girl smiled brilliantly. “I’ll take you to the Hall.”

Erissa took Briana’s arm, bearing part of her weight as if Briana were old and enfeebled. She needed the help. Her body only wanted to sleep. It would move only slowly. The two of them walked down the corridor, out of the Great House, and across the yard toward the public Temple Hall.

This was a way to begin, Briana thought. If she could win the trust and friendship of the novices, that would be something to build on. “I’ll come and see you dance as soon as I can,” she promised the girl. Erissa bowed and left her at the side door of the tall domed building where the funeral had been held.

Briana went inside. Alaira looked up at her from one of the front benches of the empty hall. They both smiled at the same time. Neither smile was quite sincere. Briana knew that Alaira feared she would someday take Kyellan back. For Briana’s own part she resented Alaira, and Kyellan for choosing to be with her. It was foolish, she knew, and wrong. She and Kyellan could not be together. The Goddess had decreed that. There was no reason they should both be miserable and alone.

“Good morning, Priestess.” Alaira got to her feet. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” There was an edge to her voice, and even without probing Briana could feel the hard mental shield the younger woman was using. Briana wondered what had prompted it. Alaira did not have much Power, and the shield was very strong. It must be tiring.

“I came as soon as I was told you were here. I’m sorry you had to wait. The novice told me you have a message from the Queen.”

Alaira nodded. “She has decided she needs to wait for a while, before having Duarnan get the Goddess’s blessing and having him crowned.” She trailed her fingers along the top of a polished bench. “She thought you’d want to know.”

Briana suddenly had to sit down. The stonework in the wall blurred and wavered before her gaze. “Why does she want to wait?” She closed her eyes.

“She wants to go slowly where the Temple is concerned, until they recognize you as First Priestess on their own … what’s the matter? Are you ill?” Alaira bent over Briana. Cool hands touched her forehead and the back of her neck, and a spicy scent of perfume overwhelmed her. “You’re very warm. Should I call someone?”

Briana took a deep breath, trying to calm her dizziness. “She … she mustn’t wait. Tell her we must have the ceremony now. I can’t give you a concrete reason, Alaira. But it’s very important. There is danger in waiting even another day.”

“I don’t think she’ll reconsider,” Alaira said. “Really, you look awful. Is it from the funeral? Kyellan said you drove the spirit out of Arel’s body, whatever it was. Is it a backlash from that? You should be asleep. I’ll go find someone to take you back to your room.”

Alaira left the hall out the door Briana had entered. She was not supposed to go there, but since she was a woman no one would be much upset by it. Briana blinked and willed her vision to clear. The hall was very quiet now. She wished she had the strength to go to Valahtia and argue with her in person. She felt a strong foreboding about the Queen’s child. The baby had been born midwinter night. That was part of it. It was not a good time for beginnings.

In a tiny cabin belowdecks on the wizards’ ship, Pima lay on her bunk in a trance of grief. The wizards had given her blankets and food. A seachest was bolted to the floor beside the bunk, padded to serve as a crib. Taryn and Cian lay inside, both crying fitfully. A lantern of flawed glass glowed in a corner, its oil getting low. A plate of food sat untouched beside the locked door.

From time to time in the past three days, the wizards had looked in on her. They had taken away her water and food and had brought fresh offerings, which she did not touch. They had taken Cian away for hours at a time, returning him with an aura of wizard Power around him like a golden mist. Briana would be angry, Pima thought. They had completely torn down his shields.

She had fed the two babies when she had the strength, but now she felt too weak to sit up. Their cries were distant. She whispered the priestesses’ chant of mourning, as she had done since they had put her here. Her voice was a rasp. She slept only a little, and when she did she relived Erlin’s death in her dreams. She did not know where the ship was. Somewhere on the way to Barena, the city the wizards had made their refuge. There was no porthole in the cabin, and she had little sense of time passing. She had guessed at the number of days by the meals the wizards brought and took away.

Pima was brought suddenly back to herself when she rolled off her bunk and fell hard onto the wooden floor by the seachest. The ship had begun to pitch and yaw, scarcely under control. There was shouting. Instead of the noise of a storm, there was heat and the crackle of fire. Pima got to her feet and steadied herself against the low ceiling, disoriented. A lurch of the cabin knocked her to her knees. She heard the words of desperate spells and sensed the clash of Power as if time had turned back and the war had begun all over again.

The lantern fell over and oil spilled, scattering flame. The hem of Pima’s robe caught fire. She sat down on the bunk and wrapped a blanket around her legs, smothering the little flames. She was not much burned, but the sharp heat against her skin cleared her mind. Dear Goddess, they were under attack, and by someone using Power. Maybe it was another group of wizards who wanted Cian for themselves. They would have to hurry or he would be dead, burned up along with Taryn and his foster mother.

The oil fire had caught the floorboards by the door. Pima leaned over from the bunk and lifted each baby out of the seachest. She set them down beside her and crouched on top of the bunk against the wall. “Goddess protect me, Goddess defend me,” she began the litany in a hoarse voice. The smoke made her cough as she breathed in again. “Wiolai, Cianya, Rahshaiya, see your servant here in need …”

The door burst open. It was one of the wizards, blackened and burned along one side of his handsome, pale face. He reached out across the knee-high flames. Pima moved almost without thought, slinging a baby onto each hip. “Hurry, girl! We can make it to one of the boats.” He threw his wet cloak over Pima and the two squirming babies. She crossed the fire quickly. It did not catch on her clothes.

The ship was caught in a furious storm of flame. Where the fire had caught the deck it was red-orange, but above that it towered in sparkling white. The Goddess’s Flame, Pima realized in disbelief. Another ship loomed in the billowing smoke alongside the wizards’ vessel. Boarding ladders had been flung down, and dark-skinned soldiers came over them with curved swords in hand. They were Syryni, Pima thought, but she was not sure. With them were a few women in black robes. The white fire came from the women’s upraised hands. They were Second Rank priestesses, driving the Barena wizards before them like children.

A soldier leaped out before Pima and the wizard who had rescued her. The wizard drew his own sword and the blades clashed. Pima had not recognized the wizard with the burns on his face. He was the one who had killed Erlin. He went down in a sudden spray of blood. The soldier looked across him. Pima realized that he could see Cian’s golden hair beneath her cloak. Her baby was a wizard, too.

Pima turned and ran aimlessly toward the wall of flame. Taryn screamed in her grasp, but Cian was quiet, stunned by the battle of Power. She could not lose them now, so soon after she had lost Erlin. She could not.

Someone stopped her with two hands on her shoulders. It was a slim girl her own age in a black priestess robe. White fire crackled from her fingers, burning Pima where she touched her. Pale green eyes met Pima’s, and with them came a name that was impossible. “Gemon?” Pima said. The other stepped back in surprise. “How … how did you get to Second Rank so quickly?” It was all she could think of to ask. They had been in the same novice class at the Sanctuary.

“No time to explain.” Gemon laughed. “No time. Come quickly.” She turned Pima around and hurried her toward the other ship’s ladders. “I thought Va’hindi only told us about the wizard ship so we could kill five wizards. But she guards you, too. I remember she took you and Erlin away after the battle at the Seat. She must have meant for us to rescue you. Were you a captive? Where is Erlin?”

“He’s dead. They wanted my baby.” Her head spun with weakness. The roar of flames, the shouts of the soldiers made her ears ring.

“Your baby?” Gemon turned again to look at what Pima carried. “The little dark-haired one … no, the other. A wizard! Did they capture you to nurse it? A powerful little thing.” She reached for Cian.

“No!” Pima leaped back with both babies caught up to her breast. Their feet dangled, and they wailed. “You won’t touch him. He’s mine, my son.”

“Pima, be sensible. It’s a wizard, not a human child.”

“You can’t kill him. He’s mine. He must live. I promised to keep him safe. She gave him to me to raise. Oh, please, Gemon, you have to let me keep him.”

“Who gave him to you?” Gemon grabbed the baby from Pima and held him up. Pima almost lost her grip on Taryn. “Who? Tell me quickly.”

“Briana. Give him back to me!” She began to weep. She could trust no one; there was nowhere safe to go.

Gemon held Cian under the arms. He kicked and screamed and glared at her with his yellow cat’s eyes, returning her hatred. “Briana? Briana’s child, the Shape-Changer’s son? Surely it can’t be this easy.” Gemon grinned fiercely at Pima. “It’s true? This is the child?”

“Yes, yes, but he’s mine now. Give him back. Please give him back.”

Gemon did so. Pima held both infants close, choking back her tears. The fires were burning nearer. The soldiers and priestesses were returning to their ship. All the wizards must have been killed. Gemon smiled. “The ship will burn down around us in a moment. Come, Pima. Bring your babies. They’ll be quite safe, both of them. I promise you.” She turned and led Pima toward the ladders through the smoke. “Come, old friend. We have a lot to talk about. I’m so glad I found you here. Va’shindi sent me, did I tell you that? She must have wanted me to find you, and the child. Briana’s child. Dear Goddess, what a weapon to use against her.”

Pima halted. She and Gemon had never been friends, she remembered. “You won’t hurt him?”

The pale eyes looked at her narrowly. “In Cianya’s name, and by my oath as priestess and head of the Hidden Temple, I give you my word.”

Chapter Four

It was late. Chela’s eyes opened and she woke abruptly. The nearest campfire burned low where the soldiers had cleared the ground of snow. The cold hurt her cheeks as she pulled the furs away from her face. They had left the forest yesterday, and the burned husk of Akesh was three days distant. A vast expanse of icy white plains stretched out around them. Stars brooded overhead in an immense sky, watching over the sleeping guards, featureless bundles of fur and blankets. The mules huddled close together at the edge of the encampment. They dozed on their feet, unwilling to lie down on the hard-packed snow. One watchman sat on a stone facing out away from Chela. Why had she wakened?

Gwydion’s thoughts answered her with a weak, wordless greeting. Chela nearly sat upright in shock. She caught herself in time and lay still, sending a reassuring answer back to him. He had come out of the spell backlash. Chela had been afraid he never would, that he might freeze to death in his weakened, unconscious state. He lay bound to a litter under piles of furs, fifty feet away from Chela near another campfire that had burned to faint coals. The litter was surrounded by sleeping soldiers.

Chela was not bound. She had been careful to let the soldiers believe her an innocent victim of the wizards. Her Power had regained its strength in the days of travel. Gwydion could not have chosen a better time to waken, she thought. The soldiers had driven themselves from dawn to long past sunset, and they slept like the dead tonight. The watchman was probably no more than half awake in the cold and the silence, since he had not gotten up to feed the fire that had gone out.

Gwydion was weak, and he would have to eat for several days to regain his Power after the backlash. But once the soldiers knew he was awake they would watch him more carefully. Now was the only time it might be possible to escape. Chela would have to rely on her own skills to get him free, and she would have to forget her dreams of revenge against the soldiers. Over the past days she had thought of all the ways men could die by magic, yet she knew that to kill Gwydion’s captors would be a waste of the strength she and the wizard would need merely to survive in a kingdom that wanted them dead.

The soldiers had given her blankets and furs and over-large warm clothes, all of which Chela wanted to take with her. For the moment she lay still. She cleared her sleepy mind and concentrated on shields and a shadowing spell. The spell would keep the soldiers from noticing her unless they were awake and looked straight at her. Even then, they would have to expect to see her for the spell to fail.

The shadow slipped over her like a shroud. She eased out of her blankets and pulled on her boots and her cloak. The cold bit through her heavy layered clothing, and the air stung her lungs and almost made her cough before she wrapped a scarf around her nose and mouth. She knelt again, rolled her bedding, and tied it to the pack the soldiers had given her. There was food in the pack, but not enough for both her and Gwydion. They would have to steal another.

There was always a link between her mind and Gwydion’s. He could see a little of their surroundings through her eyes, but Chela was careful to shield her memories from him. He knew he was a captive, but he did not know what had happened at Akesh or why he had been taken. Chela would tell him about the massacre, but not until they were far away from the soldiers. She did not want him to get himself killed in his fury when he learned what they had done.

Chela strapped her pack onto her back and got to her feet. The wind-scoured snow creaked beneath her boots. She eyed the sentry warily. He was only a dim silhouette in the darkness, hooded and cloaked with his back to her. She guessed he was asleep. He had not moved since she had first opened her eyes. But if he heard something he would look, expecting to see someone moving, and Chela’s spell would be useless.

The soldiers lay in heaps, huddled together for warmth. Chela picked her way between them. She walked very slowly, toe to heel, concentrating on silence and darkness. She stopped suddenly once, seeing a soldier’s reddened face peeking out from his blankets. He was asleep, though, breathing hoarsely. He had probably been stifled beneath the furs, but like this his cheeks would be frostbitten before morning. Chela moved quietly on.

Finally she reached Gwydion’s litter. The wizard was a formless mass beneath piled skins. The soldiers needed him alive, so they had tried to keep him warm. Chela glanced at the sentry again. He was motionless, as stiff as a stone lion guarding a castle gate. Chela knelt down and dug into the furs, reached blankets, and lifted them where Gwydion’s face should be.

The young wizard was scarcely recognizable. His golden hair was hidden beneath a knitted cap. The top half of his face was covered by a blindfold, and the lower half disappeared under a gag and a wrapped scarf. Only his nose poked up. Chela felt an awful urge to laugh. Instead she pulled her own muffler aside and bent down to kiss the tip of Gwydion’s nose. Amusement and impatience filtered through her shields with the wizard’s thoughts.

The blindfold came off easily. Golden eyes opened and looked at her. Chela felt a wave of dizziness that was not her own, and Gwydion’s eyes closed again for a moment. She hurried to untie the gag and the cloth strip that had bound his jaw tightly closed. He had a three-days’ growth of beard, which must have itched terribly under the cloth. Chela kissed his parched lips. Gwydion smiled, but did not try to speak.

Ropes bound him to the litter’s wooden framework. He lay half on his side, his hands tied behind his back and covered with thick mittens, his feet tied together with furs wrapped around them. The soldiers had taken him from his bed. He still wore his nightclothes.

Chela peeled the mittens from Gwydion’s bound hands. The soldiers must have taken his gloves, the thin leather gloves she had made him and that he always wore. His hands were bare, twisted and knotted with the scars he had carried since the flesh of his palms had been burned away by a demon’s poison. Ropes were knotted tightly around his wrists and forearms, and thin twine had been wrapped around his fingers to bind them together, doubtless so he could not move them in magical signs. The skin on his wrists was swollen and bruised. The knots were frozen.

Chela took off her own gloves and went to work. She had no knife, and did not dare try to steal one from one of the sleeping soldiers. Gods, it was cold. Her fingers grew numb almost instantly. Gwydion had begun to shiver without the furs piled on top of him. Chela looked over at the watchman. He was oblivious. She tugged at the harsh, frozen strands of rope. The knots would not give. She could have wept with frustration if it had not been too cold for tears.

A picture rose in her mind. Gwydion’s doing, Chela supposed. He showed her a tiny flame as if from a sparked flint, melting ice and fraying rope. A fire-spell. Chela knew the theory, but she had only used it to light the great fires in the hearths of Akesh. She did not know how to make it any smaller. Symbols began to form in her mind, like the patterns the wizard teachers had used with the apprentices. Gwydion was showing her how. He was showing her the paths the spell-energy must take. Chela had it. She leaned over and kissed his cheek, then squatted back on her heels beside the litter and tried to concentrate.

Her hands were too cold. She crossed them over her chest and stuck them in her armpits, and tried to block out all awareness but the thought of fire. Her shadowing spell vanished almost immediately. She refused to think about the danger of discovery. The little fire lit the patterns in her mind, limited by the bindings Gwydion had shown her. Chela pulled her hands free and held them cupped together. At first her skin only itched. Then it began to get warm, then hot, and then the flame appeared just above her palms.

Chela leaned forward with the tiny fire and held it to the knots. Rope blackened and began to fray bit by bit. The steady spark glowed against Gwydion’s skin, raising blisters, but the wizard did not move his hands until the cluster of wrist-knots had broken. Chela transferred the fire to one hand and used the other to unbind the wrappings that bound his fingers together. Then she moved carefully down to his feet.

Pushing the furs aside, Chela burned through the knots there. Then she worked on the ropes that held Gwydion to the framework of the litter. When she finished her hands were blue with cold and she was shaking with the effort of controlling the fire-spell. She let the little flame go out, and reached down to the core of her Power to renew her shadowing spell to hide herself and the wizard.

Gwydion had pulled the soldiers’ mittens back over his hands. Now he bent over his feet, wrapping furs around each of them and binding them with the frayed ropes from his wrists and ankles. He pulled the largest fur rug around him like a cloak and replaced the woven scarf that had hidden his face. The wooden lattice of the litter creaked with each movement.

The sentry yawned and got to his feet. Chela and Gwydion froze and watched. The man glanced toward the burned-out fire, sighed deeply, and knelt beside his pack to undo its straps and take wood from the store he carried. It would take him some time to start the fire in the cold and damp. He would be preoccupied. Chela put a hand on Gwydion’s knee to hold him still until the sentry had crouched over the lifeless coals and was fumbling for his flint and steel.

Now. Chela helped Gwydion to his feet at the edge of the litter. The young wizard swayed a little, dizzy and in pain, his face above the muffler tight with effort. Chela kept a hold on his arm, half supporting him. Together they started to walk through the maze of sleeping soldiers. Chela wanted to scream and wake them up. She wanted to open the hidden part of her memories and see Gwydion’s fury, see him destroy the murderers who had burned his beloved College to the ground. She did not do this. It would not work the way she wished. It would only get them both killed. Gwydion’s Power needed food before it would recover, and she was already quivering with the backlash from her fire-spell and the shadow she fought to maintain around them.

The icy stars over the broad plain were all that noticed them. Chela was sure the sentry and all the sleeping soldiers must hear the shuffling noises of their weary steps in the snow, must feel their trembling and their fear. Yet no one stopped them. At the edge of the camp Gwydion picked up the last soldier’s pack. Chela helped him strap it onto his back. They left the huddled bodies of their captors and moved slowly toward the line of dozing mules.

Chela felt Gwydion extend a gentle probe toward the animals. The mules looked at them and made no sounds. They watched with sleepy interest as the two exhausted people came across the snowfield toward them. Gwydion had always been good with animals, Chela remembered. It did not require much Power to gain their trust and learn to control them, but it was a talent not all wizards had.

The mules were not picketed. They were too well trained to stray. Chela picked a sturdy-looking one and saddled it. Beside her, Gwydion did the same. The other mules in the cluster crowded around them, nosing at them, breathing curiously into their faces with white puffs of warm air. All the animals wore halters with lead ropes wrapped around their necks. Their bridles were bundled up in furs with the sleeping soldiers, to keep the leather supple and the bits warm. With Gwydion’s control over them, the halters would be enough.

They mounted. Chela fit her mule well. Gwydion’s legs dangled down below the barrel of his mount, but the animal was strong enough to carry a much heavier man. Gwydion urged the mules away. The rest of the animals followed in a long line, nose to tail, as if led on a string. They walked slowly from the camp while the soldiers slept. The sentry got his fire burning and went back to his rock to sit and stare in the wrong direction.

Gwydion turned them east in a wide circuit away from the camp. He was taking them back toward the forest and Akesh. Chela said nothing until they were far away from their captors and dawn was brightening the plain. Then she let down her guards and showed him everything. The children’s pain, the futile stand of the old men, Gwydion’s capture, the ancient College in flames.

The wizard was strangely silent. Chela told him who the soldiers were and who had sent them. He still did not respond, and he cut off his mind from hers so she could not read his thoughts.

It was mid-morning when Gwydion suddenly turned his mule’s head. Chela’s mount followed, not caring in what direction it plodded. The contented train of the rest of the mules swerved into formation, headed due west, back the way they had come. All Chela wanted to do by then was sleep, after the Power she had used up in their escape. She felt suddenly afraid. “Where are we going? Not back there to the soldiers’ camp?”

Gwydion shook his head. “The land will take care of them for us.” His voice was as brittle as the crust of snow beneath the mules’ hooves. “We’re going to Atolan. To the fortress outside it. The court of King Marayn, the man who ordered it done.”

He would not speak any more. He would not answer any other questions. Chela was cold with fear for him, for herself, for anyone they might meet on their way. Yet she would follow him. There was nothing else for her to do.

Arel’s funeral had been six days ago. Kyellan was attending the Queen’s morning court for the first time since then. He would have preferred to stay away longer. He had grown very tired of the timid nobility and their efforts to convince him they had forgotten what had happened at the Temple. Even the man whose knife had cut Kyellan’s back smiled at him and nodded when their paths crossed. Kyellan tried to keep far from the places where the nobles clumped together.

Court was the worst such meeting place, but he had a petition for Valahtia to consider. He wanted to hold some military exercises in the Dhalen Meadows across the river to the north of the city. The Meadows were a royal hunting preserve—gentle, hilly grasslands where nothing would interfere with his troops. His men needed the work, but the Royal Huntsman refused them access to his domain.

So he came to court, rolled parchment in hand. Mirrem the Chamberlain nodded to him in the anteroom and waved him on into the audience hall, over the protests of merchants and commoners who had been waiting for hours to see the Queen. Guardsmen saluted as Kyellan passed the tall doors, carved of marble with ivory inlays. With the bright costumes of the nobles, the banners and tapestries that covered the walls, and the ruby-and-emerald-encrusted throne, the hall was a riot of colors. Kyellan wore his dress uniform, mended by a palace seamstress, with the golden sash that proclaimed his rank. He did not look as out of place as he felt.

Valahtia sparkled on her throne. Tobas sat beside her on his smaller and less elaborate chair, leaning forward with a smile for the group of men that clustered in front of the royal couple. The men were envoys from the Earl of Erinon, sent to congratulate Valahtia on regaining her kingdom. Erinon had remained loyal to her during her imprisonment. The Earl’s oldest son had been Valahtia’s page, and he had died the day Arel took the throne, killed trying to keep soldiers from entering the Queen’s chambers.

The envoys bowed to take their leave. Kyellan moved forward to present his petition formally, but the doors behind him opened suddenly and Mirrem hurried past. The Chamberlain’s expression was uncharacteristically nervous. His robe of office billowed behind him as he rushed to the throne and spoke to the Queen and Consort in a low voice. Valahtia and Tobas dismissed the Erinon envoys and listened worriedly.

After a moment, Mirrem turned back down the aisle. He stopped at Kyellan’s side. “Commander, can you get the hall cleared, and gather an honor guard?”

“What is it?”

“A herald from Keris, from Werlinen. The Queen wants to speak with him privately, but he insists on being received in the audience hall. At least we can get the others out first. He can’t complain if he gets diplomatic honors. Do you have enough men at hand?”

“Not in dress uniforms.” The Crown Prince Werlinen, ruler of the small kingdom of Keris, was a foolish little man Kyellan had met once at Altimar. Arel had planned to marry Valahtia to him. It was not the least of her triumphs as Queen that she had escaped being Werlinen’s wife.

“It doesn’t matter.” Mirrem shook his head. “Do what you can. I’ll try to stall the herald.” As the Chamberlain spoke, the man he had just announced strode past the guards and into the hall.

The herald was a big man whose plump body was tailored into a close-fitting suit of bright blue livery. The yellow Kerisian rose adorned his chest, his short cloak, and the head of his staff. He had thick brown hair that swept straight back from his low forehead. The guardsmen stationed inside the doors stepped forward at Kyellan’s nod to block the man’s way.

“A moment, sir,” Mirrem said coolly. “We have not yet arranged to receive you properly.” The nobles in the hall muttered to one another curiously.

“I’ll be heard now or not at all,” the Kerisian said in a soft accent. “Your Majesty?” He raised his voice. “Will you tell them to let me pass?”

The Queen’s face was pale, but she nodded. Kyellan sent the guards to open a wide path for the herald, and he fell in with three of his men to walk close behind the big man as he approached the throne.

The herald stopped at a respectful distance. The Queen cleared her throat. “We welcome you to Caerlin, my lord. The badge of the Avolla house is known to us. There is friendship between our family and yours, and there are ties of respect between our kingdom and the land of Keris. For your Prince’s sake and for your own, you are welcome.”

Kyellan had not noticed the man wearing a house badge. But then, he knew little of heraldry. Valahtia’s courtesy did not seem to please the herald. He frowned, and shot a contemptuous look at Tobas before he spoke.

“Neither my Prince nor I recognize ties of house-friendship with Valahtia des Ardavan.” He was of the royal house, then, and his badge was the yellow rose. “Not while she sits with a man she names her Consort, in open defiance of her betrothal with Werlinen of Keris.”

Valahtia frowned, and Tobas scowled. “My late brother made such an agreement with Keris,” the Queen said. “It was against my wishes. I am not free to marry. I have bound myself to my Royal Consort, Earl Tobas of Laenar, and my son the Crown Prince is his child.”

“The Prince Werlinen possesses a letter marked with your sign and seal, stating that you agree to marry him upon a date that should be set between you.” The herald produced a rolled scroll and handed it to the Chamberlain. “This is a copy of that letter. Do you deny having written it?”

“Mirrem, bring it to me,” Valahtia said sharply. The Chamberlain bowed and presented the scroll to her. She unrolled it and looked down at it for a moment. “It is my signature, but my brother Arel wrote the letter itself.” She looked down at the herald with steely anger in her eyes. “Arel had falsely given me to believe that Earl Tobas was in prison, and that he would be put to death if I did not agree to the betrothal. Yes, I signed it. If Crown Prince Werlinen is a man of honor, he will not hold me bound by this.”

“Then you refuse the marriage with Keris?”

“I do refuse it.”

“You make it more difficult for yourself.” The man’s contempt was plain in his voice now. “My Prince hoped you would abide by your word. But if you refused to honor the betrothal, he instructed me to tell you these things. The holy First Priestess Ocasta has granted Werlinen of the Avolla House of Keris the Goddess’s blessing to rule Caerlin.”

“What?” Tobas rose from his seat at the Queen’s side. “She would not dare.”

“It is madness,” Valahtia said. “Werlinen has no claim to my throne.”

The hall was utterly quiet. Kyellan glanced around at the courtiers. Some seemed surprised and some did not. Kyellan found that he was not really unprepared for this. It seemed the fulfillment of Briana’s warnings.

“The late King Arel died without issue or declared heir,” said the herald. “By the laws of the Council of Royalty, his nearest male relative is his sister’s betrothed husband. Werlinen has the Goddess’s blessing. He will come to Caerlin to be crowned its King, uniting the Ardavan throne with the throne of Keris.”

“Ocasta is not the true First Priestess,” Tobas said furiously. “Werlinen was never truly betrothed to the Queen. This claim is based on falsehood. You cannot expect us to honor it.”

“The Crown Prince and the First Priestess expect only that the law of the Kingdoms and the Goddess will be obeyed. Further, they demand that the pretender Briana be arrested to stand trial for her crimes. The Earl of Laenar must return to his city and renounce all claim to being the consort of Valahtia des Ardavan, and he must take with him the child who is nothing more than the illegitimate heir to the Laenar estates. Lastly, they demand that the accused murderer of King Arel be brought to trial.” The herald made a short bow. “Those are the conditions. I shall await your reply.”

Tobas moved forward. “If you expect us to …”

“We must take counsel with our advisors,” Valahtia said, smoothly interrupting her Consort. “We will have a reply for you by evening, envoy of Keris.”

“The Crown Prince is prepared to defend his rights by force,” said the herald.

“I am sure that he is. Good day. Chamberlain, please dismiss morning court. No more petitions will be heard today. Commander Kyellan, Earl Tobas, will you attend me?” She rose from the throne with regal grace. Tobas took her arm, glaring at the smug herald. Kyellan hurried to walk behind them out a side door into the royal gardens. The throne room erupted into shouting the moment the door closed behind them.

The garden was deserted. The only sound was the splash of fountains in marble pools and the quick thud of their footsteps on the white cobbled path. The morning sun was gentle overhead. “Why did you tell him you need to take counsel?” Tobas demanded. “Surely you have no doubts of your answer to his nonsense.”

“I wanted to delay him. We have little time to prepare as it is.” The icy calm had left the young Queen’s voice, and it shook. “Don’t you see, Tobas? It will mean war. The war we didn’t have with Arel.”

“I think you’re right,” Kyellan said, moving to walk at the left side of the Queen. “They have Ocasta to urge them on. She probably has them convinced Valahtia threw her out of the Temple and made her swim across Cavernon Bay. She’s the First Priestess. They’ll think they have the Goddess on their side.”

“Damn my brother,” Valahtia said fiercely. “It’s as if he’s still working against me. Goddess, I hate him.”

“He is dead.” Tobas put an arm around her waist. “It wasn’t even his spirit at the funeral, according to Briana.”

“Whoever it was accused Kyellan of killing him. Now even if we tell them what really happened, they probably won’t believe it. And if Werlinen somehow takes the throne he’ll kill you.” She looked back at Kyellan miserably. “He’ll marry me and exile Tobas, and he’ll kill you.”

“He would in any case, since I’ll lead your army against him,” Kyellan said. “Don’t worry about that now, my Queen.”

“Do you want your council right away?” Tobas asked.

Valahtia nodded. “Yes. Yes, we must give the herald something to take back with him. Kyellan, I want your division captains, and the captain of the wall guard. Tobas, send for Senomar and Istam. I want them both in my chambers by midday. And two or three of the older noblemen, to keep them happy. Choose for yourself. I’ll have Alaira go to Briana again, and tell her we should have listened to her from the beginning. If it isn’t too late, we’ll have Duarnan receive the Goddess’s blessing tonight for all the court to see.”

The Queen went up to her rooms. Kyellan and Tobas headed through the yards and gardens toward the northeastern part of the palace, the barracks and the builder’s quarters where Senomar would be found. Anyone who saw the two dark-haired young men together could have guessed that they were old friends. They moved with the same easy stride, and had the same soldier’s bearing. Kyellan was half a head taller and two years older. He had been Tobas’s commanding officer in the old Royal Guard. They had gone through the S’tari campaigns and the first stages of the war with the wizards as inseparable as brothers. That had changed since Tobas had inherited his father’s title and had become the Queen’s consort. They were still close, but it was not the same as before. Kyellan missed it.

Over hedges and low garden walls, they could see the long buildings of the army barracks, the military hospital, and the tall prison tower with its high wall. They reached an inner palace gate, and the sergeant on duty saluted Kyellan and bowed to Tobas before he let them through.

“Istam will know if we still have spies at Werlinen’s court,” Tobas mused aloud. “Maybe there will be something they can do.”

“There is something,” Kyellan said quietly, so as not to be overheard by passing gardeners and pages. “If we had done it with Arel we’d be better off now. We should send assassins. Stop Werlinen’s cause before it’s well begun.”

Tobas nodded slowly. “I agree with you, but Valahtia won’t. I never could convince her to have Arel killed. She won’t agree to it now with Werlinen.”

“Arel was her brother. Werlinen is only an enemy. He’s unmarried, he has no heirs. With him dead, the succession would go back to Valahtia, even in the eyes of the Council of Royalty.”

“She’ll never do it.”

“Yet she’d be relieved if he was dead.” Kyellan saw Captain Narden ahead, walking with several aides toward the army stables. The highborn officer was one they would have to bring to the council. “We should discuss this with Istam.” The old man was the Queen’s unofficial spymaster.

“You mean do it anyway, without the Queen’s permission?”

“Only the three of us need to know we’ve sent anyone. If the assassins fail, no one needs to be any wiser. If they succeed, there won’t be a war.”

Tobas grinned wryly. “Briana would be horrified.”

“She’d only call me a servant of Rahshaiya,” Kyellan said. “I’m used to that. It doesn’t matter.”

“I wonder if Ocasta’s blessing will be strong enough to turn a blade, or detect poison.” Tobas’s boyish face was thoughtful.

“Somehow I don’t think it will be.”

Chapter Five

Distant lanterns shone through the early morning fog in a necklace of lights around the Cavernon City harbor. The damage the wizards had done to the outer sea wall had been repaired. Two new towers rose from either end of the largest harbor on narrow necks of land that thrust out into the huge bay. The fleet of thirty warships was moored between the towers. Behind the inner harbor wall flocked an assortment of merchant ships newly fitted for war and fishing boats painted dull grey with black masts to serve as spy vessels and blockade runners. Kyellan did not know if it would be enough.

The Commander walked the ramparts where the sea wall climbed up onto the land. Ahead of him to the north, it snaked over low city hills and curved around the southern shore of the rivermouth. Dock warehouses, inns, tenements where sailors and laborers lived with their families, all crowded up against the wall on the landward side. The flat roofs of those buildings could be used by archers if the wall was breached. Some might even support Senomar’s defensive engines.

The wall itself had been broadened and strengthened from the foundation up. New mortar and sharpredged stones paved the ramparts, not yet worn down by years of guards’ patrols. At the base of the wall the earth was loose and muddy. Recent rain had disturbed the ground. It would have to be packed down again, Kyellan noted.

A week had passed since Valahtia had sent Werlinen’s herald back to his master. There was no response yet from Keris. Nothing had come yet from the three men Kyellan had sent to follow the herald, either, but that was to be expected. It would take the assassins time to find the best way to reach the Crown Prince.

If he was Werlinen, Kyellan thought, he would invade without a formal declaration of war, as quickly as he could muster enough troops and ships. Tobas and the division captains agreed that was likely. None of them could agree on the place Werlinen would choose for his landing. The garrisons at Erinon and Laenar had each been strengthened by one of Caerlin’s seven divisions. Two divisions remained in Cavernon City, and the other three had set up an armed camp ten miles north of the river in the Dhalen Meadows. The old Royal Huntsman was furious with the Queen for allowing his preserve to be thus invaded.

Kyellan had felt restless this morning. He had awakened before dawn. Alaira had scarcely noticed his leaving, as he went out to walk the perimeter of the great city, starting at the lower harbors. He had decided to make a surprise inspection of the wall guards. Most of them had gone on shift just after midnight. They walked patrols in pairs every fifteen minutes from the small guardhouses set on the ramparts. So far the men Kyellan had encountered were alert enough to recognize him before they saw his face, though he wore a dark cloak and bore no lantern. They knew his long stride and the way he carried his sword, low in its curved sheath.

The soldiers of Fifth Division were on guard detail this week. Like the rest of the army, most were mercenaries. Kyellan had hired them twice: once in Valahtia’s first reign, and again after Arel’s death. They were good men, but there were not enough of them. All the divisions were undermanned. There had been few volunteers from the city or the surrounding land since word had spread that Werlinen had the Goddess’s blessing to rule the kingdom.

Half a mile from the last guard post and with the next one still well ahead, Kyellan rounded a bend in the wall as it rose up the slope of a low hill. A cold, moist wind thinned the fog here and chilled his skin. He turned up the collar of his cloak. Just ahead, the wall sagged abruptly. A pile of rubble sloped downward from ramparts that were only a few feet wide. In this section the wall was supposed to be twelve feet thick.

By the light of a single, shrouded lantern, two men were working at the base of the collapsed section, moving rocks and wedging crowbars to pry more loose. Something must have been set badly in the foundation. The stonework was new.

“Good morning,” Kyellan said, starting to climb down the untidy slope of stones. “You’re at your labor early. What’s the trouble here?”

The two men dropped rocks and crowbars and whirled toward him as if they had been caught robbing a grave. Their faces were pale and sweaty beneath damp hoods. One swept his cloak back and drew a short, straight sword, holding it underhanded like a knife fighter. The other picked up the crowbar he had dropped in his surprise.

Kyellan stopped halfway down the slope. They were saboteurs—Werlinen’s men, or local sympathizers. He drew his rapier and waited for the attack. Both of the laborers were hulking men. Kyellan hoped they would be as slow and awkward as they looked, but he knew how foolish it could be to underestimate big men. If they had agility along with their strength, he would be in trouble.

At six foot two he was taller than either of them, and the jagged slope gave him still more advantage. Kyellan parried the first swipe of the short sword and kicked its wielder in the chest. The saboteur staggered back a few steps, shaking his head, but he did not drop his blade or go down.

The pile of rocks shifted a little as Kyellan recovered from his kick and twisted away from a two-handed blow by the man with the crowbar. He turned a full circle and brought his rapier down low, slashing a shallow cut along the man’s ribs. The crowbar caught his sword a glancing blow and nearly knocked it out of his hands. The shock numbed Kyellan’s wrists and set the blade to vibrating. If they had met full on, the sword would probably have broken. His enemy muttered an unfamiliar curse and climbed higher.

Loose paving-stones gave way beneath Kyellan and he lost his footing. He slid down in a shower of rock, straight into the other man’s legs, and they fell together to the muddy earth below the wall. Kyellan scrambled to his feet, evading the crowbar, and found himself facing the swordsman again.

The saboteur moved like a knife-fighter. He made slashing lunges and sprang back again, his hands held wide apart as if to distract his opponent’s blade, then brought close, then wide again. Kyellan would not have wanted to face him with a knife, but against a rapier the man’s defense was ludicrous. Kyellan’s blade swept in and down across the saboteur’s sword arm and sliced it to the bone. Blood spurted. The man dropped his short sword and clutched his forearm, staggering away. He did not cry out, but his breath sounded harsh and labored in the still, moist air.

The crowbar came down hard across Kyellan’s back. The breath was knocked out of him as the force of the blow drove him to his knees. He twisted on one knee and pointed his sword backward. The crowbar wielder slashed himself on it coming in for another blow. The rapier blade cut him deeply across his ribcage. The man stared down at the seeping blood, seeming not to comprehend that he was hurt. Then he sat down abruptly, still holding the crowbar in one hand.

Kyellan got to his feet, gasping for air. His back throbbed. He was bruised from his fall down the pile of rocks, and was covered with mud and stone-dust. The man with the slashed forearm leaned against the wall a few feet away, watching him; the man cut across the ribs sat staring at the ground. “You’re both under arrest,” Kyellan said. He prodded the seated man with the point of his sword. “We’re going to the palace. Start walking.”

The hood of the saboteur’s cloak had fallen back, revealing matted brown curls. The man looked up wide-eyed. “I’m hurt,” he said in a Kerisian accent. There was no doubt he was one of Werlinen’s people.

Kyellan used his belt knife to cut strips of cloth from the hem of one of the men’s cloaks. “Bind your wounds with these. There are doctors at the Tiranon.” He glared at the man clutching his arm. “You, too. Move.” They did.

Tobas stalked scowling into the tower room. His tunic was half-laced, and he had thrown his cloak over it without a surcoat. The messenger must have caught him still getting ready for morning audiences. His gaze swept over the two captives bound in their chairs, the smoking brazier and barred windows, the two guardsmen, the prison warden, and Kyellan.

“There’s a doctor in the hall. He told me you brought these men in wounded and haven’t allowed him to treat them. That’s all we need. More charges for Werlinen to bring against us.”

The warden, an aging officer named Ruwan, had let himself get grossly fat and slow since his days of serving in the army of Valahtia’s father. He looked nervous at Tobas’s words. Kyellan glared at him warningly. “They’re spies, my lord,” he said. “Saboteurs. I caught them undermining part of the wall. How do you expect me to treat them?” The makeshift bandages were soaked through, but the men were not on the verge of bleeding to death.

“We aren’t at war yet. We have to move carefully.” Tobas turned to face the prisoners, who looked at him hopefully. “Are you sure they’re spies?”

“I thought they were a pair of Senomar’s builders, until they tried to kill me.” The swollen band across his back ached with every breath. He did not think any ribs were cracked, but when this was finished he would let the doctor look at it.

Tobas still seemed unconvinced. The bound men searched his handsome, boyish face and found only sympathy there. “What harm would it be to have their wounds tended to? They might be more cooperative.”

“Out of gratitude?” Kyellan said scornfully. “They’re spies. They know what the penalty is for that. If they talk, they can live a little longer. If they don’t, I might as well kill them now. Unless the Royal Consort chooses to interfere?” He gave the title a drawling emphasis.

Tobas flushed. “I don’t have any authority over you, Commander. Not without an order from the Queen. And you know it.” He was very good at this. Kyellan knew no one better to play the kind interrogator, the prisoners’ hope for salvation.

“The security of the city is my business,” Kyellan said. “Believe me, my lord, we can’t afford to show any weakness.”

“You’d kill these men just to make an example of them?” Tobas said.

“They’ve already given me more reason than that.”

“My lord …” one of the prisoners ventured. He was the one with the wound in his side. His voice showed his pain.

“If you have anything to say, you say it to me,” Kyellan said harshly.

Tobas went over to the man. “What is it? Listen, I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything for you.”

“You can appeal to the Queen,” said the saboteur plaintively. “You said so. An order from the Queen would keep him from killing us.”

“And why should the Queen let you live?” Kyellan said. “You’re useless to us. Her Majesty isn’t as softhearted as her consort.”

The two men in the chairs looked at each other. After a moment, the man with the bandaged arm said, “We might be of some use. We know things she might want to hear.”

“I doubt that you can tell us anything we don’t already know. Werlinen wouldn’t trust important information to men he sent to break down walls.” Kyellan walked over to the brazier, drew his knife, and laid its blade in the fire. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me whatever it is soon enough.”

“Wait,” said the man with the slashed ribs. “Wait. If the Queen gives us our lives, we’ll tell you when our Prince is going to invade your country. And where he’ll land his men.”

“The Queen will want to hear this,” Tobas said with sudden resolve. “Commander, surely you agree. We must go to her at once, and let her decide what we should do with these men. They may be too important to throw away.”

“I think they’re lying. They don’t know the Prince’s plans.”

“I swear to you …” one began.

“I think you should let the Queen decide it,” Ruwan said ponderously, folding his arms over his huge stomach.

“If they’re telling the truth,” Tobas said, “we could win the war at the beginning.”

“They’ll tell me anyway,” Kyellan said.

“They’re weakened already. They might die under torture. Be reasonable. If we hurry, we can catch Valahtia before she convenes morning court.”

Kyellan allowed himself to be convinced. He sheathed his heated knife with a show of reluctance, ordered the guards to watch the prisoners closely, and left the room with Tobas. With the door still open, the prisoners saw Tobas’s whispered orders to the doctor waiting in the corridor. As soon as Kyellan was out of sight down the hall, the doctor went in to tend their wounds.

Kyellan slowed his pace at the top of the tower stairs until Tobas caught up with him. The younger man’s face was red, and he glared at Kyellan as if he really was angry. “Gods, I hate doing that.”

“I don’t enjoy it. But it has to be done.” Kyellan started down the steep stairway.

“What if they didn’t agree to talk? Would you have tortured them?”

“Of course not. I didn’t have any idea they’d know anything of value.” Kyellan shook his head, trying to throw off the cold cruelty of his role in the tower room. It had been less difficult than usual to play that role with men who had tried to kill him, spies he had captured himself. “I’m still not sure I believe them. When and where Werlinen will invade should be a closely guarded secret.”

“With any other Prince, maybe. Werlinen is a fool. I remember him from Altimar. He probably announced his plans to his entire kingdom.”

The lowest level of the prison tower was a small-scale barracks for the guards. The men on duty hurried to unlock the doors to let Kyellan and Tobas out. The morning shift was just getting dressed. Outside the tower, the sun was beginning to clear the air of fog. Though it was only two weeks after midwinter, the day promised to be warm. There was a small walled yard around the tower, and a gallows scaffold stood in the shadows in one corner. Beneath the packed earth of the yard, the more important prisoners awaited trial in the dungeons. They might wait for a long time. The Queen was too busy to deal with them now.

“We need to know whether or not the spies are lying,” Kyellan said. Guards opened the high gate in the prison wall. They came out in the middle of the First Division barracks, long rows of empty stone buildings. The first three divisions of the army were encamped in the Dhalen Meadows. “I’m not going to commit troops anywhere without some surety.”

“If we still had Gwydion or Chela, I’d have them there when the spies talk.” Tobas sighed. “For those of us without Power, I guess we’ll have to take their word.”

Kyellan smiled suddenly. “You’re right. We need someone with Power. Let the spies sweat for a while, Tobas, and wait until I get back. I’m going to the Temple. If Briana isn’t willing to come back with me, maybe she’ll at least let me have a few priestesses.”

“Good. I’ll be with Valahtia. Send for me when you return, and I’ll come see what your spies have to say.”

Briana leaned against a window in the Dances room, breathing hard, watching as the young novice Erissa attempted to repeat the sequence of steps she had just been shown. The girl’s black hair whirled above her white robe as she twirled and leaped, gracefully but without precision. Briana could sense potential Power in Erissa’s dancing, but the novice had been badly trained. The teacher at the Cavernon Temple was more concerned with creating a pretty effect from her dancers than she was with the substance of ritual.

Erissa bent into the final posture of the sequence. She looked at Briana, and frowned. “You didn’t like it.”

“You move well. But more than half the time you forgot the steps I showed you, and I don’t think your arms were ever where they were supposed to be.”

The twelve-year-old sat down on the polished wooden floor to stretch her legs. “I thought I came pretty close. I only saw you do it once.”

“If I decide to teach you the Binding Dance I can only show it to you once, as a diagram of steps drawn in the sand and then swept clean. You have to learn how to memorize such a pattern immediately. If you ever have to perform the Binding Dance you’d better do it right the first time. If you make a mistake, the Power you’re dealing with can lash back at you, kill you, or drive you mad.”

Erissa looked up at Briana, her eyes bright. “Does that mean you’ll teach it to me?”

“You have the potential. I won’t promise anything, Erissa. But I would like to work with you.”

The girl smiled. “I’ve never seen anyone dance the way you do. You’re so much better than Jeren. Why don’t you take over from her and teach the Dances? They aren’t going to recognize you as First Priestess, not now that Ocasta has shown up in Keris. You ought to be doing something important.”

Briana watched the girl suddenly flush and search for an apology. “There are many who would agree with you,” Briana said, not angry. “But I am First Priestess. Ocasta is not. That is the Goddess’s choice, and eventually the Temple will realize it.”

Someone knocked on the outer door of the Dances room. Erissa leaped up to answer it. A messenger novice peered inside, a thin, pale girl, younger than Erissa. “Priestess, the Army Commander is at the gate,” the messenger said. “He says he must speak with you. We told him you were busy, but he said he would wait there until you came.”

Briana’s immediate impulse was to refuse to see him. She dismissed that as foolish. No doubt it was important, or Kyellan would not have come himself. She should have enough self-control to speak to him without fear of betraying herself. If she was truly First Priestess and committed to her vows, she should have the strength to ignore her old love.

When the prisoners had finished their confession, Briana pushed her way forward. “I’ll need a moment with them alone,” she said. Tobas and Ruwan nodded and left the room. The guards and Kyellan hesitated, watching the bound men warily.

The two Kerisians had given their captors a list of traitors, men they were supposed to have contacted in Cavernon City, as well as the news of Werlinen’s military plans. Briana already knew they were not lying. They were too weak and exhausted to mask their emotions from any trained observer. Briana’s quick probe with Power had assured her the men believed what they said to be true.

“I’ll leave a guard,” Kyellan said. He, too, was tired and in pain, but Briana had no sympathy for him today.

“I’ll be quite safe,” she said, unable to keep her irritation from her voice. “I won’t take long.”

Kyellan shrugged, and gestured to his guardsmen. They left the room. He followed them and closed the door, not latching it. Briana was sickened by the condition of the two spies. Their wounds had been tended, but not before they had lost an unnecessary amount of blood. They had been sitting in these straight-backed chairs for at least two hours, bound with cruelly tight ropes. The prison room stank of blood and fear and pain. Briana wished she had not agreed to come here.

The big man with the bandaged arm looked up at her with an odd trust in his eyes. Perhaps he worshipped the Goddess. He had no fear of the young priestess he saw before him. If he knew her name, Briana thought, he might be frightened. Ocasta’s accusations made her seem a monster. Briana went to him and placed her palms on either side of his head, closing her eyes. She channelled healing energy through her fingers, and felt the man’s pain ease a little. Then she left him and went to the other, who was worse injured. He stared up at her dully. She spent as much of her Power as she dared, and yet she did not help him much.

“They’ll let us live, won’t they, Priestess?” said the first man as she moved toward the door. “Even now that they have their information?”

“Yes,” Briana said. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll be well treated.”

She went out into the hall. The guardsmen hurried back into the room to untie the prisoners at last. Kyellan leaned against the wall of the narrow corridor. His face was sharp and lined with weariness as he looked at Briana. “Well?” he said.

“Where will they be taken?” Briana crossed her arms and hugged her shoulders, feeling dirtied by what she had just seen.

“The army hospital. Maybe later during the war we’ll trade them to Werlinen for someone of ours. Were they telling the truth? Is he going to land in six days on the coast below Laenar?”

“They were too tired to lie, and too hurt, and too frightened of you.”

Kyellan nodded. “Werlinen may not be as much of a threat as we thought. If we leave tomorrow, we can be encamped out of sight in the hills two days ahead of him. We can take him as he lands. Thank you, Briana.”

She brushed past him with an angry glance. “You were the one who hurt those men. I couldn’t help sensing that, from the way they looked at you.”

He followed her, protesting. “They tried to kill me. You should be glad I didn’t send their souls off to your Rahshaiya.”

She had not known that. Maybe she had been quick to blame him, but Briana did not apologize. She started quickly down the tower stairs. “You’ll be sending plenty of others to meet the Death-Bringer if you ambush Werlinen’s army from the Laenar hills.”

“Would you rather welcome them?” He was right behind her. “Turn the throne over to Werlinen? I don’t think Ocasta would be content to have you exiled. She’d make certain of you this time.”

“That’s in the hands of the Goddess,” Briana muttered. She reached the bottom of the tower. Soldiers saluted Kyellan as the two of them passed. The outside door opened for them. She blinked in the midday sunlight and walked quickly across the yard to the gate.

He was beside her. When they were through the tall gate, in the courtyard of the empty barracks where no one would see, he turned suddenly and stopped her with his hands on her shoulders. “It’s an old argument, Briana, and I think we’re both tired of it. I know you don’t like violence. If you can see any other way to get us out of this, tell me. Otherwise, stop accusing me. Understand?”

Briana flinched away from his touch. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. It’s foolish to argue.” She could not bear to have him so near. His strength, the alien smell of male sweat and old leather, the much-used sword in its worn sheath at his side; it overwhelmed her. “I … I must get back to the Temple. I can find my own way. I’m sure you have work to do.” She hurried away.

It was her own confusion, her anger with herself, that made her lash out at him. She could not tell him that. Why did he have to be a soldier, a killer? How could she love a man when she hated what he was? It scarcely spoke well of the wisdom she claimed. It was not worthy of a First Priestess.

The bitter cold stayed with them across the northern plains of Garith. It blustered in storms as they reached the coast and turned south with them to travel down the spine of hills toward Atolan. They had been more than a week in the barren highlands. Three of the mules had died. Chela did not grieve for them. She was too tired, too numb, frozen by the harsh weather, cut off from comfort by Gwydion’s icy silence. The wizard had completely severed the mind-link between them, and would not speak.

At midday eight days after Akesh had burned, Chela led Gwydion and the string of mules across the crest of a high ridge. The ocean was grey below them to the right. Banks of dark clouds were locked over the horizon. Another storm, Chela guessed. She shivered. To the south and east, the ridge curved away from the coast and was lost in a sharp-edged landscape of jagged hills. They could no longer follow its paths and expect to reach Atolan. They would have to stay nearer the coast.

She was so hungry. The soldiers’ rations in the two packs were almost gone. She gave Gwydion more than she ate herself, since he was bigger than she was, but surely he was weak and exhausted too. He made no complaint. Last night, like all the nights before, Chela had found them a place to camp on the windward side of a pile of boulders. She had rubbed down the string of mules, built a fire, cooked the food, rolled out the pile of furs she and Gwydion shared to sleep in. Gwydion did not pull away when she huddled close to him for warmth, but he never caressed her. He lay with his golden eyes open, staring up at the sky. She did not know if he slept.

Chela thought she might go mad with the silence, if she did not know they were nearing Atolan. Kyellan and Alaira would be there, she prayed. They could help her try to reach Gwydion, if she could get the wizard that far. But she did not know what Gwydion was planning to do, and now they were riding into settled lands where wizards were hated and feared. They had crossed man-made bridges, and had passed the huts of shepherds and the fields where short stalks of hardy wheat would grow in summer. They had seen one village, a cluster of poor, defeated-looking dwellings. Chela had led her little band on a wide circuit around it.

The ridge sloped off to the west just ahead. It looked like a good descent into the narrow coastal valleys. Chela kneed her mule in that direction. At the top of the slope, the animal balked like a donkey. That was odd. It had not disobeyed Chela before, even during the worst blizzards they had faced. None of the other mules were following either. Chela looked back. They had stopped, and clustered around Gwydion.

She lay a hand on her mule’s flank. It was quivering, showing the pale corners of its eyes. It was being controlled. Gwydion sat quietly, relaxed, his face shadowed beneath his hood. Furious, Chela turned her mount and walked it back to where he waited. The mule obeyed her eagerly.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “We have to stay near the coast to find Atolan. So we have to go down out of the hills now, before they curve away. Why did you stop us?” She did not expect an answer.

“I told you before,” he said in a voice rusty with disuse, like an old pump. “I told you before where we’re going.”

Chela scarcely listened to his words. She smiled widely and slid down from her mule to run over to him. The other animals let her past. “You’re talking again! Oh, Gwydion, I was so worried …” She reached up to hug him around the waist. He did not respond.

“We’re going to King Marayn’s fortress,” he said. “It’s about ten miles northeast of Atolan. That way.” He pointed toward the hills where the ridge veered off from the coast.

Chela let go of him. It was no use. His face and voice both were expressionless. “Oh, gods.” She felt completely abandoned. “What … what do you think you can accomplish there? They’ll kill you. They’ll kill us both when they find out I’m not your prisoner. Is that what you want?” Her voice rose. “Do you want to die? I don’t. I’m not ready to die.”

As if from a great distance, his yellow cat’s-eyes turned and looked down at her. “You don’t have to go with me. Take your mule and go on to Atolan. You’ll be safe with Kyellan and Alaira.”

Chela shook her head, fighting tears. “You aren’t going to send me away. If I go to Atolan then you’ll go off to your death. No! I’m staying with you. You can’t get rid of me. You’re all I have. Oh, gods, Gwydion, what’s wrong with you?”

It was hard to breathe. Two of the mules nudged at her nervously. Gwydion did not seem to be aware that she was crying. Chela wanted to jump him, drag him to the ground and beat sense into his head. There had to be some way to get through to him, some way to bring him back to himself.

Chela was too tired to think of anything now. Gwydion had finished talking, it seemed. He was not even looking at her. Finally, she pulled herself into the saddle of her patient mule and started off in the direction Gwydion had pointed. The wizard turned his mount to follow her, and the rest of the mules fell in behind him.

Chapter Six

Kyellan stood beside his horse, letting it graze on the low hilltop overlooking the Dhalen Meadows camp. The horse was a big black gelding with Ryasan blood, well trained for war but not as agile or enduring as the smaller S’tari mount Kyellan would have preferred. As Commander, he had to be seen over the heads of his men. He supposed he would get used to the animal soon enough.

Dawn was finally breaking over the royal game preserve, creating an ocean of pale yellow swells and brown troughs that led down to the flat grasslands near the river. Cavernon City’s northern walls were a dim line across the river, ten miles to the south. To the north and east, the Dhalen Meadows stretched across a hundred square miles of fertile, hilly land that was supposed to be uninhabited except by the royal game animals. The army camp that had housed nine thousand men for the past week was an ugly scar on the meadow below Kyellan.

The camp looked like a pillaged town. A few wooden shacks still stood, and the open stone hearths still smoldered with breakfast fires, but the barracks tents had been struck. As the work details of Third Division men pulled up the last of the tent stakes, the orderly plan of streets and squares vanished into the matted yellow grass. Soldiers were filling the latrines in with the earth that had been dug out of them when the camp was built. The breastworks of dirt, sticks, and river clay would have to remain in place for now. Later, Kyellan had promised the Royal Huntsman they would be removed, and the meadow restored to something like its original state.

Kyellan shivered and stamped his feet lightly in the grass. The horse glanced at him curiously and went back to its grazing. The wind was brisk on the hilltop, and his Commander’s uniform did little to keep out the early morning damp. His black cloak was of fine wool figured with gold, striking but not very warm. He wore a padded leather jerkin and trousers beneath a long coat of black scale armor slit at front and back for riding. A light surcoat with the Caerlin tiger worked on the breast covered the armor, and his helmet was bright with red and gold enamelwork. It was the best war-gear he had ever owned. Even his boots fit, which had never happened before in all his years as a soldier.

The First Division, under Captain Narden’s command, was already lined up in marching order outside the dismantled camp. There were one thousand horsemen in the division, and two thousand foot soldiers, the best of the mercenaries. Some had been hired by Arel in his exile. Others had been part of the resistance against the wizards. A few had been in the wizards’ army, and were now recovered from the enchantments that had bound them to that service. They were all veterans. Since the wizards’ invasion, there were few men in the Kingdoms who had not seen action.

Each soldier carried a sword and a long knife, and had two or three javelins strapped to his pack. Each wore a black surcoat and a black helmet with a gold band to show they were in the First Division. Beyond that, as they were mercenaries, their armor and extra weapons were their own choice. There were two hundred fifty archers among them, and fifty good scouts. There were no cooks or blacksmiths or engineers. Those would come later, with Second Division and the supply wagons.

The Parahnese officer Marat and most of Second Division were down at the river, loading the last of the food, tents, and stores of weapons from the barges to the wagons. They would follow First Division at an interval of a few hours. Third Division, under the Hoabi mercenary Oman, had worked through the night to dismantle the Dhalen camp. Its three thousand men would sleep most of today and march for Laenar in the evening. By the time the last of the army arrived, Kyellan hoped to have a camp chosen and fortified in the low hills above the coastline where Werlinen was to land. The march should take three days, which left them two more to prepare to meet the invaders. It should be enough time.

The black horse picked up its head and whinnied. A very large horse with a very large rider was walking slowly up the hill toward Kyellan. The old man on the horse’s back had three chins, and enough body fat to keep him warm in a Garithian blizzard. He was dressed in an approximation of the army’s uniform, and wore the gold-banded helmet of First Division. His smile narrowed his eyes to deep-buried slits. “Good morning, Commander. Your men are ready.”

“Istam, what are you doing here?” Kyellan stared at the old ex-priest. Istam never left his house in the Lower City except to attend Valahtia’s most important councils. He had stayed in Cavernon even dunng Arel’s reign, when he had been hunted as a Queen’s man. It was as surprising to see Istam here as it would be if one of the stone tigers at the palace gates suddenly chose to stalk away.

“The Queen and Tobas were too busy to come see you off,” said the old man. “A delegation of S’tari arrived from the tribal councils. I think they suspected Valahtia’s letter to them was a ruse of Arel’s to capture them. Anyway, they’ll have to be convinced to agree to the treaty again.”

“I’m sure the Queen can convince them.” The S’tari lived in the southern and eastern deserts of what had once been the Caerlin Empire. They had won their independence under Valahtia, only to have the agreement denied by Arel when he took power. They were a nomadic people, fierce warriors and great horsemen. Several hundred young S’tari men had formed Valahtia’s personal guard under the treaty. Arel had killed them all.

“We’ll see.” Istam did not dismount. Kyellan suspected it had taken more than one helper to get him into the saddle. “Aside from that, I have word for you from Keris that couldn’t be sent by messenger.”

“From Keris? The assassins?”

“Failed. They were detected even before they began to infiltrate the court at Ishar. The man who brought word was the last of our spies left there, and he barely escaped with his life. He swears no one betrayed them. But they were found out.”

“Werlinen couldn’t be that good,” Kyellan said. “One of our men must have sold out to him.”

“I’m not sure. Ocasta is in Ishar. Her priestesses there may be helping Werlinen, as they once helped Arel. With their Power.” Istam shook his jowly head. “I’m no use to anyone waiting in Cavernon for word from dead spies. I decided to come along with you and have a look at Werlinen’s army for myself.”

“You could ride one of the supply wagons, I suppose,” Kyellan said doubtfully.

“No, I’m going with First Division. I want the earliest information you have, the first word from scouts and reconnaisance. Don’t worry, my friend. I can keep up with you. You forget that I made my way across the desert from Khymer alone, when the wizards invaded and I left the Nyesin Temple.”

Istam did not look quite as confident as his words, but Kyellan smiled at him. “I’ll be glad to have you along. If you get too tired, I’ll leave you at some farm along the way and pick you up on the way back.”

“Fair enough.” The old man grinned. He was a strangely gentle man for a master of spies. He had been a poet and a philosopher as well as a priest. Now his keen intelligence and insight served the Queen well.

“My men are ready, you said?” Kyellan gathered his horse’s reins and its close-cropped mane in one hand and swung into the saddle. His scale armor made a heavy, metallic rustle whenever he moved. “I was waiting for word from Captain Narden.”

“The Captain entrusted me with the message. He sent me up here to find you.” Istam looked sidelong at Kyellan as their horses began to walk down the hill. “Narden was an officer under Arel, wasn’t he? How well do you trust him?”

The chill breeze brought the odor of frying venison from the cooking hearths. Narden had been one of those who had protested the army’s poaching of the Queen’s deer, though Valahtia herself had preferred that the soldiers live off her herds rather than the city’s winter stores.

“I trust him, Istam,” Kyellan said. “He’s loyal to the Ardavan line. He’s highborn, and he doesn’t want to see the Caerlin throne go to a foreigner like Werlinen. And he’s a good soldier.”

“It’s said he was personally loyal to Arel,” Istam said mildly. “He came over with him from Syryn. Like everyone else, he must assume you killed the King. And you, my friend, are not an Ardavan. I don’t question his loyalty to the Queen, but I wonder how he accepts your command.”

“You’re too suspicious.” It was true there was some tension between him and Narden, but that was only the old resentment between a commoner and an aristocratic soldier. Kyellan did not intend to let that get in the way of commanding the army effectively. He respected Narden as a soldier.

“It’s my duty to be suspicious,” Istam said. “But I suppose you’re right.”

They rode around the perimeter of the demolished camp and reached the rear guard of the long, standing column of First Division. Five hundred horse anchored the rear, in ranks of ten men. Kyellan rode slowly by them, greeting men whose names he remembered, which were not as many as he would have liked. This whole enterprise had been mounted too quickly. Too quickly for Kyellan to get to know his men, too quickly for the squadrons of each division to pull together in their training. They were all professional soldiers, and they would be competent enough, but Kyellan wished he had had a few more weeks.

A dark-skinned, handsome young man wearing a lieutenant’s sash over a molded breastplate saluted Kyellan, trotting his horse a little way out of the line. “Good morning, Commander. The wing is ready.” He was a Syryni islander, one of those who had followed Narden back to Caerlin in Arel’s service. He had fought in the Syryni resistance against the wizards, and the reports Kyellan had of him were very good.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Epon.” Kyellan grinned at Istam. “What do you think, old man? Fifteen hundred men like these could take Werlinen alone.” Epon’s command was half the horsemen and one thousand foot soldiers.

The young Lieutenant laughed, tossing back the long hair he wore in thin, greased braids. “We’ll finish the Kerisians before their boots are dry from the landing. They won’t have time to be surprised.”

“Stand until the horn sounds, and keep the pace slow,” Kyellan said.

“Yes, sir.” Epon swung his chestnut gelding around to relay the order.

Kyellan and Istam continued down the column. Epon’s thousand infantry stood in ranks of twenty. The sergeant of each squadron brought his hundred men to attention as the Commander rode by. At the middle of the army, two hundred fifty horsemen from Narden’s wing held their mounts in check. In front of them stood the other thousand infantry, and heading the column were the last two hundred fifty horse. The cavalry squadrons numbered only fifty men apiece. Kyellan liked to work with groups small enough for quick maneuvers. It was an organization he had learned from the S’tari.

At last Kyellan and Istam reached the head of First Division. Captain Narden saluted impatiently and unslung the horn he wore on a strap over his cloak. The tall Caer officer sat a horse much like Kyellan’s, a Ryasan black with white forefeet. His back was stiff as a pillar, his boots turned out at exactly the degree that riding masters demanded. Kyellan considered himself a good rider, but he had never been on a horse before he had joined the Guard at sixteen. Narden’s noble family had had him riding as soon as he could walk.

“At last,” the Captain said. “We could have left half an hour ago.”

“We have plenty of time,” Kyellan said. “Werlinen won’t invade for five days. There was no need to start before first light. Do you have a report from Second Division?”

“Marat sends word that there are still four or five barge-loads to come. And there’s been a delay in getting flour from the palace stores. He estimates he’ll be five hours behind us.”

Kyellan looked at Istam again. “You’re sure you don’t want to ride with the wagons?”

The huge man scowled. “Don’t worry about me.”

“As you wish. Captain, sound the order to march.”

Narden’s horn winded three mournful notes and the first ranks of horsemen struck out, down the long valley toward the northern hills of the Dhalen preserve.

Briana was in the middle of morning prayer in her tiny, dark cell on the first floor of the Great House when her calm was interrupted. The unlocked door of the cell swung open, and the Mistress of Ritual stalked in. Bony and spare and hawk-faced in her black robe, Rithia was a figure to frighten the younger novices. She had a fierce, uncontrolled Power that seemed stronger than it was for her lack of shields; she always gave Briana a headache. She was in her fifties, and she and Ocasta had conspired together against Briana. Rithia’s triumph had been short-lived, since Ocasta had fled and Briana had returned.

“You can see what your Queen has done now,” said the thin priestess in a bitter voice. She held out a rolled parchment with a freshly broken seal. “She has ordered us … ordered us! … to swear that the blessing you gave her child is the only valid one.”

Briana unrolled the proclamation. Valahtia also commanded the Temple and everyone in it to swear allegiance to her rule, or be charged with treason. The orders were written in Mirrem’s hand. Briana could almost read the Chamberlain’s disapproval of the Queen’s orders in the carefully formed script. Briana understood why Valahtia had done this. She was faced with a war. But it was unwise.

Rithia went on. “No one recognizes your authority here, Briana. And so you went over our heads to your usurper Queen. She cannot command the Temple of the Goddess any more than.you can. Ocasta is First Priestess, confirmed by ritual, consecrated by the Goddess. You are not even a member of the Order anymore. Your presence here is an offense to the One we serve.”

Briana turned back to her little altar and whispered the last few words of the ritual to bring the Goddess’s flame. The white fire sprang up to burn as fiercely as if it felt her anger. Though the prayer was unfinished, Briana closed it, knowing she would be unable to regain the mood to complete it properly. She did not look at Rithia as she spoke. “I did not ask the Queen to do this. But you know the blessing I gave Duarnan is valid. I am First Priestess. My predecessor chose me before she died, according to all the laws of the Order.”

“So you claim,” Rithia said. “Yet there were no witnesses to her death. Ocasta felt herself chosen. After all you have done, surely you cannot still believe you have the Goddess’s favor.”

“How can you continue to ignore the truth?” Briana almost shouted, whirling to face the older woman. Rithia backed up a step, but her face still held its expression of contempt. “Because you and Ocasta chose to defy the Goddess, the midwinter binding failed. Rahshaiya is loose in the world in full Power.”

“That should please you, as the Death-Bringer’s servant.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and a novice slid to a halt before the open door to Briana’s cell. When the girl saw who was inside, she began to back away, but Briana raised her hand for her to stay. “We all serve Rahshaiya,” she told Rithia. “You would gladly see me dead, and you would have if your scheme with Arel had succeeded. Do not accuse me.” Briana turned to the novice. “Well? What is it?”

The girl made a nervous half-bow. “Priestess, there is a woman at the gate. She wishes to see you. A S’tari woman. She asked to speak with the First Priestess.”

“Did you tell her Ocasta was not here?” Rithia demanded.

The young girl shook her head. “No, Mistress. Should I have? I knew that she meant the Priestess Briana.”

“Never mind,” Briana said with a smile. “Did the woman tell you her name?”

“She said her name was Yalna, and that she had to see you right away.” The novice met Briana’s gaze. “She was worried about something, I think, or else she was very sad. Will you see her?”

“Go back and lead her to one of the private audience rooms in the Hall. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The girl turned and ran back the way she had come. Briana took her sandals from a hook on the stone wall and knelt to lace them onto her bare feet. Yalna was a close friend. She was a midwife, and had attended Briana throughout her pregnancy and after her son Cian was born. The last time Briana had seen her, she had been leaving with her aunt Tapeth to go back to her people and warn them that Arel had taken the throne. Yalna had promised to warn Pima and Erlin, as well, in the guarded valley where they cared for Briana’s son.

“What of the Queen’s proclamation?” Rithia said almost pleadingly as Briana rose to leave. “We cannot possibly obey such a command. You must go to her and tell her to withdraw it.”

“We’ll discuss it later.” Briana brushed past the older woman and hurried down the corridor, aware that Rithia was staring after her open-mouthed with much more to say.

Grey-robed priestesses were washing the stone floors of the Temple Hall. Briana saw the messenger novice at a side door and went to her. The girl opened the door and let her into the small audience room where Yalna waited. The plump young woman got to her feet when she saw Briana. Yalna wore desert traveling clothes that were still encrusted with dirt and sand and sweat. Her black hair straggled out of its many braids and was entangled in her earrings of strung coins. Her face was tracked with tears through the grime.

The novice shut the door, leaving them alone. Yalna stood still as Briana looked at her. “I’m sorry,” she said in hoarse, accented Caer. She began to weep again as Briana came to her and hugged her tightly. “Oh, my lady, I’m sorry …”

“Hush, Yalna,” Briana soothed. Unease gathered like swallowed lead in her stomach. “Be still. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know how to tell you. I don’t want to tell you. Tapeth said you would never forgive us, and neither will Va’shindi.”

Va’shindi was the immortal spirit whom the S’tari worshipped instead of the Goddess. The chill within Briana spread to her voice. She pulled back a little from Yalna. “What has happened?”

“He’s gone. Cian, your baby. I don’t know where he is.” Yalna swallowed hard, trying to keep back her tears. “Tapeth and I went first to the S’tari priestesses’ camp, on the ridge. They were all dead. Burned. Slain by magic, by Power. We found Erlin inside the cottage in the valley. He had been dead only a few days. He had a spear in his back. We buried him in the high meadow near the spring.”

Briana closed her eyes. It had happened while she had been spending all her Power in her effort to call and bind Rahshaiya. Surely she would have sensed something otherwise. “Go on, Yalna. What about Pima, and the children?” They had been supposed to be safe there. The valley was well guarded. But Yalna had said that whoever murdered Erlin and the Priestesses had Power.

“We searched all through the valley and up and down the coast. We found a place where boats had landed to the south. There was no sign of … of graves or pyres. There was nothing to show where Pima and the babies had gone, if they were still alive. Tapeth went north toward Khymer to search for news of them. I went back to Laenar to look for you. They told me Arel was dead, and Valahtia was Queen again. They told me I could find you here. I thought that meant you would be First Priestess at last.”

Briana’s hands were shaking. She felt drugged, as if by strong incense smoke. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter at all now. Poor Erlin. Kyellan will grieve for him when he finds out. I suppose they had to kill him. He was a soldier. He wouldn’t have let them take his family without a fight.”

“But who were they?” Yalna said. She sat down on one of the stools that were all the furniture of the plain little room. “Tapeth thought they might have been the priestesses who are your enemies. The Hidden Temple.”

Briana shook her head. “If they had found Cian they would have killed him, right there. And I don’t think he’s dead. Maybe Pima and Taryn are alive as well.” Kyellan had warned her in Laenar, and she had dismissed his worry. She had thought the valley well guarded. She had not taken the threat seriously, and because of it many people were dead. “I … I don’t know where they are for certain, but I have an idea. I think I know who took them.”

“Who else but the Hidden Temple?”

“Do you remember the day before we left the valley? I was bathing Cian in the stream, and something with Power came through the water and breached his shields. I suppose I thought the valley had protected him from something worse, and if that was all that could get through, he was safe enough.” Anger with herself drove away her own threatened tears. “I couldn’t think of anywhere he’d be safer. But if I had stayed with him, or brought him away with me, this never would have happened.”

“You couldn’t do either of those things,” Yalna said wearily, looking down, her hands clasped in her lap. “Or you’d never be First Priestess.”

“I’m not First Priestess now,” Briana said bitterly.

“If you had stayed you might have been killed, too, and whoever it was would still have taken Cian.”

“No. I could have defeated them. I’m stronger than they are. I’m sure of that. I helped defeat them once. I never should have advised Valahtia to grant them amnesty.”

“The Barena wizards?” Yalna said in sudden realization. “That’s who did it?”

Briana nodded. “It must have been. Kyellan warned me. The Shape-Changer found Cian in the stream. He wanted his son. So he contacted the exiled wizards on Barelin and told them to find Cian for him. The Shape-Changer is powerless now, trapped on the spirit road. Maybe the wizards don’t know that. They were lesser wizards, the only ones who survived that final battle. They followed their orders and found the Shape-Changer’s child, and now they’re holding Cian and waiting for his father to come for him.” She had to believe that. She had to believe her son was safe. “I’ll go and claim him instead.”

“To Barelin? How can you be sure they took him there?”

“No other place would even let them land. And they don’t know that anyone suspects them. If I go in secret, and stay well shielded, they won’t see me coming.”

“I’ll go with you,” Yalna said, standing up again. “And you should ask your Kyellan to come along. We may need more than Power to fight them. And besides, it’s his baby too.”

Briana felt warmed by the thought. She and Kyellan together, his sword and her Power to rescue their child … but that was impossible. “Kyellan left the city today with an army. The first war is about to begin in this year of Rahshaiya. It doesn’t matter. We can do it without him.”

Yalna shrugged. “You’re the First Priestess. More than a match for a few exiled wizards. What will you tell the Temple here?”

“I’ll send someone to Rithia to say I’ve gone to the palace. She wanted me to go there to argue with the Queen about a new proclamation. I don’t care if she gets suspicious after a few days. I’ll send another messenger to the Queen. I’ll tell her I’ve gone into seclusion to seek the Goddess’s help with this new war. Come. We’ll leave right away. Unless you’re too tired?”

Her S’tari friend laughed. “I can sleep on the boat.”

As Ocasta had done before her, Briana left Cavernon City disguised in peasant clothing, on a hired fishing boat headed for Syryn. She took money Valahtia had given her for Duarnan’s blessing, money she had intended to give to the Temple. It would be enough to get her and Yalna passage on small boats from island to island until they reached the harbor city of Barena. It would be enough to get them back, if they were successful.

Briana was not as confident as she pretended that her Power was strong enough to face the combined Barena wizards. To win Pima and the children back she would probably have to kill all their captors. Briana could not see that she had any choice. Rahshaiya was bound up in everything now. There was no way to avoid Her service.

It had been an easy march. The weather had been cool and dry, the valleys wide enough for the column to stay in loose formation, the streams and clear hill pools appearing whenever man or beast needed a short rest. Still, Kyellan found himself stiff from the day’s riding as he rubbed down his black horse on the picket line.

He had stopped First Division while there was still a little sunset left. Captain Marat of Second Division was under orders to do the same. His camp would be miles behind. Here, bright campfires burned in clusters where each squadron had chosen to bed down on the broad, low hill. The sentries stood alert watches in the clear night, waiting their turns at the fires. Outriders had brought down plenty of game that day. No one would have to touch the rations of salted beef and hard biscuits they carried in their packs. The camp smelled of roasting meat and the stale sweat of men and horses. The mood was cheerful.

The cavalry soldiers would wait for the next round of cooking. They had tended to their horses first, without complaint, without even thinking about it. Kyellan finished combing out the silky hairs on his gelding’s short tail, and wiped the currycomb on the soft grass. He stepped to the horse’s head and muttered a few affectionate words to it. It snorted at him through its nosebag, blinked long-lashed eyes, and went back to eating its ration of grain. Kyellan would have to come back later and take the bag off the gelding’s halter.

As Kyellan turned back toward his campsite, where the officers’ dinner awaited them, his way was blocked by a bulky figure. “A moment, Commander,” Istam said. His breath smelled of roasted meat and ale. No one had expected him to care for his own horse, and of course he could not be kept long from his supper.

“Well, old man?” Kyellan said lightly. “Do you regret coming with me yet?”

“Not yet. Though I suspect it gets more difficult as we go along.”

“There should be roads once we get out of the Dhalen Meadows. And there will only be two more days of marching, before we stop to wait for Werlinen.” Kyellan walked on toward the fires, but Istam pursued, and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Before we rejoin your officers,” the ex-priest said in a soft voice, “I have a question for you. We know that Ocasta has given Werlinen her blessing. She may well have intercepted our assassins. She has Power, and there will be priestesses in Keris who are willing to follow her. What if she comes with the invaders?”

Kyellan considered. “If she does, she’ll give them no more than moral support. She’s one of those priestesses who condemns violence in any form. She’s unlikely to use her Power against us.” Still, the thought made him uneasy.

“What if she does? Do we have any means to use against a magical attack?”

“Have you seen any wizards in our company?” Kyellan said irritably.

Istam was silent for a moment. Kyellan could not see his expression in the darkness. There was only the outline of his puffy face. “And you have no Power to face her with?” The words were less than a whisper. “I have wondered how you killed wizards alone, without priestesses or your friend Gwydion to help. The only explanation that makes sense to me is that you must be a sort of wizard yourself. Is that not true?”

Kyellan stiffened. His body was ready to fight or run, but he told himself that this was a man he trusted. He owed Istam the truth. “It was true once. A part of me had Power. But I have lost it. That part of me, and the Power that went with it.” He almost regretted it. It would be convenient to face Ocasta with the Shape-Changer’s Power, but the slavery the wizard spirit offered was too high a price.

Istam nodded, accepting this. “Unfortunate. We will just have to hope that the old woman stays in comfort in Ishar.”

He probably should have asked Briana to come along, Kyellan thought. But then, she probably would have refused. She had not been very pleased to help him in the matter of the spies yesterday. “I’m about to starve. Come, Istam. Let’s get some dinner.” He expected the old man to say he had already eaten. Istam only clapped him on the back and followed him to the officers’ cluster of fires.

Chapter Seven

The fortress of King Marayn glittered like a firelit piece of black coal on a stony hill ten miles northeast of Atolan. Lanterns and torches burned with red and yellow fire in slitted windows, and moved slowly on top of the dark stone walls. The sun had set two hours ago. The icy sleet that had fallen earlier that day had given way to a moist, freezing wind.

Chela stamped her cold feet and shook her arms to get her blood moving. She and Gwydion had been waiting behind a line of scrub brush on a ridge overlooking a side road into the castle since dusk. The mules were picketed in some farmer’s grove a few miles away. Chela did not think she would ever see them again. Kyellan and Alaira were close now, only a half-day’s ride away, not knowing what had happened to their friends or to Akesh. They would hear about it soon, when news came of a mad young wizard and a strange red-haired girl who had been captured and put to death for attempting to kill the King and half his court.

“Look,” Gwydion whispered. He spoke sometimes now, when he thought it was important. Chela obediently rose and peered along his pointing arm.

Two dark shapes on big Ryasan warhorses had appeared on the road beneath them. Chela did not have the wizard’s night vision, but she reached out with her Power and touched them briefly. They were royal guardsmen returning from a day’s leave in Atolan. They were coming in toward the side gate because they had overstayed their passes, and they hoped the soldiers stationed there would let them through without much trouble.

“What are you going to do?” Chela asked softly.

“We’ll take their places. Their uniforms, their mounts. It’s a way in.”

“How? We don’t have weapons. Do we run down the hill and try to talk them into giving us what we want?”

His quick glance at her was scornful. A lean, underfed figure in dark furs and wool, Gwydion crouched down and rested against a rock where he could see the approaching riders. He began to hum a low, tuneless melody of only a few pitches. The Ryasan horses, closer now, pricked up their ears and trotted faster. He was luring them to him.

“Oh, good,” Chela muttered. “They’ll come up here, see that you’re a wizard, and kill us both without our having to go into the castle.”

“Quiet,” he said.

She should leave, Chela thought. She was as mad as he was to stay with him. She had been willing to die for her love. She still was, but what sense did that make when Gwydion no longer loved her? Revenge was all he cared about now.

Yesterday evening she had launched a mental assault on his adamantine shields, meaning to break through to the man she knew lay somewhere beneath. He had done as much for her when he had found her, mute and in shock from the destruction of her village. This time, Gwydion had struck back at her with a blow that knocked her senseless with its unmuted Power. Chela had wakened an hour later, alone on the trail with a single mule. Though her head had ached, though she had been unable to see anything but whirling colors, she had pulled herself onto the mule and urged it to follow its companions. She had caught up with Gwydion at nightfall. He had hardly seemed to notice or care.

She could try the same thing again while he was concentrating on the soldiers and their horses. Shaking her head at the futility of it, Chela withdrew into herself to marshal her Power. The cold wind was only a sound and a pressure against her skin. The harsh brush of the hillside no longer annoyed her. She closed her eyes and sought the fierce ball of green fire that was her Power. It had been shaken yesterday, but it had replenished itself by drawing on the energy of her body. She did not have enough food to replace what it took. If this went on much longer, her skin would be taut over her bones.

“Here they come,” Gwydion murmured. His voice drew Chela back and made her open her eyes. The Power she had summoned lay like an underlayer of skin, crawling over her body, concentrated in her hands and fingertips. Gwydion was distracted. The soldiers had ridden their horses off the road and were climbing toward the ridge, not aware that they had left their route. The horses were eager.

Gwydion meant to kill the men. Chela found that in a tentative probe. His luring spell had opened the upper layer of his thoughts to her view. The wizard did not seem to notice that she had gone in. Chela took a deep breath and thrust with all her strength through the terraced shields in Gwydion’s mind. In a moment so quick she scarcely felt it pass, Chela saw the walls break before her, and found herself inside a churning maelstrom of yellow Power and hard anger.

Then he turned on her. Instead of forcing her out as he had done before, Gwydion closed his shields around her probe and trapped her will within his mind. Where he got his strength, Chela did not know. He was as hungry and tired as she was. But she could not withdraw. His Power wrapped around her own, sucking it down, shaping it with golden flame into a weapon to be used against the soldiers.

With a hoarse cry, Chela got to her feet. Her body was not hers to command. Gwydion stood beside her. He was so hot with anger that she felt burned. She whimpered, and began to cry, helplessly, almost silently. The Garithian soldiers rode up the ridge.

At the top of the slope, Gwydion gathered his own Power and Chela’s and sent an illusionary fireball rolling like a boulder between the two horses. It sprayed sparks of yellow and green. The horses screamed and reared, and the riders fell from their backs, too unnerved to keep their seats.

Gwydion and Chela ran forward. Chela found herself grappling with the smaller soldier, a frightened youth in riveted leather armor and a dark green cloak. She had never been so agile or so strong. Her movements were controlled by Power. Weeping, she tripped the soldier and grasped the hilt of his sword beneath his cloak. She drew the weapon as he tried to twist away. In the small part of her mind that was still her own, Chela screamed that she did not want to kill this man. He had not tried to hurt her. He was no enemy.

Gwydion’s opponent was still. The wizard’s control surged through Chela. She raised the sword and brought it down across the soldier’s unprotected neck. The flesh parted easily. She scarcely saw the blood. She dropped the sword and stood still, waiting to be told what to do next.

Gwydion’s Power suddenly contracted and thrust Chela’s trapped spirit out, back into her own mind. She staggered and fell across the body of the man she had slain. She could still feel the soldier’s dying agony. It coursed through her. She heaved and vomited to rid herself of it. It did not lessen. She thought she must surely be dying too.

The fit left her gasping and choking. She crawled off onto the dark hillside and tried to breathe again. When she could, she sobbed, “I hate you! I hate you! How could you make me—you’re no different—no different from the other wizards. I’m glad they burned Akesh to the ground, I’m glad! They would all have grown up like this, all of them. I thought you were different.”

Her Power was her own again, and she flung it out at Gwydion in uncontrolled fury. He had not been ready for that. The blow hurt him. He flung up his hands and staggered backward. Chela shouted again, “I hate you!” She crashed another blow against his breached shields. Gwydion fell to his knees beyond the two soldiers’ bodies, his hands over his face.

Chela did not have the strength to attack him again. Her Power had nothing on which to feed. What little she had eaten this afternoon was gone now. She pulled herself to her feet, stumbling and almost falling again. Unsteadily, she gathered her soiled cloak around her and began to walk down the hillside toward the road.

“Chela?” The hoarse voice was stricken. “Gods … gods, what happened, how …” She looked back reluctantly. Gwydion’s hood had fallen back. His face looked old to her Power-aided sight in the darkness. The tangled, pale hair framed gaunt lines and eyes that were wide with horror. “Don’t leave. I didn’t mean …”

“Yes, you did.” She turned away again. “You used me, the way the Shape-Changer would have, the way Belaric would have. You made me murder that man.” She tasted bitterness when she swallowed. “Go after King Marayn on your own, wizard. I don’t want to see you again.” Her feet found the tracks of the horses. The animals had run away from the battle. Gwydion had had too much to control to keep them there. Chela followed their trail down.

Gwydion moaned, and rose to come after her. Chela whirled before he reached her, seeing him silhouetted against the slope with his arms outstretched. “Don’t touch me!” she screamed.

He stopped. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Chela, I’ve been lost, deep inside myself. I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you …”

“No. You only wanted to kill the King, and whoever stood in your way. You’ve made a fine start on it. You can probably catch one of the horses, and get into the castle with one of those uniforms.”

“Forgive me.”

The young woman walked quickly down the hill. Her cloak had blood on it. She left it beneath a rock by the side of the road. When she reached Atolan, Kyellan and Alaira would find her something new to wear. She walked down the road, shaking, weaving from side to side like a madwoman or a drunk. She did not know that she was still crying.

By the time she saw Atolan and the grey coast with the dawn behind her, Chela knew she was being followed. She had caught a glimpse of him miles back, lit by the haze on the top of a slope in the dusty road. He was hooded. He rode one mule and led another. He was followed by the rest of the train. Chela found it strange that she felt almost nothing at the sight. She walked wearily down toward the warren of shacks that crowded against the city’s wall.

It was early afternoon on the second day of the march. Kyellan’s horse was still damp from a river crossing an hour before. It was a cool day, with patches of fog on the upper slopes of the hills. The First Division column wound through farmland on narrow village tracks and an occasional market road.

A hundred men from Epon’s wing had stayed behind at the village by the river to repair a gap in the stone bridge. Without the bridge, the supply wagons of Second Division would not be able to cross when they reached the place later that day. The river was muddy and slow-moving, but deep enough to wet the horses to the shoulders and force the infantry to wade chest-high. Istam had volunteered to supervise the workers, claiming that he had learned something of engineering by being a friend of Senomar’s. The village was called Shalkir. It was a little place, in a narrow valley between hills and the river.

Although they had stopped at midday, Kyellan thought that his men could use another rest now. He wheeled his horse and raised his arm for a halt. Captain Narden shouted the command, and the sergeants relayed it down the long column. Footsoldiers stopped to lounge standing or sitting on the dirt track. Cavalrymen dismounted and let their horses nudge one another aside to get at the tall hedges that grew on either side of the road. There was little danger that the horses would overfeed on the dry branches and dead leaves of last year’s greenery.

Kyellan dismounted. His heavy Ryasan saddle slipped a little. The girth must have stretched when the leather got wet. The black gelding nosed back at him as he undid the laced strap and ran a hand down the horse’s barrel where the girth had been. The flattened hair had rubbed unevenly. “Have the men check their tack,” he said to Narden.

The older man waited like a courtier, watching Kyellan from horseback. “Yes, sir.” He relayed the order.

“You, too,” Kyellan reminded him.

The aristocratic officer dismounted gracefully, and gave the buckles on his elaborate saddle a quick inspection. “How long will we be stopped, Commander?”

“Not long. We’ll march at half pace for a few hours, until Istam and Tonn’s squadron catch up with us.” Kyellan stretched his arms overhead, feeling the reluctant pull in his stiff back. The ride across the fertile northwest of Caerlin would have been very pleasant, if he could have forgotten he was headed for a war. Still, he was better off than those who had to wait behind in the city for news. Alaira had asked to come with him. Kyellan had refused, citing her new duties as a Queen’s lady. To his amazement, she had accepted that and had not begged to go. Maybe she was learning to enjoy the place a little more.

“It’s time for the outriders to be reporting back.” Narden squinted at the sun and measured the hedge-shadows with a glance. “It was time half an hour ago. They’re late.”

“Have none of them come in? I thought I saw the point men report to you soon after Shalkir.” Usually the outriders had little to report, except for angry farmers shouting at them to use the public road instead of riding through their lands.

Narden slipped a buckle on his horse’s bridle a notch looser. “Yes, they’ve been in. And the rearguard. But I haven’t seen, anyone in from the right or the left.”

“I wouldn’t worry. There’s not much likelihood that anything has gone wrong.”

“That’s the problem,” Narden said. “Since there can’t be any danger that could have kept them away, I can see no other reason but lax discipline. It is not a good sign this close to a battle. I wish we didn’t have to rely so much on mercenaries.”

Kyellan did not share Narden’s prejudice, but he only said, “We have no choice. We need men.”

“We should have conscripted from Cavernon City and the villages. Half the farms we passed have had young men old enough to carry arms. Native Caer men.” Narden’s dark eyes suddenly flickered down. “I don’t mean to question you, sir.”

Of course he did, and would continue to do so. It was part of his duty as Kyellanls second in command. “Conscription?” Kyellan said thoughtfully. “It may still come to that, but the Queen won’t be pleased if it does. It would only cause more resentment.” Narden nodded politely and busied himself with combing his horse’s forelock.

There were shouts at the rear of the column. Suddenly, the grumbling and jokes of the army at ease vanished, and tension swept like a wind through the soldiers. Kyellan tied a quick knot in his horse’s girth and mounted to see over the heads of the men. A quarter mile down the slope of the gentle hill, cavalry and footsoldiers eddied toward the edges of the track to let a rider through. “Way!” men shouted. “Make way!” The rider was galloping his horse at a killing pace. As Kyellan watched, the animal stumbled and almost fell, then righted itself and leaped on.

The rider was a short, stocky Caer with a bushy beard. Tonn, the sergeant in charge of the bridge-building squadron. The horse was thick-barreled and heavy.

Istam’s horse. It was nearly done, frothing and covered with foamy sweat, its head held low as if it was an old farmer’s beast pulling a cart. There was blood splashed across Tonn’s black jerkin, and blood stained the withers of Istam’s horse.

“Cavalry, girth up and remount!” Kyellan shouted as the horse and rider approached. “Infantry, fall in!” The orders went quickly back, and the ranks of the army closed into formation in Tonn’s wake.

“Commander!” the sergeant panted. “Commander Kyellan.” He stopped his blowing, shuddering horse. “I don’t think I was followed, sir, at least not right away. I … I killed one of them. This isn’t my blood, it’s his.”

“Report, soldier,” Narden said coolly, catching the horse’s reins as if to hold it up. “From the beginning. Whom did you kill?”

“Take your time, Sergeant,” Kyellan said. “First dismount. You there—Faril.” A young Parahnese cavalryman dismounted at Kyellan’s wave. “Take this horse and walk it, before it falls over. There’s a pond in that field. Take it over there, but don’t water it until it’s cooled off a little.” The youth obeyed him, as Tonn slid down from the horse’s wide back.

The bloodied man made a visible effort to collect his thoughts and spoke again. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m no messenger. But I was closest to the horse when they came, not stuck in the middle of the river with boards and stones like the rest of them. I thought it was more important that I get away to tell you, or I would have stayed to fight. You have to believe that.” He took a hurried breath. “We were attacked. They were Kerisians, hundreds of them. The villagers knew it was going to happen. They had broken their bridge on purpose to slow us up.”

Kyellan felt his heart begin to pound faster and his muscles grow tense. He had not expected a battle for two more days, but a short engagement would be good for his men, and would let him see how they worked together under real battle conditions. “How were your men holding up when you left them, Sergeant?”

“Holding up?” Tonn repeated dully. “No, sir. They were in the river, as I said, and they’d left their weapons on the banks to keep them from getting rusted. The villagers picked them up when the Kerisians came, and used them against my men. It was a slaughter, Commander.”

“Treachery, by the Goddess,” Narden said, mounting his tall horse. “An advance raiding party? Or has the whole army landed prematurely and in the wrong place?”

“Did you see any evidence of an army, Tonn?” Kyellan asked grimly. The man shook his head. Kyellan prayed it was only raiders, scouts sent out days in advance of the landing to seek the support of the locals. Apparently they had found it. If that was all, Werlinen might still be surprised when he landed on the coast. But the loss of one hundred men before the real battle was a heavy blow.

“They’ll be gone by now,” Narden said. “We should send scouts to trace them, not go right back to the village. And we need to know whether or not there are more of them around.”

Kyellan shook his head. “No. We’re going back there now. Whether or not the Kerisians are still there, I’m not going to give those farmers long to enjoy their treachery.” An entire village of enemy collaborators put to the sword would scarcely balance the loss of Tonn’s squadron, or the killing of one fat old philosopher. Istam had not even carried a sword. Kyellan had never intended to let him get anywhere near the battle.

“I’d still advise …” the highborn captain began.

“I already know your advice. Reconnaissance would take time we don’t have. We’ll finish this quickly, if we can. Reverse march!” he shouted. The big black gelding moved eagerly forward as Kyellan spurred him through the ranks of cavalry to take the lead from the other end of the column. Scowling, Narden followed close behind.

At the head of what had been the rearguard, Kyellan asked for volunteers from Epon’s wing to gallop ahead, swinging wide around the village to meet Second Division and stop them wherever they were. Five men struck out across the fields to the east of the road. Kyellan did not want to risk the supplies and weapons for the main battle. He would send word to Captain Marat when this was finished.

Less than an hour later, First Division pulled up in a broad formation across the rim of the hill overlooking Shalkir. On the march, point men riding within sight of the column’s head had seen no signs of enemies. Yet the pleasant farmland, the sheepfolds and barns and hedges that skirted the road, could have hidden almost any number of soldiers. The landscape had come into sharper relief for Kyellan and his men. Shadows were darker and deeper; sunlit patches seemed deceptive in their beauty and calm.

The village looked quiet and peaceful. The river at the foot of the hill sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. The broken bridge formed a romantic arch over part of the bright water. Abandoned piles of stone and half-begun frameworks of wood jutted out beneath the bridge, but Kyellan saw no bodies, either his own or enemy dead. More hills crowded up against the village from the south, in folds and heights that would make it easy for raiders to disappear. To the east, a bend of the river wound into a cut between hills and was hidden in thick stands of willows. The western side of the valley was wider, farmland that was cut into fields by low stone fences.

“You wouldn’t guess there had just been a battle here,” Kyellan said.

“The raiders may have taken our men prisoner, instead of slaughtering them,” Narden said dryly. “Sergeant Tonn left the scene so quickly that he may have been mistaken.”

“Are we going down, sir?” said the Syryni lieutenant, Epon. The slim young man urged his horse forward beside the two commanders.

Kyellan nodded. “Yes. But not unprepared. The enemy may still be in the village. And I don’t want any of the villagers to escape.” He squinted in the bright sunlight, gazing down at the slope, the river, the village beyond. “I’ll want two hundred archers deployed at the river’s edge to cover our crossing. I’ll take Epon’s five hundred horse straight through by the bridge where it’s shallowest. Half of Narden’s horse with Epon’s infantry will cross below the bridge to the east, and the rest of Narden’s forces will cross to the west, to encircle the village. Epon in command of the eastern wing, Narden the western, and me in the center. Understood?”

The two officers saluted in very different styles, and wheeled to relay their orders and lead their men down. Lieutenant Epon leaned forward on his chestnut gelding to gallop along the flank of the formation, shouting to his officers. Captain Narden rode stiffly upright, posting his horse to a fast trot, and waved his officers to him to receive their orders.

“All right,” Kyellan said softly, to his horse’s ears. “We’ll go.” The big black was restive and confused. Kyellan strapped his shield firmly to his left forearm, loosened his javelins in their webbing on the back of his saddle, and drew his sword. The horse stamped in eagerness, but it could see no enemy that they were preparing to charge against. Kyellan set his enameled helmet snug over his close-cropped hair.

The archers marched out from the body of infantry, led by a somber, middle-aged Caer man, Sergeant Milan. The ten cavalry squadrons Kyellan would lead formed up in close ranks behind him. The army shifted over the hilltop, lining up with the proper commander, the squadrons all keeping good order. Every man had heard what had happened. They did not expect to engage with the enemy yet, but some of them were eager to punish the Shalkir villagers for what they had done. Others did not look forward to it, but saw it as a necessary business if they were to keep other villages from joining with the enemy.

The word came forward that all were ready. Kyellan gave the order to move to Sergeant Milan of the archers. The middle-aged soldier ran forward with controlled speed down the hill. The archers ran behind him in loose ranks, unslinging their quivers as they went, their freshly strung bows held high.

When they were almost to the riverbank, Kyellan raised his arm and gave a loud cry. His big warhorse gathered itself smoothly beneath him and leaped forward at his command, pointing the ranks of five hundred riders. The horses loped ponderously over the soft, damp ground, moving almost silently. There was scarcely any wind. The soldiers kept up a rolling shout that thrust before them in defiance and met with nothing in response. It was unreal, Kyellan thought as he settled firmly into his high-backed saddle. Like an exercise or a dream battle. The village was quiet. He saw no one in its streets.

At the riverbank, the archers crouched and nocked arrows to their bowstrings and waited for something to shoot at. Kyellan’s horse plunged down the gentle, grassy slope and into the muddy water without hesitation. The chill closed around Kyellan’s legs, wetting him to the thighs. The river was the color of granite. It was like riding through liquid stone.

Splashing through behind him, the wedge of cavalry fanned out just below the half-span of bridge. A few men called out as their horses shied and flailed at something in the water. Their passing had shifted a heavy stone that had fallen to the river bottom near a broken bridge piling. Two corpses floated up into view. They had been pinned beneath the stone.

“Our men?” Kyellan shouted back. The soldiers near the floating bodies snagged them and brought them along to shore. They wore no armor, but that did not mean they were villagers or Kerisians. Doubtless the work squadron had laid their armor aside to build the bridge.

Kyellan’s black gelding floundered out of the water and trotted up onto the village road. There were shouts from Shalkir now, shouts of fear and women’s screams. As if they had just realized they were about to be attacked for their treachery. Kyellan shook his head, refusing to be softened by the piteous sounds. He freed the reins of his eager horse. Thick muscles bunched against his knees, and the black tossed its head and sprang forward like a stone from a catapult. Kyellan’s men cried out their war-cries and followed him. On the hard-packed road, the horses’ hooves made a satisfying thunder.

The village was small, a warren of stone houses with thatched roofs. Windows and doors were shuttered tightly, closed up as if against a winter gale. Kyellan saw no enemy soldiers or horses in the village streets. But in the village square was a mound of bodies, covered with timber and straw, so that from the hilltop it had appeared to be another cottage with a thatched roof. Tonn’s squadron was piled there, waiting to be burned. Kyellan saw Istam sprawled face down near the bottom of the mound. They had not wanted to make the effort to lift the old man higher. Istam’s gold-banded helmet had a huge dent in it. He had died of a blow to the head from a mace or a great club.

“Drag them out of their houses,” Kyellan shouted to his men.

“Commander,” one of them called, looking back toward the river. “The archers!”

“What?” Kyellan said. Already men were dismounting and joining together to batter at doors. Back at the river, Milan’s two hundred men were making a frantic crossing, shooting back over their shoulders as they went. A mass of yellow-clad footsoldiers was marching down from the northwest, from over a ridge near the one where Kyellan’s men had stood. Waves of horsemen followed them. The banner of the yellow rose hung limp from standard-bearers’ poles. There were more than a few hundred of them. More like a couple of thousand.

Another long array of enemy troops was advancing from the southwest, curving its line into a crescent to trap village and First Division within its arms. Kyellan revised his estimate upward. This was no raiding party. It was at least three divisions of Werlinen’s army, landed three days early and thirty miles too far south. They must have come across the Claws, the deep and treacherous river that was the border between Keris and northern Caerlin.

“Remount!” Kyellan shouted. His men were already doing so. They were trapped like deer in a net hunt in the Dhalen Meadows. Kyellan wheeled his horse and raced it to the other end of the square, where he could see both ends of the narrow river valley. Captain Narden’s western wing had turned to face the massive enemy advance, and they were retreating slowly, not panicking. To the east of the village, Lieutenant Epon was riding like a madman around the flanks of his startled wing, herding them south and west around the bottom of the village to present a combined front with Narden. It was fast thinking on the part of both officers, but Kyellan knew it would be suicide to make a set battle of this.

The archers had crossed the river and were making a stand there, shooting at the first lines of the enemy’s northwestern wing. They were slowing them a little. Kyellan wished he had time to fire all the houses in the village. No wonder the people of Shalkir had not abandoned it. They had known that their Kerisian allies would protect them from retaliation. It had been a trap from the first. The attack on Tonn’s squadron had been only a means to get First Division to turn around and go back.

Kyellan hoped his messengers would get through to Second Division and stop them from marching on toward Shalkir. The riders had gone around the eastern side of the village; perhaps they had avoided the enemy forces. Marat’s men might lessen the odds, but they would still be overwhelming. As it was, Kyellan’s men were outnumbered three to one, and the enemy had chosen the ground. It would be impossible to win the day, Kyellan knew. If he could keep his men from being butchered, that would be victory enough.

Chapter Eight

The enemy advanced. Kyellan barked out orders, and his cavalrymen formed into a narrow wedge in the village square. He stayed near the back. It ran against his instincts not to lead, but he was no longer a minor captain who could choose the front ranks to win glory. They trotted in close order out of the village on the western side, past dusty, winter-bare gardens and pens that held pigs and chickens. The low stone fences in the fields, the hedges and sheepfolds, would hamper their movement. The enemy horsemen would not be in much better shape. Kyellan’s men unstrapped their short throwing spears along the front and sides of the wedge. The back ranks kept their swords in hand.

Kyellan looked for a messenger, and found a young corporal on what looked to be a fast S’tari horse riding near him. “You. Corporal.”

“Sir.”

“Ride back to the archers, and tell them to stand firm as long as they can. Then they’re to join Captain Narden’s troops in retreat. We’ll hit the enemy hard and try to stop their advance. Go quickly.”

The man wormed his mount out of the formation and was gone. The point men of Kyellan’s wedge had broken through the back lines of Narden’s wing. Kyellan stood in his stirrups, and looked toward the north. The enemy forces there had reached the riverbank, and were hesitating to cross as flight after flight of long arrows came toward them. They would be slow in coming. If Kyellan’s troops could slow the enemy’s other wing, at least Narden’s half of First Division might get away.

Narden was riding back through his retreating ranks toward Kyellan, his face a mask of fury. He jerked his horse to a sliding halt. “Off the Laenar coast!” he said. “Those spies you trusted were sent to draw us into this. And your priestess friend told you to believe them. She’s probably working for them too. And you—you insisted on coming straight back to the village, ignoring my advice. The Queen will hear of this.”

Kyellan glared at him. “We can argue about it if any of us get through to tell the Queen. I want you to get your men out of here. Be ready to support the archers when the enemy’s northern wing makes the crossing, but keep retreating in good order. Get away from here and keep going. East and south, to meet up with Second Division if you can.”

“Then bring them to our aid!” said a sergeant who was listening.

“No.” Kyellan spoke harshly. “Turn them around, back toward Cavernon. We need to be there to defend the city. Who knows where the rest of Werlinen’s forces are. Better to meet them with city walls and Senomar’s engines at our backs. Understood, Captain?”

Narden was still angry, but he nodded. “Very well. And now that you’ve led us into this, Commander, what will you be doing?”

“Trying to keep them off your backs. We’ll follow you later, if we can, but don’t wait for us. Gather Second Division, and Third when you meet them, and take them back to the city.”

Narden saluted with little respect in his expression, and turned his horse to go back to his officers with the orders. Kyellan had no time to be annoyed with the Captain. He sent another messenger to Epon, who was bringing his men around the base of the village at a quick march. The Lieutenant’s wing would have to be ready to back up Kyellan’s horsemen.

The wedge of cavalry cut through Narden’s lines and was soon ahead of them, free to maneuver. The ground was boggy beneath the horses’ hooves. The western wing of the enemy forces had its horse in the front lines. They were mounted on warhorses like Kyellan’s, of Ryasan stock, bigger than most of the Caer mounts, and heavier. But the momentum of a sidelong charge should stop them from trotting ponderously forward. Kyellan shouted the order.

Turning one side of the triangle toward the front, the five hundred horsemen broke into a gallop in close formation. They swept by the enemy line, throwing their javelins at close range and turning back out again. Many of the spears found their targets. Men and horses fell, but the Kerisians quickly closed the gaps.

There were screams and splashes from the enemy attempting the river crossing under the bows of Mann’s dogged archers. There were too many of them to be picked off thus, and the archers had no backup arrows. Those were in the supply wagons of Second Division. Kyellan shifted his weight and kneed his horse in one side as the wedge changed direction, with a new point to the formation. This time they rode straight at the Kerisians.

The Kerisian horse melted back into the infantry lines. A wave of scrambling pikemen, slingers, and spearmen eddied around the tight-packed Caer wedge. The horses on the edges of the formation danced and flailed out with their hooves, splashing mud as their riders struck with spear and sword. The war-cries of the soldiers were indistinguishable from cries of pain. Orders could no longer be heard. Kyellan loosened his horse’s reins and wrapped them around the pommel of his saddle. He would have to trust the animal to respond to knee pressure as the enemy was upon them.

Soldiers in yellow swarmed around like bees. To Kyellan’s right, one side of the wedge was battling with the Kerisian horsemen. The left side of the formation had begun to break up as enemy pikemen killed horses and dragged men from their saddles. Kyellan tried to pick out which of the wickedly curved pikes were nearest to him when his black gelding suddenly reared and struck out.

Three enemy soldiers thrust at the warhorse with short spears. Kyellan saw their faces beneath their bright helmets. One was bearded, one had a gash down the side of his face, and one was young and very pale. Kyellan struggled to retain his seat as his warhorse hit the young one in the chest and knocked him off balance. The horse leaped forward, and Kyellan swept his sword down at the youth. The blade glanced off iron shoulder guards, then slid into the unprotected muscles at the side of the soldier’s neck. He went down.

A spearhead scratched the gelding’s flank, and the horse whirled with bared teeth. Another Caer horsemen caught the enemy from behind with a thrust. Kyellan moved in a roar of shouts and screams, splashed with warm blood and clods of wet earth, sweat running into his eyes. He fought when he had to without looking closely at the men he killed. His horsemen made a tight circle around him when they could, and he was able to look to see what was happening in the rest of the battle.

The archers at the riverbank had broken at the arrival of Narden’s retreating forces. The northern enemy could cross the river unhindered now, save by the floating bodies of their dead. To the southwest, Epon’s two hundred fifty horsemen and his thousand infantry had made contact with the lower flanks of the Kerisian western wing. Too quickly, the opposing lines melded, leaving struggling groups of horsemen from both armies interwoven with footsoldiers eager to get in a blow. It was not a good beginning, but at least Epon was occupying the part of the enemy that had the most chance to follow Narden’s retreat.

The villagers of Shalkir stayed hidden in their houses like ghosts, while their fields and pastures were torn by horses’ hooves and the pounding boots of infantry, while bodies piled up by their stone fences. It was not over for them, Kyellan thought. The villagers had cast their lot with Werlinen. If the invader failed to gain the throne, they would be traitors. There was no time now to avenge Istam and Tonn’s squadron, but the Queen would not be merciful when the war was over.

Kyellan had been up over his stirrups again. Now he was jarred back into the saddle as his circle of protecting men fell away on the right and his horse leaped away from an approaching Kerisian rider. Kyellan’s mount collided with one of his men’s horses, and they both staggered a little. The Kerisian was a tall man, with a perfectly balanced seat on his agile horse. Followed by three riders in yellow, he came at Kyellan.

The Commander swung, and the enemy soldier caught the blow on his shield. Like a mirror image, Kyellan moved his own shield arm to block the Kerisian’s sword. The black warhorse crowded against the enemy’s mount with its teeth flashing. Kyellan ducked a wild swing of his opponent’s shield. Its sharpened metal struck his shoulder and broke a few links of his scale armor. The Kerisian’s sword found an opening at the same time, and sliced across Kyellan’s right thigh where his armor ended, just above the knee.

The black gelding felt the pressure of that guiding leg lessen, and it obediently turned to the right. The Kerisian’s horse shied back, and then plunged forward at its rider’s urging. Kyellan caught another sword blow on his shield, but this time he was fast enough to thrust under the Kerisian’s shield arm. His rapier buried itself in his enemy’s armpit. The man thrashed out with his shield, hitting Kyellan a bruising blow on the side. But that was the Kerisian’s last effort. The man was dead. He toppled from his horse as Kyellan pulled his sword free.

The enemy’s companions were all down but one, and he was surrounded by three Caer horsemen and would not last long. Two of Kyellan’s circle of men had fallen. Riderless horses followed along with the wedge, still kicking and biting at anything they ran into on the ground.

There was a lull around Kyellan briefly, and his men had closed in to protect their Commander again. He took his sword in his left hand, and used his right to lift the flap of scale armor over his leg. The cut was not deep, running in the length of the muscle. It was bleeding, but not too heavily. He could still move the leg. He had little choice but to leave it untended for now.

The northern troops of the enemy had crossed the river, and were headed for the battle. Kyellan rose a little over his saddle, but his leg would not support him. Still, he could see that Narden’s men were moving quickly now, far away in the open marsh near the eastern bend of the river. They were out of the trap.

If Kyellan’s horsemen and Epon’s troops did not disengage soon, they would be surrounded. Already, half their number had been slain. They would probably join Tonn’s squadron on the Shalkir funeral pyre when the battle was over. The farmers would want to clear their fields. Kyellan thought that the enemy losses were a little higher than First Division’s. The very numbers of the Kerisians, and the narrow shape of the valley, kept them from engaging much of their force at one time. It also kept reinforcements from getting through to replace the fallen men.

Some Kerisian infantry had gotten into the middle of the decimated formation of Caer horsemen. Kyellan’s horse staggered as it took a blow on the side of its head from a club. The club had not hit full on, or the horse’s skull would probably have been crushed. The animal stumbled and regained its footing with difficulty, as Kyellan unwound the reins from the pommel and pulled them tight to keep the black’s nose up. He leaned down with his sword and thrust over the guard of the club-wielder. The rapier plunged into the enemy soldier’s throat.

Kyellan wiped his sword on his surcoat and looked for an open spot in the fighting where his horse could rest. There was nothing. “Epon!” His shout reached the young Syryni lieutenant, whose remaining forces had pushed north to join Kyellan’s. “It’s time to disengage. Fall back through the village and retreat!”

Epon’s sergeants relayed the order from man to man, unable to be heard over the roar of battle. “Not all at once!” Epon called. “A squadron at a time, or we’re all lost.”

It was a precarious movement. As each squadron of Caer soldiers detached from the front it left a gap, into which enemy troops poured like floodwater. The Caer horsemen held their ground as best they could while the infantry ran. The men were exhausted, and they knew the retreat was necessary, but Kyellan could hear them cursing as they fled. He felt the same. He would far rather lead a suicidal charge than a desperate retreat. Even now there was no guarantee they would escape with their lives.

“Fall back yourself, sir,” said Lieutenant Epon, reaching Kyellan in the madness. “I’ll take the rear.” The Kerisian infantry was rushing forward around them, surrounding them even as they turned their horses and plunged back toward the village. A man at Kyellan’s left was unable to get his horse to jump one of the farmer’s low stone fences, and was dragged down.

“No time for any more stands,” Kyellan shouted. “Everyone has to get out of this now, before their northern ranks cut us off.” Epon rode at his side, with the remnants of both their cavalry battling around them. There were less than a hundred of Kyellan’s men left, and Epon had perhaps fifty. They hacked at a fresh rush of enemy footsoldiers, and closed in as tightly as they could to race between the first few houses of the traitors’ village. The infantrymen that had broken off earlier had gotten through the village now, and ran with their backs to the battle to the marshes.

Kyellan and Epon and their men could not yet make it a full, running retreat. They were constantly forced to turn and fight, and they galloped to run down the scattered groups of enemy soldiers who were chasing the First Division infantry. But by the time they reached the western edge of the village and plunged out into the open again, they were pursued only by arrows. The Kerisian commanders shouted orders that held their men back, and watched them go.

The valley narrowed between high, curving hills, following the river toward the south. There were no roads in the marshes, only cowpaths and tracks fit for one man on foot. The retreating men of First Division crowded down the riverbanks, beneath the interwoven branches of dense willows, shadowed by huge oaks. Kyellan and Epon’s horsemen joined the infantry and rode as a rear guard, scarcely believing they were being allowed to escape. They pushed their weary, bloodied horses as hard as they dared.

Werlinen’s officers must be confident of his ultimate victory, Kyellan thought, staring behind him at the massive enemy army that was drawn up just outside the village of Shalkir. The Crown Prince must have ordered his commanders to leave him some men for his own Caer army when he took the throne. The mercenaries Kyellan led would accept Werlinen’s pay if he won the war. That did not change their fury now at their defeat, and at their enemies’ contemptuous gesture in letting them go so easily.

The sun was low in the clouded sky, and a cool breeze blew over the river as it led them between steep-sided hills. The sweaty heat of battle was over. Kyellan’s skin was clammy, and his hands had begun to shake on the reins. The open wound in his leg throbbed with a steady beat, almost in time with the warhorse’s uneven gait. He was bruised and cut in many places, and the cold iron of his helmet was heavy against his skull.

Most of the men who walked and rode with him were wounded. A few were having trouble staying on their horses. The horses themselves were battered and exhausted, but any of them hurt too badly to travel had been left behind in the battle. It would still be a good idea for any man who could to dismount and lead his horse. Kyellan did not want to think about walking. He would give the order later, when they were further from the battlefield. The Kerisians might still change their minds and pursue.

Epon’s dark, handsome face was drawn, but he attempted a smile as he trotted his chestnut gelding up beside Kyellan’s horse in the ragged formation. Blood from a gash in front of his left ear oozed down his cheek. His long, thin braids had been lopped off raggedly on that side. “Well, Commander, now what?” he said. “I had a man ask me if we were going to join up with Second Division and go back to take the Kerisians by surprise.”

“What did you tell him, Lieutenant?”

“I told him not to be so stupid. But then I remembered I wasn’t the one to ask. I don’t know what your plans are.”

“If they don’t decide to follow us after all…” Kyelllan sighed wearily. “We’re going back to Cavernon as quickly as we can. Narden will turn Second Division, and they’ll intercept Third as well.”

“I hope they wait for us,” Epon said. “All the doctors are with the wagons. Some of the men may have bandages or salves in their packs, but there won’t be enough. We all need our wounds treated.” His eyes were fixed, straight over his horse’s drooping head. “But they won’t wait, will they? They won’t know that we escaped.”

“No,” Kyellan said. “They won’t wait for us. I ordered Narden not to. We’re on our own.”

The sun was setting behind the hills of the little harbor in northern Syryn. The village was small, but its inhabitants were used to strangers. They spared only a few curious glances for Briana and Yalna as they went about their work. Briana’s hired fishing boat had spent an extra day in Cavernon Bay to harvest an unexpected run of tuna. At last it had landed. The fishermen ignored their passengers as they unloaded their boat.

A chill breeze rustled Briana’s drab peasant clothes, which smelled overwhelmingly of fish. She stood on the pier staring up at the stone fortress that dominated the village. It was a silent presence that explained the rows of well-kept landings on the wharf. It was abandoned now, achingly empty, like a gaping wound. “It was here all the time. Less than thirty miles from Cavernon City.”

“What was?” Yalna shivered in her threadbare cloak, and ran a hand over her wind-frayed braids.

“The Goddess’s Seat.” Briana lifted her small bag of belongings and started down the pier toward the village. “Maybe they are stronger than I am, Yalna. How else could they have hidden it so close? I never found it while it was here. I never sensed the Power they used to move it from here, wherever they took it.”

The younger woman frowned. “Don’t start blaming yourself again. You can’t be everywhere, and you can’t know everything. You were busy trying to bind Rahshaiya. You weren’t searching for the Seat, or most likely you’d have found it. Come. There has to be some place in this village where we can get a bath, and something to eat that was caught on land.”

Dust rose up from the single village street to coat Briana’s damp legs. A bath would be pleasant. Her body craved rest. She wished she could ignore it and continue her journey. She would have like to hire another boat to start for Takar that evening. But she knew she should not exhaust herself. She would need physical strength to have the Power to face her enemies.

“When we’re done at Barelin,” Briana said, “I’m coming back here. It’s time to find the Hidden Temple, and take back the Seat of the Goddess.”

Yalna protested, “If you don’t return to the city right away, they’ll have Ocasta in your place, whether the Queen wants it or not.”

“But if I return with the Power of the Seat, who will question me then?”

Yalna was unconvinced. It was just as well. They had lots of time to argue before they reached Barelin. It would keep the journey from getting monotonous.

Chela sat in the shadows between two locked warehouses near the southern end of the Atolan docks. Night had come, and a cold wind blew off the dark ocean beyond the piers. She had found shelter behind a few bales of rotting grain in the alleyway, but the wind still sought her out as if it knew she was too hungry and tired to resist it. This was the end of the trail she had followed. She did not know what to do next.

Yesterday morning she had found the inn where Kyellan and Alaira had stayed. They were not there. The innkeeper had been willing to answer her questions until he found out that she had no money to pay for the breakfast she had ordered. Then he had thrown her out. At least she had managed to eat first.

Kyellan and Alaira were gone. They had left the city aboard the ship of the Ryasan army commander, Haval. That much Chela had learned at the inn. As she had wandered through the city yesterday, she had discovered that the townspeople had not stopped talking about what had happened next. Kyellan and Alaira had hired Ryasan soldiers from Haval’s company to outfit a caravan of supplies. Someone had found out that the supplies were destined for Akesh, and had betrayed them to the King.

The Ryasan soldiers had been arrested. A troop of Garithians was sent in their place to destroy the Wizards’ College. The Ryasan King had protested on behalf of his soldiers, and they had been sent back to their own country. There were warrants out for Kyellan and Alaira’s arrest if they should ever return to Garith. Haval had reappeared with his ship in Chelm harbor a week later. The rumor was that his King had broken him several ranks.

Chela could not guess where her friends might have gone, or why. Perhaps the Hidden Temple had found them here, and they had to flee. For whatever reason, now there was no one in Atolan whom Chela could trust. She had never been quite this alone before. When her family had been killed, she had found Gwydion. They had been together ever since. Even while they had been captives of the soldiers and Gwydion had been unconscious, Chela had known that he was there, and had thought she could count on him when he awoke. She had been wrong about that.

The wizard was someplace in the city. He had tried to approach Chela in the marketplace early this morning, but she had thrown a mental attack at him of such anger and scorn that he had turned away. He was hooded and cloaked, and shielded by a strong illusion-spell to keep people from noticing him, but still he was foolish to stay in a place where he was in danger every moment of being discovered and killed.

Chela did not want to think about Gwydion. She had other things to worry about. How she was going to eat tonight and what she was going to do tomorrow were the most important of those. She supposed it would be possible to steal food, using her Power to shadow herself and silence her movements. People survived that way. Kyellan had lived by thieving from when he was a small child until he was sixteen, older than Chela was now. But that was in Cavernon City, where there were many more people and many more places to hide, and where it was warm. Atolan was such a bleak, open place that Chela did not think she could live for long unnoticed in its streets.

It would be better to find some work in the city. Chela hugged her knees as she sat, trying to warm herself. She wished she had not left her cloak beneath a bush. Finding work was a problem. She had grown up on a farm. With Gwydion, she had discovered her Power, and she might have become a teacher at the College if it had not been destroyed. She had no skills that she could use in Atolan. Her Power would be suspected, since she was not a priestess.

Chela laughed softly. There was a thought. She could join the priestesses. They had wanted her since she was a child. She had even made a start as an unwilling novice, when she and Alaira had been prisoners of the Temple at Chelm. There was a small Temple in Atolan. No. No, she could not bear the thought.

Her only chance was to find work that required no skills. She could walk back down the road to the fortress of King Marayn and offer herself as a servant, or look for a merchant in the covered bazaar who needed a helper. Tonight would be a good time to try a few of the sailors’ inns. She could be a serving girl or a kitchen worker. The inns were busiest around sunset, and they would feel it then if they were understaffed.

Chela got to her feet. The icy blast of wind off the docks blew her uncovered hair back out of its tangled braid. It was matted and dirty. Her face was thin and pinched from hunger, its skin coarsened by her long journey from Akesh. Chela wished she was prettier. No innkeeper would want a serving girl who looked half starved, or a kitchen worker who brought in half the dust of Garith on her skin and clothes. It was hopeless. “No one will hire me,” she whispered. Her stomach cramped on emptiness, and she began to cry, weakly and without much sound.

“I’d hire you in a moment,” said a familiar voice.

Gwydion smiled tentatively, only a few feet away. His hood had blown back. He had dyed his hair light brown, and illusion dimmed the gold of his eyes. He wore new clothes. Chela had not sensed his approach. She was too tired to drive him away with Power.

“What do you want?” she said. “Go away.”

His smile faded. “We should talk to one another, Chela.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Then I’ll do all the talking. I’ve found a ship that’s headed south tomorrow morning. I sold the mules to pay for our passage to Barelin. The wizards there won’t be happy to see us, but they’ll let us stay. We have Power they can use.”

“Use for what?” she muttered. “Revenge, more killing.”

His expression tightened. “No. For defending themselves. For rebuilding. To make Barelin a place where we can be truly safe. We have to work together if wizards are going to survive. We can’t trust anyone else. Even Kyellan and Alaira betrayed us.”

Chela glared at him. “Maybe they had a good reason for leaving. They didn’t send the Garithian soldiers to Akesh. The men they hired were betrayed themselves.” She shook her head. “You see, you haven’t changed. You’re like all the other wizards. You can go on if you want, and join your friends in Barelin. I’m not coming.”

He made a visible effort to put his anger aside, to soften his voice. “I don’t want to go without you.”

“You did very well without me on the journey south,” Chela said in fury. “You didn’t care if I lived or died. You left me on the road unconscious, where I could have frozen to death. When you finally did notice me, you took over my body and made me kill a man who had never hurt either of us. You don’t need me, Gwydion the Master Wizard, and I certainly don’t need you. Not anymore.”

“You need me,” he muttered. “You can’t survive alone in Atolan, and you know it.”

The red-haired girl stalked past him and walked quickly away, down the narrow alley toward the dark streets of the town. Gwydion ran after her and stopped directly in front of her.

“I said the wrong thing again, didn’t I?” he said. “But I’m really sorry, Chela. I’m sorry for everything.” He reached for her, but she moved back. “I was mad with grief, with anger. I wasn’t myself. You must know that.”

“And that makes it all right? You’re sorry. You weren’t yourself. Now you think I’ll go off to Barelin with you as if it had never happened.”

“We don’t have to go there. Not if you don’t want to. Anywhere would be fine. We could go to Altimar. The Queen would probably protect us, since I killed their sea monster back in the war. Or we could go to Hoab. General Orlandin liked me. He might convince them to let us live there.” Gwydion paused for breath, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked like a boy’s. “Chela, don’t you see, if you don’t go with me I might as well go back to Marayn’s court and give myself up.”

“Why don’t you,” she said, but her anger was weakening.

“You’re all I have left,” Gwydion said. “I love you so much. You’re the reason the madness left me. When I finally realized how much I’d hurt you, nothing else mattered anymore. I know what’s important now. Won’t … won’t you even try to forgive me?” He was crying now. He held out his hands. He had bought new gloves to go over the burn-scars on them. He had gotten those scars saving Chela’s life in the desert.

The pain in his words was like a fire to melt the ice inside Chela. She blinked back tears, confused. She had been so determined to hate him. “The worst thing,” she began, and had to try again. “The … the thing that hurt the most … was thinking that you didn’t love me anymore.”

Gwydion moved forward and took her in his arms. Chela did not resist. Warmth enveloped her, with the scent of him, a scent like exotic spices. She had not known how much she had missed it. She hugged him, burying her hands in the soft cloth beneath his heavy cloak. He wore a thick woolen surcoat, and had warm boots on his feet. He was right, Chela thought. This was what was important. The rest of it did not matter, though the man she had killed would haunt her.

“I got a good price for the mules,” Gwydion said after a moment. “I have a room at an inn, and money to spare for our journey. Come. We’ll get you a hot bath. Tomorrow there will be time to find you something better to wear. Is Barelin all right, or should I ask the ship’s captain to take another course? He’s headed for Cavernon City, but he’s willing to make a few stops along the way.”

Valahtia would let them back into Cavernon City, but nothing would have changed there. Wizards would still be in danger. “Barelin would be fine,” Chela said.

They turned to walk together into the city, the wind at their backs. Their minds were closed to one another. Gwydion had not offered, and Chela thought that it would take her a long time before she would agree to another mind link. For now, holding one another would be enough. That was as close as most lovers ever got.

Chapter Nine

Alaira looked down over the city from her terrace before going to bed. The streetlamps glowed in the clear night, but the usual night sounds were absent. It was as if everyone was holding their breath. Werlinen was somewhere out in the bay with his fleet, and Kyellan and his troops were marching north to Laenar, far out of reach. Alaira was exhausted from an afternoon and evening of riding back and forth through the city bearing messages from the Queen. The ladies-in-waiting and women servants had been given that task, since most of the palace pages and squires had been pressed into service aboard Tobas’s warships. The war had come to them.

Just after midday, an armada of more than a hundred ships had been sighted in the bay, flying the Kerisian flag. The Caer patrol ship that had encountered the first of the vessels had been attacked without warning, and had barely made it back to the harbor. Tobas had gone out on the Caer flagship with half the city’s motley fleet, and had found the enemy reluctant to engage in a full-scale battle. Still, when Tobas had returned at sunset, he had reported three Caer vessels damaged beyond repair and one enemy ship sunk.

The harbor gates were closed now for the night. A few city patrol ships were left out in the bay, and half the Cavernon garrison was stationed on the sea walls. Alaira did not know why the enemy had withdrawn instead of pressing an attack. With Kyellan and his men gone, only Fourth and Fifth Divisions remained in the city, along with palace guardsmen, city police, and the wall guards. There were no more than seven thousand soldiers in Cavernon now. Werlinen certainly had more than that aboard his armada.

There had been chaos in the streets for a time that afternoon, and Alaira had been forced to ride through it. Some of the city’s citizens were frightened enough to flee. The caravan roads south to Erinon and east toward the S’tari desert lands were clogged with refugees. They feared being caught inside city walls in a siege. Alaira thought that they were foolish. The villages and cities elsewhere in the Kingdom would have their own people to feed and defend. They were unlikely to welcome more. Cavernon City had wells and streams and stores of foodstuff within its strong walls. Its people were likely to last longer if they stayed at home. Still, the gate guards had let them go, except for young men of military age. At the Queen’s command, those had been conscripted into the army. Patrols of guardsmen were still going from house to house to find more conscripts.

Queen Valahtia had called for Briana to speak to the people, but the priestess was nowhere to be found. The women at the Temple claimed Briana had fled two days before, afraid of facing the true First Priestess Ocasta when she entered the city at the front of Werlinen’s triumphant army. Valahtia had been furious with the Temple. She had threatened the priestesses with arrest if they did not swear allegiance to her and produce Briana. She suspected them of holding Briana prisoner somewhere in the underground chambers of the Great House.

Alaira was not so sure. She could not help thinking that Briana was gone at the same time Kyellan was. Maybe the priestess had gone with him, had given up her battle with the Temple at last. Alaira knew they still loved each other. There was a baby somewhere. Briana might have convinced Kyellan that they should go away together and raise their child.

Alaira left the terrace as her eyes refused to stay open. She got into bed, but she was afraid to sleep. She had been having dreams of the Shape-Changer lately. She was afraid to build a fire to cut the chill in the drafty apartment, because she thought the wizard might appear in the flames. Her thoughts ranged back and forth from the Shape-Changer to Briana, and she could not decide which she feared more.

It was all nonsense, she told herself. Kyellan would not betray her. Yet she kept seeing Briana in her mind. The priestess was beautiful, with pale, flawless skin, long auburn hair, and impossible green eyes. She was graceful, strong, full of the Goddess’s Power. Given the choice, how could Kyellan not choose Briana over Alaira?

She shifted and tossed miserably in the big, cold bed. She should have gone with him. She should have insisted. He would have given in eventually. Alaira did not know why it had seemed so unimportant at the time. It was vitally important. She had sworn to herself, when Kyellan had admitted that he loved her, that she would never let him out of her sight again. She would never let him leave her alone. Yet she had meekly agreed when he had said she could not come with the army. She could have offered to go as a cook, as a messenger’ something useful. Kyellan would have let her go.

Damn it, this was so stupid! Alaira sat up and pulled her covers around her shoulders, staring at the curtains where the draft from the shutters blew little ripples through the cloth. She had to stop torturing herself. She did not care where Briana had gone. Kyellan would be back with his army when Werlinen did not show up on the Laenar coast. She had to trust in him. He was all she had.

“Bless our endeavor, First Priestess,” Gemon said with only a trace of mockery in her voice. She sat in the ship’s boat, her face shadowed by a hood in the lanternlight, holding a quiet bundle in her arms. The baby appeared to be no more than a month old. It had dark brown curls and olive skin and tiny, unformed features. Ocasta shuddered and looked away from it, holding onto the ship’s railing as she watched the boat lowering away.

Two of Werlinen’s sailors were in the longboat with Gemon. They would row her to meet a turncoat Cavernon City fishing vessel. Ocasta did not doubt that Gemon would find her way into the city, into the palace, and into the Queen’s chambers to fulfill her plan. The old woman made the Sign of the Goddess over the railing of the Prince’s flagship and murmured words of blessing, feeling useless. Gemon had done everything, through all the traveling and the waiting, at the court of Ishar and now here on Werlinen’s flagship. Ocasta had said the words the novice gave her. She had become a puppet. She was very weary.

The boat sculled away from the ship’s hull. Ocasta turned to cross the deck to the cabin stairway. Her remaining task would not be pleasant. She would have to explain this to the baby’s foster mother when the girl woke from her drugged sleep. It promised to be an angry meeting.

Night lay dark and cool over the waters of Cavernon Bay. The Kerisian flagship lay at sea anchor off the coast of the Dhalen Meadows, surrounded by dim points of light from its escort vessels, with the bulk of the fleet between it and Cavernon City. From the Prince’s cabin, Ocasta could hear the laughter and flattery of Werlinen’s circle of retainers as they feasted and congratulated themselves on the success of the day. There would be many more days such as this. Ocasta wished it was over.

At least she no longer had to endure the presence of the wizard child. Gemon had worked her followers hard for the past four days, channelling the baby’s Power, and at last they had accomplished the transformation Va’shindi had commanded. The scheme would surely mean Briana’s downfall. Now that Ocasta knew about the child, she agreed with Gemon that Briana deserved to die for her crimes.

She still could scarcely believe that a sworn priestess could so degrade her vows. Briana had given up her consecrated virginity to a wizard, a power of the Dark. According to Gemon, she had done it gladly, knowing a child would result. After the baby’s birth, Briana had not left the Temple. She had hidden the evidence of her sin and had continued to press her claim to be First Priestess.

Ocasta had seen the Goddess’s messenger appear to Gemon’s circle of priestesses in their rituals. Va’shindi had told them of the Goddess’s outrage at what Briana had done. Ocasta had heard the Messenger’s fierce voice, and had seen her in the flames on the shipboard altar. In all her years in the Order, Ocasta had never known such a direct manifestation of the Goddess. She had tended to dismiss priestesses’ claims to have spoken with Va’shindi as wishful delusions. She was profoundly glad she had lived this long, to know the truth of her life’s work at last.

The door to the Prince’s cabin opened, and Werlinen himself staggered out. Whatever his purpose had been, when he saw Ocasta he smiled and spoke in a somewhat slurred voice. “Come in, First Priestess, and join the party. I want you to tell us all how the Goddess herself has appeared to bless this war.” He was thirty-six years old, and behaved like a spoiled adolescent. His plump form, his round face and dull eyes, scarcely fitted Ocasta’s image of royalty. Yet she had given him the Goddess’s blessing to rule Caerlin. She was bound to his fortunes.

“Your Royal Highness, you must excuse me this evening,” Ocasta said. “I am weary. But certainly the Goddess is with us, though it was her messenger who appeared to me and my priestesses. You may have no doubts that you fight in a just and holy cause, and that your victory is foreordained.”

“Do you hear that?” The Crown Prince turned and went back into the cabin. “We’re sure to win. The First Priestess says so.” He shut the door behind him to the sound of good-natured cheers.

Ocasta descended the stairs to the second level of the huge ship, where she shared two small cabins with the Hidden Temple priestesses and Pima. It would be quieter now that there was only one baby, the girl’s natural daughter. Ocasta would assure Pima that her foster son would not be harmed. He would not be, as long as he was in Gemon’s care. After Gemon left him, his fate would be in other hands. No doubt he would be killed when he was found out. Ocasta was glad of that. The wizard infant was no innocent. She had sensed his ageless knowledge, his dark Power. He deserved to fall with Briana.

“Commander, we can’t keep on like this,” Epon said quietly. The young Syryni mercenary rode his plodding horse at a slow walk beside Kyellan’s exhausted gelding. The night was silent but for the stumbling footsteps of the remnants of Epon’s infantry and the jingle of horses’ harnesses. The little more than seven hundred men had left the river marshes long hours ago. Now they trudged through hilly farmland beneath the clear stars. The gravel gleam of the southward road was within sight to the west, but they did not travel on it for fear of being trapped between the high hedges by another attack.

Kyellan had been half asleep, riding in a fog of weariness and pain. He muttered, “What’s that, Lieutenant?”

“We can’t keep on any longer. Even if they were following us, they would have stopped by now to make camp.”

“Perhaps.” It was late. Near midnight. Past time to set up a guarded camp on some steep hilltop and give his men a few hours of sleep before dawn. Yet if their enemies were behind them, it would not matter how alert his sentries were or how quickly his soldiers could awaken and arm themselves. They were too few to withstand an attack.

“They’re as tired as we are,” Epon said. “They fought in the battle too.”

“Half their forces never engaged. Those men were fresh. Oh, hell, if they’re behind us they’re moving at twice our speed. It won’t matter if we’re encamped or on the march. They’ll catch up to us either way. You’re right, Epon. It’s time to stop.”

They rode on for another quarter of an hour before they found a suitable hill. It had a rocky gorge along one side, and a single approach facing south. Even the easier slope was too much for some of the tired cavalry horses. Their riders had to dismount and lead them up.

Kyellan assigned a few men who were unwounded to stand short shifts of sentry watch. They were not eager for the duty, but they shared his fear of pursuit. The cavalrymen, whether wounded or not, took care of their horses and tack before they slept. The soldiers who had bandages, salves, or whisky shared with those who had lost their packs in the battle, and those who had expected to be cared for by the army doctors.

His horse as comfortable as he could manage, Kyellan spread his blankets beside Epon’s and stripped off his armor, boots, and trousers to tend his wound. He cleaned it with water and then with whisky from the flask he kept with his roll of bandages. The cut was shallow, but it was five inches long, gaping and clotted with blood, still bleeding sluggishly as he cleaned it. He felt light-headed, detached from the pain. It needed stitching. No bandage would hold its edges together. Kyellan dug out a needle and thin sinew thread from his pack and set to work, in the dim light of the small, shielded campfire Epon had made in a hollow in the dirt.

Captain Narden would reach Cavernon City before Kyellan did. No doubt he would report his superior’s failings to the Queen. Kyellan did not think Valahtia would believe he had been incompetent. She had a trust in him that was not entirely logical. She trusted him to protect her, as he had done in Garith at the beginning of the wizards’ invasion.

That protector of hers was a different man, Kyellan thought. The Shape-Changer spirit within him had given him an edge, though he had not known it was there. He had called it a “soldier’s instincts” when he had noticed it at all. Now that he no longer had it, he felt its loss. He would have known then, without much doubt, whether or not his men were being followed by an enemy host. He would have known if it was safe to pause in their flight like this. He would not be so unsure.

Kyellan pulled the last stitch tight, knotted it, and cut the ends of the tough thread with his belt knife. The wound was not closed very neatly. He would have a surgeon look at it when he got back to the city. He bandaged it, pulled his trousers and boots back on, and put his armor where he could reach it quickly. Then he crawled into his blankets, closed his eyes, and tried not to listen to the soft night sounds, the horses’ restless movements and the quiet moans of the men who were worse hurt than he.

The battle refused to leave him. He went back over each part of it, trying to see where he could have turned its course. A brilliant commander might have come put of it with a victory, but he could not see how. The hours passed slowly. If he slept at all, it was only for a few moments at a time, until dawn came and he had to bully his men awake to start the march again.

Alaira dreamed in the early morning hours, curled up tightly in a corner of her bed, knowing she was dreaming and unable to escape. She dreamed of Kyellan and Briana together. They were lovers in a hide-walled tent set in a desert oasis, on the fringe of a vast army camp. Kyellan’s right arm was useless in its old sling. Briana still wore the grey robe of Third Ranking. They were so much in love. When they were alone in the tent they were always touching, and when they were out among the others in the victorious army their eyes would meet and they would have to hide their joy. They knew their time together would be brief.

Alaira saw through Kyellan’s eyes, knew his thoughts. She saw Briana the way he had seen her then, so beautiful that it was painful to look at her, so desirable that he could think of nothing else. Alaira felt Kyellan’s wonder when Briana told him she was pregnant with his child. She felt his despair when the priestess left him, his conviction that this was the only woman he would ever love, the only woman who could ever make him feel so much.

Finally, the dream released Alaira. She awoke in misery, with no doubts that what she had seen had been true. She knew that Kyellan and Briana had spent a few weeks together after the final battle with the wizards. Such overwhelming love. Alaira knew that Kyellan did not feel that way about her. Maybe he no longer cared so deeply for the priestess, but he had to remember how it had been. Where did that leave Alaira? With nothing, as long as Briana still lived and Kyellan could hope to be with her someday.

“Maybe she’ll never come back from wherever she is,” Alaira whispered into the darkness.

“She’ll be back,” said the Shape-Changer’s voice, as if she was still dreaming. Alaira knew she was not. She saw the curtains blowing gently from the window. There was a face made of folds in the cloth, outlined in a faintly glowing light though it was not dawn yet.

“I wish you’d leave me alone,” Alaira said, sitting up in bed.

“Without my help, you’ll never defeat her,” said the wizard. “We need each other, Alaira. The time has come to act against Briana. If you help me now, I promise you’ll soon have Kyellan to yourself. You can make him forget her after she’s gone.”

“Yes.” She was ready at last to listen to him. “Yes, I’d do anything. But what if Kyellan found out that I was involved in … whatever you have planned? I’d lose him.”

“That won’t happen. Even Briana won’t know you helped her enemies. Now I’ll explain what you’re going to do.” His voice was soft, almost caressing. Alaira knew vaguely that she was being manipulated, but this was what she wanted. Kyellan’s love, his undivided love, was something she could only have with Briana dead. She was no noblewoman or priestess to worry about matters of honor.

“I’ll do anything,” she said again, and listened.

Alaira did not really understand the Shape-Changer’s plan, but her part in it would not be so terrible, she thought. She waited on her terrace the next afternoon, watching the sun drop lower over the city. Smoke and flame could be glimpsed far in the distance. An enemy ship had caught fire near the sea wall, its sails filled with burning arrows from the huge mechanical crossbows Senomar had built. Alaira could hear soldiers’ voices and the crack of wood on wood as catapults threw their bolts and stones. The clear sounds were a trick of the still air, she supposed. The city below the palace was as quiet as if it was paralyzed.

She had attended the Queen for a few hours that morning, and then had taken messages around to the division captains and brought back their replies. Valahtia had dismissed her in the early afternoon, thinking the strain she saw on Alaira’s face was exhaustion. The sun was setting now, and it was time to go. Dressed in the Queen’s red and black livery, Alaira left her apartment. She hurried through the gardens and courtyards, past clustered knots of worried nobles who were as ornamental and useless as the shrubbery.

Alaira walked with her head high, challenging anyone to stop and question her. Fear and uncertainty pressed on her mind, but she held to her resolve. She kept the image of Kyellan shaped like a prize in her thoughts and tried hard not to think of how he would react if he ever found this out.

Guards smiled at Alaira and waved her through the main palace gates of the Tiranon. They all knew her as the Commander’s lady. Soon, Alaira thought, that would be truer than it was now. She strode down into the parklands that surrounded the palace, headed for the lower groves where refugees were camped. Some of the people of the outlying countryside had come to Cavernon for safety, just as some foolish city residents had fled into the country. The Shape-Changer had said that his servant would meet her there at sunset. Alaira knew that the wizard’s ally was a priestess, an enemy of Briana, and that this person thought the Shape-Changer was a messenger from the Goddess.

At the edge of the first camp, Alaira passed one of the park’s huge old oak trees and saw a hand beckon her from behind it. A very young woman stood there, with a dark-haired baby sleeping in her arms. The woman had light green eyes and limp reddish-brown hair. She looked like a blurred reflection of Briana, and the aura of Power around her was strong enough for even Alaira’s faint abilities to discern. Alaira disliked her immediately.

“Va’shindi said you’d meet me here,” said the priestess in badly accented Caer. “And you’ll get me into the Queen’s chambers.”

“Yes.” Alaira tried to keep her nervousness from showing in her voice. “But we must hurry. We don’t have much time, Valahtia is meeting with her military advisors, so the Prince is alone with his nurse.” She looked curiously at the sleeping baby’s face. He did not look like the wizard child of a powerful priestess, or like the royal infant of the Ardavan line. He looked utterly ordinary. Alaira felt a sudden panic. “This isn’t going to work. His nose and mouth are all wrong, and his skin isn’t dark enough. This could never fool the Queen, not for a moment.”

“No need to worry.” The priestess walked with Alaira to the park road, and they headed up the steep slope to the palace gate. “We only had descriptions to work from. Once I’ve had a look at the real Duarnan, I’ll guide the little wizard to finish its transformation. No one will know the difference, I promise you.”

“What will happen to the real Duarnan?” Alaira said in a low voice. She had convinced herself she had to do this to win Kyellan, but she hated the thought that she was betraying Valahtia. The Queen had been kind to her, and seemed to enjoy her company; more than that, Valahtia trusted her.

“He’ll be kept safe,” said the young Garithian woman. “We have no intention of harming the heir to the throne. When the imposter is discovered and Briana is blamed for it, the Queen will have to assume for a little while that her real son is dead. After Briana is condemned and executed, we’ll return the Prince in some way that can’t be traced back to us.”

“And … and this baby?”

“I’m sure it will be killed.” The priestess sounded pleased.

Alaira knew that the Shape-Changer would never allow that to happen. He was lying to these strange priestesses, pretending to speak for their Goddess, using their hatred for Briana for his own ends. Once they had done what he required he would probably turn on them. Alaira wondered if he had lied to her, too. Somehow she did not think so. Yet she did not know any reason to trust the disembodied wizard.

The guards at the Tiranon gate were only mildly curious about Alaira’s companion. The woman said she was to interview with the chamberlain for a position in the Queen’s service. The beginning of a naval siege was an odd time to be recruiting servants, but the guards let them through without any more questions. Alaira took the priestess to her apartment to let her change into the black Second Rank robe she had brought.

The priestess dressed, then sat on the floor of the front room with the baby to one side. She went into a meditative trance. The air hummed with Power. After a few minutes, the outlines of her pale face had blurred. She looked a little prettier, a little older, a little more like Briana. It was nothing like the transformation Alaira had seen the Shape-Changer perform in Akesh, when he had imt on Kyellan’s form to please her. This would never bol anyone who knew Briana well. But Briana was little known in the palace. Perhaps it would be enough.

It was dusk when the young woman looked up at Alaira with eyes that were a brighter green. “Wrap the baby in something and we’ll go. Make it a shapeless bundle. No one must see me carry a baby in or out. I have the little wizard under enough control to keep it still.” Her voice was too thin, but the Garithian accent was like Briana’s.

Alaira did as she was told, using the drab villager’s dress the priestess had worn into the palace. The baby did not wake. Alaira wondered how he could have gotten so small. Briana’s child would have to be at least three months old, and the priestesses had gotten him to turn himself into a child of three weeks. Did he know how to behave like a much younger infant? She supposed it did not matter. The substitution was supposed to be discovered, so Briana could be blamed for it.

A buried part of Alaira’s thoughts surfaced for a moment. This was wrong. What had Briana ever done to her? Briana did not want Kyellan anymore. She had made that plain. She was no threat. Kyellan was Alaira’s now, even if she refused to go through with the Shape-Changer’s plan.

“Lead the way,” the priestess said, pulling up her hood to shadow her altered face. Alaira obeyed.

The two guards at the door of the royal quarters did not question Alaira’s silent companion, or look at the cloth-wrapped bundle the priestess carried. Alaira did not know if they thought the woman was Briana or not. The door opened for them, and they closed it softly behind them, and walked into the Queen’s reception room. The black-clad priestess looked like a carrion crow in the midst of the opulent furnishings and bright tapestries of the chamber.

“What is your name, anyway?” Alaira asked, as she led the woman through the curtained archway into the garden that was the heart of the royal quarters. They walked quickly past the colored fountains and pebbled fishpools.

The priestess glanced at her. “It would be better for you if you can convince yourself you took Briana to the Prince’s nursery. You knew nothing of why she wanted to see the Prince, but like the guards at the door you did not think to question her.”

“I know all that,” Alaira said. “But I want to know who you are really.” If she was to be the Shape-Changer’s pawn, at least she would not be a blind one.

“You’ll know me soon enough, when this city falls and Briana with it.” Alaira saw a glitter of green eyes beneath the hood. “Oh, very well. My name is Gemon. I lead the Hidden Temple. Your mistress Va’shindi has found me a useful servant. I hope to serve her well in this.”

The Hidden Temple was a familiar name. Alaira remembered. The priestesses of the Hidden Temple had attacked Kyellan at the old Sanctuary, and had been defeated only when the Shape-Changer took over Kyellan’s body. Now it seemed the wizard was in league with his former enemies. Gemon and her priestesses were probably still Kyellan’s enemies. Alaira was leading Gemon to betray the Queen and blame Briana for it. She wondered again if the Shape-Changer had lied to her. Would she regret this? Probably.

“Well?” said Gemon. “Where now?”

Alaira had stopped near the edge of the garden. She thrust her doubts aside and called up the hatred and anger her dream had given her. It was still there, along with the image of Briana as seen through Kyellan’s eyes. It was reason enough. She showed Gemon through another arch and knocked at the nursery door.

Ciffra was the Prince’s nurse. She was a plump, dark-skinned woman who had a son in Kyellan’s First Division forces. She had been sick with worry for her son all day, while enemy warships battered at the harbor gates. Kyellan and his men were probably enjoying a pleasant evening on the coast right now, waiting for Werlinen.

“Yes, my lady?” Ciffra said.

“There is a visitor to see the Prince,” Alaira said. “On the Queen’s orders. She needs to be alone with him.”

Ciffra saw the hooded priestess and made a deep curtsey. “To renew the blessing? I’m sure that can do no harm with the war begun. And the babe needs all he can get in the way of luck, after being born midwinter night.”

Gemon traced a sign of the Goddess in front of the nurse. “Wait in the garden with Alaira, good mother. I will not be long.”

Ciffra watched her go through the door and close.it. “I thought no one could find the Priestess Briana anywhere. I’ve never heard the Queen speak of it.”

“There are reasons for the secrecy, I suppose,” Alaira said. “You’re to speak of it to no one, of course.” She led Ciffra to a bench in the garden, to sit beneath the cool night sky. She could picture what was happening in the nursery. The two babies would be lying side by side. They would look more and more alike as Gemon used her link with the wizard child to call up his Shape-Changer abilities. When it was over, the two would be identical. But somehow the wizard’s disguise would be flawed, so he would be discovered.

“They should have reached the place tonight,” Ciffra said after a long silence. “Maybe not all the Kerisian army is aboard those ships in the bay.” Maybe they are still going to land off the Laenar coast. They may be fighting tomorrow.”

Alaira spoke absently. “Your son will be back before you know it. We’ll soon be at peace again.”

“The Goddess grant it,” Ciffra murmured.

Gemon called them back into the nursery. She held a bundle in her arms. Ciffra went over to the Prince’s canopied crib and smiled. “Sleeping like a quiet little statue. He’s been fretful all evening. “I don’t know how you did it, Priestess.” She turned, but Gemon was gone, headed for a servant’s exit from the royal quarters.

Alaira stepped forward to look at the sleeping child. This was the Duarnan she knew, a pretty baby with his father’s riot of soft curls and his mother’s perfect, thin features. Another infant just like him was hidden in Gemon’s arms, soon to leave the palace that was his birthright. It was done, and Alaira refused to listen to her doubts. She smiled at Ciffra and bade her a good night.

Chapter Ten

No one cheered Kyellan’s exhausted troops as they marched into Cavernon City in the evening two days after the battle of Shalkir. The people who were out in the streets knew of their defeat. Captain Narden, with his half of First Division and Second and Third Divisions, had arrived early that afternoon.

It had rained all day. Men and horses of Kyellan’s command were coated with mud. The soldiers would go straight to the palace barracks or the hospital, but Kyellan had been handed a summons at the northern gate to report to the Queen immediately. He would have preferred to get a bath first, and change his clothes. Actually, he would have preferred to ignore the summons, fall into bed, and let a surgeon look at his wound in the morning. His stitches had pulled out, and needed to be replaced. His leg throbbed steadily as he rode.

The sergeant at the gate had sent a soldier with Kyellan to fill the Commander in on the naval battle. The man had just gone off duty on the walls. He had spent the day before on one of the city ships. The Kerisians still seemed to be testing their enemies’ defenses. They would not engage more than a few of their vessels at one time. A Caer blockade runner had seen a huge encampment on the southern end of the Claws on the Parahn side: The bulk of the Kerisian army was there, which had to mean that the rulers of Parahn supported Werlinen.

Kyellan tried to listen to the soldier, though the man seemed not to know much of the situation. He did not know how the city’s forces were deployed, whether Fourth Division was on the ships and Fifth on the walls, whether there were patrols north in the Dhalen Meadows. Kyellan had seen no sign of them, if they were there. Although his men had not been attacked as they fled south, he was sure the three Kerisian divisions were following, headed for Cavernon City.

Tradesmen and refugees alike stared after the ragged army. Kyellan ignored the sullen glares and muttered curses. He had heard it all in the grumbling of his own men over the two days’ march. They blamed him for leading them into the ambush. Perhaps they were right, and it was his fault for believing the spies he had captured. He ignored the signs of disloyalty, knowing that his soldiers were tired, wounded, mourning their friends. The need to defend the city would bring them back to him quickly, after they got some rest. He might not be brilliant, he thought, but they knew he was the best they had.

The rain fell heavy and straight on the road up to the Tiranon gates. Kyellan returned the salute of a gate guard. That was all the welcome he and his men would get, he supposed. The soldier from the northern wall took Kyellan’s horse, and Epon led the men through the yard toward the northwestern barracks.

Kyellan took off his helmet, wiped some of the dirt from his face with his sleeve, and climbed the steps of the main palace in the rain. Sleepy guardsmen came to attention and opened the doors for him. A page hurried up as Kyellan strode through the coUonaded entrance hall, leaving tracks of mud on the marble tiles.

“Sir?” the boy said nervously. “Sir, what’s your business? The Ministry of War is down in the park, and the barracks are that way.” He pointed. He was eleven or twelve years old, with curly black hair and a girlish face.

“My business is with the Queen,” Kyellan said, more harshly than he had intended. “Go ahead of me, and announce Commander Kyellan reporting as ordered.”

“Yes, sir, Commander,” the page said. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t recognize you. I meant no disrespect.”

“No offense taken,” Kyellan said with an attempt at a smile. “I’d scarcely recognize myself if I were you.” Of course the palace residents were used to seeing him clean-shaven and out of war-gear. With a gold sash and a row of jingling decorations. Gods. Kyellan followed the page toward the royal quarters, on the top floor of the huge, ancient building.

Noblemen and women, servants in the hallways, guards at their stations all stared and then looked away as Kyellan passed. He tried to retain his military bearing, not to limp on the hurt leg, not to let his hands shake. The page stopped in front of a guarded doorway, the entrance to one of the Queen’s council chambers on the third floor. A guard opened the door for the page to go through, and shut it again.

Kyellan squared his shoulders and listened to the drip of dirty water from the edge of his leather jerkin and the bottom scales of his armor. He did not look down at the puddle he was making. It was a damn undignified way to make a report. He wondered if Valahtia had thought of that. Maybe she wanted him uncomfortable, and worried about her reaction to the failure at Shalkir. It was working. The scale hauberk weighed heavily on him. All his muscles quivered and burned, near collapse. Half the time today the cavalry had to walk to rest their horses. How long was the Queen going to keep him standing here?

The door opened. The young page came out first, and after him came the Queen’s advisors in a dour group. Senomar nodded to Kyellan, but the bearded engineer said nothing. The rest passed quietly. Most were, retired soldiers whom Tobas consulted on his naval strategy. Some were noblemen, and a few were city dignitaries. Captain Narden was the last of them. He was clean and well dressed, though he had lines of weariness across his aristocratic features. Kyellan caught his eye and glared until the Captain acknowledged his duty with a salute. In a few minutes, the hallway was empty again. Kyellan took a deep breath and entered the council room.

Valahtia and Tobas sat together at the head of the long table, wearing identical scowls. A clerk crouched over a writing table in a corner, spreading fresh sheets of paper and wetting his pen. Spread before the Queen and Consort were map after map of the city fortifications, the outlying towns and villages, the coastline past the Dhalen Meadows, the coast of southern Parahn.

Kyellan bowed stiffly and straightened. “Your Majesty, Royal Consort.”

“Commander Kyellan.” Valahtia matched his formality. Neither she nor Tobas looked as if they had gotten any sleep recently. There were dark shadows on their young faces that marked days of efFort and worry. “We have already heard one report of the ambush at Shalkir from Captain Narden. We’d also like to hear it from you.”

“And we need to know the end of it,” Tobas said. “Narden says you led them into a trap. He didn’t come out and say it was deliberate. Not to us. But half the city believes it was. They’re calling for your arrest for treason.”

“Treason?” Kyellan stared at his old friend. “Tobas, you were there when I questioned those spies. You believed what they said as well as I did. There was no way we could have known they were planted to give us false information. If that’s what happened.” He shifted his weight to his left leg, as the damaged muscle of the right one refused to support him. He could feel a dampness under the bandage. “How the hell could I have known that army was waiting for us at Shalkir? Only a few hundred Kerisians attacked the bridge crew. I thought it was a raiding party we could easily take. How could Narden twist that into treason?”

“That’s what the city is calling it.” Tobas shook his head. “I know you did what you had to do, Ky. I’m not accusing you of anything. Sit down. You look half dead. Are you wounded?”

“Not badly.” He sank gratefully into a chair at his end of the table. “Most of my men are in worse shape.”

“How many did we lose?” the Queen asked, leaning forward. “Captain Narden estimated one thousand. A third of First Division.”

“It was more like seven hundred,” Kyellan said. “The enemy lost more.”

Tobas looked over at the clerk, who sat with his pen ready. “We need you to tell us everything that happened from the moment you left the Dhalen camp. Every order you gave, and how well it was obeyed. Everything your outriders saw and reported. The rationale behind each decision on up through the battle and the retreat.”

“There will be people demanding that you be tried,” Valahtia said softly. “We have to be able to back you with something concrete.”

Kyellan could not suppress his irritation. “We’re at war, my Queen. If they want to blame me for Shalkir, let them. There’s no time for a trial, and you need me for other things. At least eight thousand Kerisian soldiers are headed south right now. How are we going to meet them? They could already be in the Dhalen preserve. I crossed the river on the transport barges, with my men. The enemy could do the same. We need to clear the river, and we need patrols on the Dhalen side to watch for the enemy. Do we have reserves to send to the river and the northern wall?”

Tobas nodded, looking down at one of his maps. “Second and Third Division are resting from their march, but I can assign them there if necessary. You’re right about the barges, and the need for patrols. I’ll take some men off the ships.”

“We need you,” Valahtia said impatiently. “But we need you in command. Your men have to trust you to lead them well. We have to answer the accusations, and we have to do it now. We need a report on Shalkir, Kyellan.”

“Very well. You’ll have one.” He began. His testimony took two hours, as each detail he remembered prompted more questions from Tobas or the Queen. When it was over, everyone was exhausted. The clerk had gone through his store of pens and had had to re-sharpen ones he had previously used. His supply of ink ran low, and by the end, the report was faint on the parchment.

The Queen and Tobas seemed satisfied, but Kyellan’s anger had only grown. Good men were dead, and among them Istam, who would be sorely missed. They had fought with honor in a battle that had been weighed too heavily against them. They were not the victims of treachery; only of war. To claim otherwise was to cheapen their sacrifice.

“Thank you, Commander,” Valahtia said at last. “Alaira will be wondering where you are. You’re free to go to her.”

He rose from his chair, and found that his wounded leg had gone stiff, and hurt at the slightest pressure of his weight. “I’ll bid you good night, then.” He looked coldly at Tobas. “Will you tell me what Narden said that made this necessary?”

“His report agreed with yours on most of the major points,” the Royal Consort said.

“But he lied about details, is that it? Damn it, Tobas, I can’t have that from my second in command.”

“Stay away from the Captain until you’ve calmed down,” the Queen warned him. “You are not to retaliate. We need every good officer we have.”

If he did not confront Narden with his insubordination, he would lose all discipline among his troops. His men would assume the charges were valid. Kyellan was tired of being polite. The Queen and Consort were treating him like an errant cadet. He bowed without a word of reply to Valahtia’s demand, and turned and limped from the room.

Outside the main hall, Kyellan commandeered a guardsman’s horse and rode it across the palace grounds to the barracks. Most of his men were already sleeping. He woke Epon to tell him he ordered two days of rest for every man who had ridden with him. The wounded would need more than that.

He went to the barracks hospital, and found it full of men; his own, and those who had fought on ships in the bay. He found a surgeon to clean and re-stitch his wound. The man wanted him to stay in the hospital overnight at least, but Kyellan refused. His wound tightly bandaged, he took a little time to talk with some of the wounded who were still awake. Even men who had grumbled about him on the march seemed cheered at the attention.

After the hospital, Kyellan went to the stables. He found the grooms still at work, and furious at the condition of the horses he had brought back. His big gelding would recover from its wounds and its strained muscles. A few of the animals were ruined now for war. They might make pleasure horses after months of rest and retraining.

Alaira was asleep when he went home at last. The sun had set hours ago. Kyellan closed the door quietly behind him, and looked down at the slim young woman curled up in a chair in the sitting room. She must have known he had returned. She had gotten some servant to bring a large wooden tub for his bath.

The water was cool now. A large iron pot hung by a hook over the burnt-out fire. Kyellan dipped it full of water from the tub and hung it up again, then sparked the coals in the hearth to life. It was no longer raining outside. Kyellan opened the shutters to let the curtains blow freely from the terrace, and stood there to take off his layers of armor and stained and stiffened clothing. By the time every buckle and lace had surrendered, the water was boiling in the pot. Kyellan carried everything he had been wearing out onto the balcony. He did not want to sleep with that rank smell in the room.

He closed the shutters again, put on fire-mitts, and dumped the hot water from the pot into the bath. He set a stool by the tub to prop his hurt leg on, and climbed in with the care of an old woman. Places stung where he had not known he had cuts, and ached where he had not known he had bruises. An area the size of his hand beneath his shield arm was raw and swollen, where links of his armor had been driven into his side. It was long minutes before the water began to feel pleasant. He sank down as deeply as he could while still balancing his leg on the stool.

After a while he looked around for soap. The water was dark now with blood and grime, but there were layers still to go. Alaira’s open eyes met his gaze when he looked her direction. She was awake. She did not smile as she uncurled and bent over to hand him the soap. It had been clutched in her hand as she waited in the chair. It was soft from her warmth.

“You could have come to me first,” she said.

“I was ordered to report to the Queen. And then I had to see to my men, and get this looked at.” He pointed at the bandage above his knee. Alaira did not look sympathetic.

“You can’t have made a very good impression on the Queen. You should have come here first and cleaned up. Any nobleman would have done it. The nobles already think it ought to be one of them commanding the army.”

“Valahtia commanded me to report as soon as I reached the palace,” Kyellan said with an edge in his voice. “Look, Alaira, I’m in no mood for this. I spent the last two hours defending myself to the Queen and Tobas. That’s enough for one day. Maybe I should have come here first. Maybe you’re right. Tell me about it some other time.” The water in the bath was cooling. He tried to work up a lather with the harsh soap, but his skin was too sore to rub.

Alaira whispered, “Don’t be angry with me. I’m sorry. I just wanted to see you, to know you really had come back. All day since Narden returned, I’ve been thinking I’d lost you. He said you wouldn’t be coming back, when I asked him. He said you had probably been killed in the battle, but if you weren’t dead it wouldn’t make any difference. You’d lead your mercenaries over to the other side, or simply desert. He said you’d be ashamed to come back, and that it would be dangerous for you to do it, and you knew that.”

“He said all that?” A cut had broken open on Kyellan’s left arm and was bleeding sluggishly into the water. “Where anyone could hear him?”

“He said it to me. There were some soldiers around, too.” Alaira reached for the soap and took it from him. “Here. Let me do that. You’re too stiff to reach the worst places.”

She was silent as she gently scrubbed his back. Kyellan forced himself to put aside his anger at Narden. Alaira had been frightened, and he was behaving like a fool. He intercepted her hand and held her still, making her look at him. Her dark eyes brimmed with tears.

“Alaira.” He made her name a caress. “You knew I’d be back. You shouldn’t have been afraid. I promised you I’d never hurt you again, didn’t I? I wouldn’t abandon you. Not for anything. Not even if Narden’s accusations were true.”

She hugged him, getting her gown wet. “I know. I shouldn’t have doubted you. And now you’re here.” She frowned suddenly. “But I’m still mad at you for not coming here first to let me know you were all right.”

“I was wrong. You deserve better,” he said somberly. “Will you forgive me?”

“I can’t help it.” Alaira knelt by the tub to kiss him. Kyellan cupped wet hands behind her head, feeling her face with his thumbs, the thin, sharp features, the long raised scar. She was never sure of his love. He did not blame her. He was wary of love, filled with defenses against it. Briana had broken through to him. With Alaira, it was a struggle to let the shields down, to give her what she needed. He was determined to do it.

“I missed you,” he said with half-closed eyes, too tired to respond much to her kisses. “I love you.” It was little enough to say to make her happy.

Her smile was brilliant. After a moment, she went back to bathing him, as ruthless as a tanner cleaning a hide. Kyellan winced and sank back, unresisting. He could not think anymore tonight. Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with Narden.

The sunrise lit the harbor of Barena slowly, picking out its features one by one as the fishing boat carrying Briana and Yalna passed the outer docks. Tall ships were moored in the deep water of the merchant harbor. The island’s native fishermen were headed in the other direction, out into the calm sea. Barena rose from the harbor to cover steep hills with pale, whitewashed houses and the villas of wealthy tradesmen. Beyond the first ranks of hills stretched pastures and fields that were too stony for much to grow in them. The people of the island raised goats and sheep, and lived on trade. Seamen from Barelin went from kingdom to kingdom, buying and selling what other people had made.

The wizards at Barena had supported the Kharad, but had not oppressed the people. For many years, a colony of wizards had held a partnership with the city leaders, seeking profit rather than Power. Thus, the people of Barena still allowed wizards to live among them. The enemy Briana sought had not been there long. They had fled to Barelin after the final battle. The priestess could guess that the established trader wizards had not been glad to welcome their fiercer kin.

Briana and Yalna had spent two days on Takar. The first boat they had hired there would only take them as far as the western side of the island. There, they had had to wait until the day’s catch was cleaned and stored, and nets were mended, before the new boatmen would consent to carry them to Barelin. They had been sailing all night before a light breeze, in an ocean that seemed to know the urgency of Briana’s mission. Now Briana sat quietly in the bow of the twenty-foot boat beneath the swaying boom. She had discarded her shields, and sought ahead with Power for what she knew she would find somewhere in the city.

Yet she could not sense any trace of her son’s presence. He had to be here. Somewhere in Barena. Well-shielded, perhaps, but here. The aura of Power around the city was not strong. It was no more than Briana would have expected from a place that had a small Temple of the Goddess.

The Takar fishing boat pulled up against an inner pier, beside a half-submerged wooden stairway. The leader of the fishermen threw a line to a dock worker, and turned to Briana. “Will you be needing a guide in the city, my lady? My lads and I will make a day of it today. I’d be happy to send someone around with you. No extra charge.”

He was trying to make up for yesterday afternoon’s delay, Briana supposed. “No, thank you. I’d rather find my own way. But the offer was well made.” She picked up her bundle and accepted the man’s hand in getting out or the boat and up the steps. The little waves soaked her feet and the hem of her gown. Yalna followed, smiling back at one of the more handsome fisherman’s lads.

Barena was a city without walls. The harbor was open, with no gates, and the houses rambled over the hillsides with nothing to contain or protect them. The city was home to a brown-skinned, black-haired people of the same race that lived on Takar and Syryn. The markets had not yet opened as Briana and Yalna walked up the steeply-graded main street, but tradesman were already setting out booths and goods. They looked at the two women curiously. Few pale Garithians were seen on this far western island, and fewer S’tari.

“What do we do?” Yalna asked. “Get directions from someone to the wizards?”

“Not yet.” Briana was conscious of her shabby clothing and windblown hair. The First Priestess should approach her enemies with some dignity. She and Yalna had managed to sleep on the boat, with their blankets between them and the damp boards. She did not need to rest, but she needed to refresh herself. “We’ll find an inn first. While I’m bathing, I want you to go out and find us both some clean clothes. Something black and simple for me, if you can manage it.”

They turned off into a street full of sailors’ lodgings and poor taverns. “Your Commander Kyellan is fighting his battle today, if everything went as planned,” Yalna remarked. “I hope he can beat them back.”

Briana shook her head. “No. No, he’s back in the city now, with an army at the gates.” It was not until Yalna looked at her strangely that she realized there was no way she could know that.

“A message from Va’shindi?” Yalna said.

The priestess felt cold. She had not even noticed the touch of the Goddess. Her Power felt bright and strong, like a new-made sword, concentrated and focused. Perhaps in her long and silent journey she had been more open to the Goddess’s aid. She knew that it was true. The city was under siege. That would make it harder for her to get back.

“I’m frightened for you,” Yalna said less than an hour later. “Couldn’t you sneak in and steal the baby after dark?”

They had found a tiny third-floor room in one of the crowded inns. Briana had bathed, and had dressed in a new black skirt and blouse. Her hair was damp, braided tightly back into a knot. Yalna wore clean new clothing as well, a deep-dyed yellow dress she had found in the market. The young S’tari had braided strings of coins into her hair and rimmed her eyes with kohl. She had hung a small leather bag of herbs around her neck, as if she would be attending a birth.

“I have to face them now.” Briana smoothed down the pleats of her skirt. Her hands tingled with Power, brushing everything she touched with a faint white glow. She could feel the strength of the Goddess’s three aspects twined around within her like the trunks of three trees grown together. She was First Priestess, the chosen Voice of the Goddess. At times like this, she knew it without question. She wondered why she had ever doubted it.

Her senses were afire. She could hear the voices of men and women in the inn’s common room; she could smell their meat pies and ale, and the more unpleasant smells from the street outside; she could see details in the roughly carven mantelpiece of the room’s hearth, the places where the craftsman had slipped and filled in with glue and sawdust, the marks of the chisel on leaves and vines.

Yalna sighed. “I don’t suppose it makes any difference. They probably already know you’re here.”

They left the room together. Briana had wanted Yalna to stay behind, but the young woman had refused. She was a S’tari, voluntarily bound to Briana’s service. It would be dishonorable of her to let her mistress go into danger alone. It did not matter to Yalna that she would not be able to help.

Through the common room and out into the street, Briana whispered a short prayer of invocation, calling on all the Powers who might choose to help her in her quest. She held an image before her of Cian as she had last seen him, a two-month-old child with bright hair and cat’s eyes. Pima and Taryn joined the picture, the young mother’s round face bent over the delicate girl child. Behind them stood Erlin, his square, stern face pleading with Briana to find his family and see justice done. Briana fixed them all in her mind. Her fiercely heightened Power began to gather around them, learning its quest.

There was no need to find the wizards. They came to her. At the top of a long, winding street in the early morning light, Briana saw them silhouetted. They wore the soft, brocaded gowns of Barena merchants. Some were old, probably men who had lived in the city all their lives. The enemies Briana sought were scattered in the group. Wizards in the prime of their Power, some lean and hawk-faced, others as doughy as their human neighbors in Barena.

They had erected a shield less strong than Briana might have mustered, and there were ten of them. If they had been more powerful, they would not have been allowed to escape after the war. And if the shield was the best they could do, they were fools to face Briana with it. They should have fled.

Briana walked slowly up the cobbled street with Yalna at her shoulder. Shade trees from rich men’s gardens hung over white walls to either side. There were no townspeople on the street. Only the wizards at the top of the hill.

“We know why you’ve come,” one called. “It is useless. We do not have what you seek. Leave us in peace, Briana of Garith.”

Briana stopped twenty feet from them. “You don’t know me if you think I’m a fool,” she said fiercely. “A young man has been murdered, and a woman and two children have been abducted. Give them to me, and we will talk of peace.”

One of the younger wizards stepped forward slightly, and she could see his anger. “You know they aren’t here. How could you not know? You pretend to be First Priestess, and the priestesses have them. This is only an excuse to attack us.”

A tall wizard with a long mustache joined his fellow. “Do you speak of murder, priestess? Five of our kindred were murdered when their ship was burned. Do not come to us seeking vengeance. The men who killed your friend are dead, and your own people took the woman and the babies.”

“Have you grown mad in your exile?” Briana said. “I know that the Shape-Changer commanded you to steal my son for him. You obeyed. Do you refuse to give him to me?”

An older wizard spoke. “We do not have him.”

“Very well then. Defend yourselves.” Briana attacked. The anger she had been nourishing exploded from her to batter the wizards’ shield. White fire crackled visibly above the pale cobblestones and gleamed in the morning light. The shield held, and absorbed the blow, but Briana knew it would not withstand another. Still, the wizards did not attack.

“Wait,” said one of the merchant-wizards, a frightened old man with a long white beard. “We speak only the truth. Can it be you do not know of this? I swear it is so. One of our company is a farseer. He was with the five in spirit when they died. They saw the black-robed priestesses, and we are certain the priestesses took the Shape-Changer child and the other two away. I swear it on my life.”

Briana struck again before his speech was over. There was no response to her blow. She felt the circle of Power in her thoughts urging her on, but she was confused. She forced herself to restrain her attack. “On your life, wizard? That is what you will forfeit if you are lying.”

“The white flame took the ship,” the old man said. “The Goddess’s flame.”

The shield vanished. The faces of the wizards showed varying expressions: anger, hatred, fear, hope. Briana sent her Power forth in a fierce probe of the old man’s unguarded thoughts. He was not lying. They had sent five wizards to steal Cian. They had succeeded in their quest, had killed Erlin, and stolen Pima and Taryn as well. But the wizards who had done it had been killed in their turn.

“I knew nothing of this,” Briana said at last. “I … will leave you in peace. Your deaths would mean nothing now. But remember this. If you cross me again, I will hunt you down like animals. The Goddess has a third aspect, and vengeance is Her due.”

“I do not think you need to look to Barena for your enemies,” said one of the young wizards, mockingly. “There are enough of your own people to fill those ranks. Good day, priestess.” He turned, and the others went with him. They walked over the crest of the hill and out of sight.

Briana stood quietly as the glow of Power drained from her, leaving her numb and exhausted. She had been sure the Goddess was with her. The Goddess had tossed her into the flames, and now she burned.

“You can’t go after Cian now,” Yalna said. “That must have been the Hidden Temple. They’ll be expecting you.”

“Yalna …” Briana’s voice shook. “If they found Cian, then he is dead. They would not let him live. I … I don’t think they’d hurt Pima or Taryn … and so there is nothing I can do, and no reason to do anything.” She twisted away from the younger woman’s hand on her shoulder, and started slowly down the street. “We’ll find passage on the next ship sailing for Caerlin.”

Chapter Eleven

Kyellan awoke late in the morning, to the sound of a light rain falling out on the terrace and the crackle of sausage in a pan over the hearthfire. He ached all over, but his wound felt better than it had the day before. The clean smells of sausage and toasting bread and Alaira’s perfume were pleasant after the trial of the forced march. Yet there was a knot of anger in him that would only twist tighter until he had dealt with Narden.

“Good morning.” Alaira had seen him open his eyes. She came over and bent to kiss him. Her hair brushed his face. “Breakfast is almost ready. You had a messenger earlier, but I wouldn’t let him wake you. He said I could tell you that the enemy army you fought at Shalkir showed up in the Dhalen Meadows this morning. About six thousand men.”

“Six thousand?” Kyellan sat up and swung his legs carefully off the bed. “There were two thousand more at Shalkir. Maybe they’re headed to Laenar to keep it from sending us reinforcements. Have they attacked the northern wall?”

“No. They’ve taken over your abandoned army camp. They’re re-fortifying it. They haven’t tried to cross the river. Tobas has ordered Second and Third Divisions to the wall. Half of them are there now, and half are in the barracks as reserves.”

“But there’s been no action yet? Good.” He stood up. A blackness rose in front of his eyes. It cleared after a moment. His leg was stiff, but he could walk on it. “Where’s Captain Narden?”

Alaira shrugged. “Resting, I suppose. With the others from First Division.” She looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I think you should have breakfast first.”

On a chair in the sitting room, Alaira had laid out a clean jerkin of padded leather, an undertunic, thick leather trousers, Kyellan’s swordbelt and boots, and his gold Commander’s sash. More practical than his dress uniform, he noted. He would need to add only a coat of mail and a helmet to ride out against an enemy. He did not expect to share his soldiers’ two days of rest.

“All right. I’ll eat.” He began to dress, easing the trousers up over his bandaged leg. His hands were shaking, and there were still spots in his field of vision when he straightened. Maybe the food would help. If it did not, he would ignore these signs of weakness. He could not ignore what Narden had done.

Alaira helped him with his sash and swordbelt. Kyellan checked the blades of his sword and his long belt knife, and found them clean and newly sharp. Alaira served him his breakfast, moving quickly and not wasting his time with talk. Kyellan had never seen her quite so helpful, so eager to prove herself needed. He wondered briefly if she might have done something she was ashamed of while he was gone, and wanted to make up for it.

“I have to go to the Queen later,” she said when he had bolted his meal, “but she gave me the morning to be with you. Can I come along?”

“If you want. But I have to talk to Narden alone.”

They walked together through the palace grounds in the rain. Alaira took Kyellan’s arm from time to time, without making a show of it, when they had to climb or descend stairs. He found that if he shortened his stride he could almost walk without limping. His head cleared in the chill, damp gardens, but his anger only grew. Narden had done his best to undermine Kyellan’s authority. He had not only given a bad report of him to the Queen, but he had accused Kyellan of cowardice and treachery in front of witnesses who had spread it throughout the army and the city. Did the highborn Captain think he was above discipline? Perhaps he had truly thought that Kyellan would not return from Shalkir.

The prison tower and its high walls cast no shadows today over the rows of barracks buildings, stables, and training yards. The yards were muddy, and the only people out were a few grooms walking horses. Kyellan’s soldiers had had their fill of mud and rain yesterday; no doubt Narden’s felt the same.

Alaira left Kyellan and disappeared inside the army hospital, saying she would see if there was anything she could do there. The Commander reflexively loosened his sword in its sheath, and ducked beneath the low doorframe of the first barracks building. Most of the cots were empty. These were Second Division men being held in reserve. A few lay napping on their cots, fully dressed. A group sat in a circle like the Queen’s seamstresses, patching rents in their clothing and honing their swords.

“Commander!” One got to his feet, dropping his needle in his haste. Others came to attention more smoothly.

“At ease. I’m looking for Captain Narden,” Kyellan said.

“Not here, sir.”

He went on, checking Narden’s office and the weary ranks in the First Division barracks. Finally, a sergeant said he thought Narden had gone to the prison tower. Kyellan was losing the battle with his hurt leg. He was limping in earnest as he was passed through the prison gates and into the yard. The high walls had hidden the view of the gallows from the outside. Two men hung there, unhooded, their faces distorted but recognizable. , They were the spies Kyellan had caught undermining the walls. The spies who had baited the trap of Shalkir.

Kyellan suppressed his initial anger at the sight. He had intended to question the men again, but perhaps the Queen had wanted to make an example of them. He crossed to the tower door and asked the guard there. “Orders from the Queen?” He pointed at the hanged men.

“I don’t know, sir. They were executed at dawn. You could ask Captain Narden. He brought the word to have it done.”

“He did? Yes, I think I’ll ask him about it. Is he inside?”

“Yes, sir. He’s with the warden in his office.”

Ruwan would not have had the nerve to challenge such an order. The fat old officer was not too bright, though he was capable enough to command the prison tower. He did not have many prisoners to oversee. City criminals were sent to the quarries or released after a fine or a whipping. The Tiranon prison held only men whose offenses were directly against the Crown. Currently, that included the traitors who had helped Arel to the throne, and the men responsible for the massacre of the S’tari guard. Until this morning, it had included two Kerisian spies.

Kyellan did not wait for Ruwan’s aide to announce him. He stalked into the warden’s office, a room on the first floor of the tower that had a view of the gallows from its window. Ruwan rose from a chair behind his desk with a nervous salute. Narden had been leaning over him to read some papers. He saluted more slowly, his expression calm and unreadable.

“Commander Kyellan,” Ruwan said. “It’s good of you to come. I was just preparing death reports on the Kerisian spies, with Captain Narden’s help. We were going to send them to you as soon as we were finished.”

“Who ordered them killed?” Kyellan demanded. “The Queen would have consulted with me first. I wanted to question them again.”

“Perhaps you should have questioned them more rigorously the first time,” Narden said. “They betrayed us into a disastrous ambush.”

“I’m aware of that,” Kyellan said coldly.

“Don’t you agree that death is the proper penalty for such treachery?” Narden said in a meaningful tone. Ruwan looked from one man to the other, and began to edge toward the door of his office.

“That wasn’t your decision to make. I wanted to know who gave them their orders, and how they were able to fool even the First Priestess into believing what they said about a Laenar landing.”

“The priestess is not the only one they fooled.”

“Commander, Captain,” Ruwan said softly, “perhaps I should leave you two alone …” Without waiting to be dismissed, he hurried into the corridor and closed the door behind him.

“I intended to have them killed,” Kyellan said. “Eventually.”

“Did you?”

“You’re implying I was in league with the spies.” Kyellan met Narden’s accusing gaze. “And you’ve said worse than that, to the Queen and her advisors, to my men, to half the city. You know I am no traitor. So why?”

“I gave my report as I saw it. I don’t have to defend myself to you.” The aristocratic officer leaned against the wall with his arms folded.

“I’m your commanding officer.”

“You?” Narden’s calm was gone, replaced by scorn. “You? You’re no general. Traitor or not, you have no business commanding the army of the Empire. You’re no more than a mercenary, an opportunist who rose to your rank on the body of a murdered King.”

Kyellan felt himself go pale. “You’ll withdraw that accusation. And every other lie you’ve told about me. You’ll do it publicly. Or I’ll have you stripped of all rank and posted at the wall before the day has ended.”

“I have said what I have said. In public I would only say more.” Narden smiled thinly. “There are those who would listen. What will you do, little soldier from the rat-holes of Rahan? Go whining to your beloved Queen and her consort? Everyone knows they gave you your command for murdering King Arel. They might let you break me in rank. Still, the people of Cavernon will know what you are. You will not silence me that way.”

“You’ve just accused the Queen of having her brother murdered.” Kyellan’s hand was at his sword hilt. “For that, I could have you hanged within the hour beside those spies. A traitor’s death, and dishonor for your noble family.” He turned and opened the door to the office. Ruwan stepped back; he had been listening behind the door. “Or you can follow me into the prison yard and we can end it here.”

“A duel? With a bastard commoner? Scarcely a more honorable choice,” Narden said. “If I kill you, they will say you were already wounded. But what honor have you left me? All my life I will be known as one of the incompetent fools who led the Caer forces to Shalkir. That you have done to me, Kyellan of Rahan. And you killed the true King of this land, in whose service I was sworn. Yes, I will cross swords with you.” His voice was oddly dispassionate.

“Witness, Ruwan,” Kyellan said. “Captain Narden has accused me of murdering the late King, and of leading my men into ambush through treachery and incompetence. He has insulted our Queen. I take responsibility for his death.” He brushed past the overweight prison warden and stalked down the corridor and out the tower door, knowing Narden was following. The Goddess his witness, he thought, the man had given him no choice.

“Gentlemen,” Ruwan said as he hurried after them. “Gentlemen, reconsider this. It is madness. We are at war. We need you both. What will the Queen say, or Earl Tobas?” It was all on one panting breath.

The tower yard was paved with a layer of gravel, so it was not as muddy as it could have been. The small stones would be slick with the rain. Kyellan looked up at the pitiful forms on the gallows. Anger flushed through him again at the thought that Narden had had them killed. They were his spies. He had caught them, and he had meant to confront them with their misinformation. He had wanted Briana to question them again, too, though he suspected she had been right the first time. The two men had believed what they had said. The spies had been seeded with false knowledge and sent out to be captured. But Kyellan wanted to know who had briefed them, who had sent them. Werlinen or his priestess allies? Ocasta might have given them shields, or even false memories.

“Don’t waste my time,” Narden said. He took an easy stance in the center of the yard and drew his rapier and his long knife. He gripped the hilts loosely, balanced on the balls of his feet. Kyellan studied him for a moment. No matter how much he disliked the man, he knew Narden to be a competent fighter.

“Ruwan, see to it no one interferes.” Kyellan turned and found the warden no longer behind him. Ruwan’s burly form was already across the yard and hurrying through the gates. The two guards on the gates closed the heavy portals behind the warden, and saluted Kyellan. They would shut out Ruwan, and anyone else who would get in the way. They understood the need for the duel, Kyellan guessed. Probably every man in the army had expected it. They knew their Commander would have to defend his honor.

Rain soaked Kyellan’s hair and dripped into his eyes. He ignored it and drew his own sword and his belt knife, uncrossing his arms slowly with his eyes on his opponent. Narden’s hauteur had fallen away. His face was tense with hatred and the desire for vengeance. Kyellan guessed that this had little to do with the battle at Shalkir. It was because of Arel and his revived corpse at the funeral. Narden had been there. He was more loyal to the dead King than Kyellan had expected.

For Narden, then, the fight was because of Arel. For Kyellan, it was for the discipline of the army in wartime and the respect he needed as Commander. Or so he told himself as he advanced, favoring his stiff leg only slightly. His sword and knife were comfortable and familiar weights in his hands. The wet gravel rolled slightly beneath his boot soles. The rain ran down his neck and struck softly on his leather jerkin. He blinked back a touch of dizziness.

Neither man spoke as they stepped warily around each other. They were well matched in height and reach. Narden was twelve years older than Kyellan and a little heavier. If not for his wounded leg, Kyellan would have an edge in speed. Kyellan guessed his experience in single combat outweighed Narden’s; the Captain might have fought more formal duels, but Kyellan had grown up on the streets. In Rahan Quarter, almost any quarrel could become a killing matter.

Kyellan was too impatient to wait for his opponent to make the first move. He feinted high and dropped into a lunge for the center of Narden’s body. Narden turned, deflecting Kyellan’s blade with his knife, then turned back to slash his rapier downward before Kyellan could disengage. A heartbeat slow, Kyellan’s knife hand moved to parry his enemy’s sword.

They pushed away from one another and fell back a step. Narden’s face twisted in contempt or rage and he closed the gap again with a wild flurry. Kyellan parried, mirroring him, watching his opponent’s knife blade when it joined the sword’s attack, feeling more than seeing the swift dance of the two rapiers. Not too close. Not when each man had two blades. A hilt lock of either hand could be suicide.

Kyellan could not retreat long. Moving backward put a strain on his wounded leg and threatened his balance. His dizziness came and went, pulling around him at intervals so that he felt he was fighting in a tunnel. His only consolation was that Narden’s face looked grey. The Captain was not wounded, but he still had not recovered from the long march.

There was shouting from the other side of the prison wall, but within the yard the only sounds were the bright ring of steel and the dull grating of boots shifting in gravel. Kyellan could hear his own labored breathing but not Narden’s. The older man kept his mouth shut in a grim line, but his nostrils flared.

Narden stopped his forward movement, a little off-balance on a recovery. Kyellan parried and leaped to the left, striking with his left hand under swords that were almost locked together. Narden disengaged from underneath, but now he had a scratch on his right side across his ribs. A thin line of blood stained his surcoat.

Kyellan pressed his advantage, forcing Narden to make parries that were late and awkward as he drove him back to the foot of the gallows. Narden slipped on a stone and fell against the framework, but he kept his feet. He braced himself against the gallows and kicked out with one heavy boot, smashing it into Kyellan’s right thigh above the knee.

The pain was fierce, but the thick bandages over Kyellan’s wound kept it from opening and beginning to bleed again. The leg cramped and refused to function for a moment. It was long enough for Narden to lunge forward almost under Kyellan’s guard. Kyellan parried, off balance, and fell to his knees in a puddle on the ground.

Kyellan rolled as Narden slashed downward, missing him by inches. He felt his sword nick him in the stomach as he rolled over it. He righted himself, his feet obedient again. He swung at Narden from a crouch and nearly gutted him. Narden leaped back and Kyellan had time to stand and find his breath again.

There was a clattering at the gates as someone tried to force entrance. The guards above the portal shouted arguments over their shoulders as they tried to watch the fight. The guard who had been standing at the door of the tower now left his post, to cross the yard and help his fellows defend the gate.

“Damn you,” Narden panted. “Murderer.” He came at Kyellan thrusting with both blades, a model of righteous anger with a master’s fencing form. Kyellan swept his rapier down across both sword and knife, trapping their hilts, and sidestepped into a knife lunge of his own that caught Narden high under the right arm. The Captain gasped and stiffened. Kyellan pulled his knife out and stepped back. It was red four inches up the blade.

Narden staggered back, his body twisted to the right, his face showing his pain. Yet he managed to regain his stance and raise his sword again. It had not been a killing wound. Kyellan waited for his opponent to switch his rapier to his left hand. Narden did not do so. Perhaps he had never been trained to fence that way, and had never had an injury that had forced him to learn.

Kyellan felt a grudging respect as Narden came for him again. Another man so wounded might have offered to withdraw his accusations, and apologize publicly. Narden did not think of it. Kyellan’s rage was leaving him. All that remained was the desire to keep his own skin whole. “Will you surrender?” he asked, panting.

“No.” Rain diluted the blood that ran down Narden’s side, staining the yard with pink drops. Narden swung fiercely, too high. Kyellan ducked the blade and thrust his own rapier forward. It shunted the Captain’s slow knife parry aside and buried itself just below Narden’s heart. Kyellan tugged hard to withdraw the sword. It came out, grating on bone, as he sidestepped Narden’s feeble return cut.

“Stop it!” a voice cried. The gates had opened. A group of soldiers burst into the prison yard to see the two men hanging on the gallows, and the two men swaying on their feet, one covered with rainwashed blood. “Stop it now! Dear Goddess, what came over you?”

Kyellan looked up and saw that it was Tobas. The Earl came toward him at the head of the clustered men, with the warden Ruwan at his side. Narden stared at them, too, for a moment; then he fell to his knees, still clutching his sword and knife, stubbornly hanging onto life. Kyellan thought that he should have granted Narden a last twist upward of the sword into his heart. It would have been better than leaving him like this, to die slowly and in pain.

The wound in Kyellan’s leg was seeping again under its bandage. He supposed he had stretched it in all that lunging and twisting. He had a shallow cut across the stomach from his own sword, but otherwise he was only bruised, and tired. He leaned on his sword and bowed slightly to Tobas.

“My lord, I … he left me no choice …”He looked to Ruwan for confirmation, but the prison warden glared back without a word.

“Last night the Queen told you to stay away from Narden.” Tobas’s voice was brittle with his fury. “The city is practically under siege. We need every good officer we have. Sweet Goddess, have you killed him?”

Narden had curled over his wounds and knelt motionless, bleeding onto the gravel. He managed to lift his head for a moment. “Not quite killed … murdering bastard killed the King … led us into … into the trap.” He began to cough, and blood trickled from his mouth. Tobas knelt down beside him to look at his wounds.

“He accused me …” Kyellan began.

“I know what he accused you of,” Tobas said. “If he dies, then it will be murder. The Queen told you to leave him alone.”

“He said you and the Queen paid me to kill Arel. Istam was right about him. He was loyal to Arel all this time. He was just waiting for the chance to avenge him.”

“Don’t bring Istam into this,” Tobas said, his face pale in the rain.

“I mourn him no less than you do. But he was right about Narden.”

Tobas shook his head. “Istam would never have advised this. Ruwan told me you challenged him, you began the argument. You came here on purpose to argue with him. To fight with him.”

Kyellan blinked rain from his eyes, as a tunnel of vertigo closed around him again. “He … he had those spies killed, with no authority from the Queen.”

“An occasion for a reprimand. Not a duel. No. You fought with him because you thought he had insulted you. With no regard for the Queen’s wishes or the good of the Kingdom.” Narden was quiet now. Men had gone to the barracks hospital for a litter.

Kyellan could not believe that his old friend could speak to him this way. Tobas looked at him with contempt, with anger that only grew as Kyellan tried to defend his actions. “He called me a traitor. Half the city believes him. You told me so last night. He left me no choice, Tobas.”

“Half the city heard him call you a cold-blooded mercenary. A cutthroat from the streets. Now you’ve proven it to them.” Tobas got to his feet. “Go back to your apartment, Commander. Stay there until the Queen sends for you.”

Kyellan had to speak distinctly to hear himself over the roaring in his head. “Am I under arrest, then?”

“No.”

Kyellan nodded, and turned to limp away through the quiet ranks of soldiers.

“And Kyellan?” Tobas’s voice was like a whiplash. “Don’t do anything foolish. This is enough for one day.”

More than twenty soldiers of four different divisions had heard what Tobas had said. Kyellan could scarcely meet their eyes as he walked toward the gate; when he did, he saw embarrassment and anger on his behalf. They understood that he had no choice. He had to face Narden, for his own honor and that of his command. Now it seemed he might have lost it all. Honor and his command. Narden would die within the hour. Tobas was a man of his word. He would have Kyellan charged with the Captain’s murder. Kyellan could not believe it.

The yard outside the gate was filled with men. They had poured from the barracks in the rain, all the unwounded from First Division, the reserves from Second and Third, men of Fourth and Fifth who were not on duty at the harbor or on board the warships. They had not been close enough to hear Tobas’s words, but they had heard his tone of voice. They moved uneasily to let Kyellan through. Some saluted him. A young Parahnese from First Division said, “We stand with you, Commander,” reaching out to touch him on the shoulder.

“We knew there’d be trouble,” said an older mercenary. “The things Narden said weren’t true, though there were some here who believed them. He wanted your rank.” Men nodded, muttered agreement. Some held back. Perhaps they still believed Narden.

“You did it!” Alaira ran to him like a child as he passed the barracks hospital. Men with a litter for Narden headed down the break in the crowd that Kyellan had made. “I watched from the roof of the hospital. It was a beautiful fight. He never had a chance.”

Kyellan shrugged off her embrace and scowled at her. “Narden fought well. It could just as easily be me who lost. Maybe it was.”

“What’s wrong?” She took his arm, her smile gone. “I saw Tobas go by. Was he angry?”

A horseman galloped toward them through the muddy barracks yard, from the direction of the main palace gates. His helmet bore the green band of Second Division. “From the wall!” he shouted. “I’ve come from the wall. Where’s the Commander?”

Kyellan stepped forward with Alaira clinging to him. “Here. What news?”

“Captain Marat sent me for orders, sir. The enemy has crossed the river. They’re headed for the north wall, six thousand strong. They may be there by now. My Captain and Captain Oman want to know, do we stay behind the wall and shoot at them or send our troops out?”

“We have three thousand men on the north wall right now,” Kyellan said. This was the entire enemy force on land so far. If he could break them in one preemptive charge—”Reserves!” he shouted. “Cavalry and foot, to the north wall on my orders!”

There were cheers and grins all around. These were men who thought that if they had been at the battle of Shalkir the enemy would have been stopped right there. They were fresh and ready for battle, trained mercenaries who knew the advantages of fighting with a fortified wall at their backs. Men ran back inside the barracks to gather the weapons and armor they had left there. The cavalry hurried to the stables, and the infantry formed up into narrow ranks for the city streets ahead.

“Someone find me a mail shirt and a helmet,” Kyellan said. A soldier ran to obey him.

“What about First Division, sir?” A battered-looking veteran asked.

“My orders for you are to rest. You’ll be needed again.” Kyellan grinned at the man. “And someone has to stay behind to tell the Earl where we’ve gone. Only give us a few minutes for a head start.”

Tobas would have to know about the enemy attack, but not soon enough to stop Kyellan from leading men to the walls. Kyellan was certain Tobas would stop him if he could. He would not give Tobas the opportunity. When it was over, he would hand Tobas a victory, and a victorious army that would not stand still to have their Commander tried from the murder of an insubordinate officer.

The main northern gate of Cavernon City had been heavily reinforced by Senomar’s builders when they had strengthened the walls. Now there were three gates within the thick wall, between two massive towers. The first was a four-foot-thick slab of a portcullis, delicately balanced to be raised and lowered easily. In peacetime it would never be closed. Now it presented a featureless, iron-bound face to the enemy.

Behind it was the original gate with its two twenty-foot-high doors and its huge inner bolts. The innermost gate consisted of a central iron grating large enough to admit two wagons side by side, and two smaller side gates for horsemen. The towers and walls around the northern gate were the strongest in the city. It was a foolish place for an army to direct a first assault.

When Kyellan and three thousand men arrived, Caer archers on the battlements were shooting thick flights of arrows down at the besiegers. Some found their marks, but most bounced off the shields the enemy soldiers held over their heads as they ran. There had been siege-defense engines mounted on the northern wall once, but those had been dismantled and removed to the harbor at the beginning of the naval threat. The Kerisian soldiers were assaulting the wall with little more than spears and ladders. They had not had time enough in the Dhalen camp to construct engines or rams, much less time to build means to transport such weapons across the river.

Captain Marat ran down the wall stairway to greet Kyellan, surprised and pleased at the mass of reserve troops the Commander led. The slim Parahnese officer sent a man to the gates to tell them to raise the inner ones so the army could gather behind the last portcullis. Then he turned to Kyellan. “The Kerisians haven’t done any damage yet,” he said. “There was nothing in the river for them to harm. All the fishing boats and barges were taken into the inner harbor late last night. They had to swim their horses across, but their infantry crossed on rafts.”

“Why didn’t you attack them while they were crossing?” Kyellan said irritably. “Yes, I know. Waiting for orders. Well, we’re going out now. Pull your cavalrymen off the walls and hold them in reserve. My men will need heavy support from your archers when the front gate is lifted.”

“Yes, sir!” Marat relayed the orders cheerfully. Kyellan guessed that he and Captain Oman had been under orders from Tobas not to act hastily, to wait for word from the palace. Otherwise, they would have taken out a sortie long before. They were not men to sit idly.

Had the Kerisians left their best commanders behind at Shalkir? This was a ludicrous assault. The enemy numbers were large enough to fill the fields and ditches between the wall and the river, but they could not hope to take the northern gate without rams, or hold the ground upon which they had advanced. Kyellan only needed to call up the off-duty men of Fourth and Fifth Division to outnumber the Kerisians. He did not think that would be necessary.

“We’ll drive them back into the river by midafternoon,” Captain Marat said with satisfaction. Kyellan’s words of agreement were lost in a rising shout, as the Caer archers on the wall repelled the first attempt to scale it with ladders. Marat saluted and ran back up the stairs, and Kyellan turned his horse to lead his men under the massive arch of the northern gate.

Chapter Twelve

Fifteen hundred Caer horsemen burst out from behind the outer portcullis to begin the battle. The Kerisians had mounted only about half that many; their horses were still worn out from their march, and most remained back in the Dhalen Meadows camp. They were taken almost completely by surprise and fell back from the wall, leaving their seige ladders to be burned by the infantry that followed Kyellan’s horsemen.

The advantage was all on the Caer side, despite their lower numbers. The combined attack of the cavalry formations, the barrage of arrows from the battlements, and the solid front of infantry before the gates forced the Kerisians back halfway to the river in the first quarter of an hour.

Once they had retreated that far, they fought hard and well, but it was clear they did not intend to make it a final stand. They fell back little by little to the riverbanks, loaded their rafts in orderly squadrons, and began to withdraw to the opposite bank.

Kyellan had led the first charge, still furious at Tobas and determined to prove himself to the Queen and his men. After his wedge struck and withdrew to let the next formation at the enemy, though, he found himself forgetting what had happened that morning. The battle was enough to think about. He wanted to prove to the Kerisians how foolhardy they had been in attacking so soon. Some of them might succeed in getting away, but Kyellan wanted them to have the heaviest losses he could provide.

So it was more than an hour before the fighting was over and the dead could be counted. The Kerisians’ last rearguard was slaughtered, as they tried to hold the riverbank so their troops could cross unharmed. Three of the rafts were sunk on the Cavernon side of the river, when Caer infantry charged through the Kerisian line to overload the makeshift rafts with battling men. Wounded men trying to swim across the swift current were drowned or slain by a squadron of Marat’s archers who came down into the field from the wall.

A light rain still fell in the early afternoon, but the sun was shining through the clouds. Kyellan rode slowly over the field with Captain Marat. The Commander was exhausted, and bore a few fresh scratches, but he was grimly pleased at his success. The disciplined Caer forces had taken only minimal losses, less than three hundred men. The Kerisian dead numbered over nine hundred. Men had come from the walls to form burial details. The enemy dead would be given a battle mound, if no one from the Dhalen camp requested a truce to claim them. The Caer dead would be carried inside the city for rites of honor.

“We should have chased them across the river,” said a young corporal after giving his report. “We could have chased them all the way back to Keris.”

“We’d have repeated their mistake, if we had put the river at our backs,” Marat “said. “This was enough for one day.”

Kyellan agreed. Marat’s words recalled what Tobas had said. Kyellan wondered if the battle had been his second foolish action for the day. Perhaps. The army did not think so. Even dazed and weary from the intense effort of the past hour, the men of Second and Third Divisions wore thin smiles as they trudged back into the city with Kyellan, Marat, and Oman riding at their head. There were more wounded to crowd the beds of the barracks hospital, and the dead could not be replaced, but they had a victory now to set against the disaster at Shalkir.

Tobas met the procession halfway through the city, at the head of a small detachment of his palace guards. People had come out in the streets to cheer the soldiers. Kyellan heard women’s voices calling down the Goddess’s blessing on him. He saluted Tobas, but said nothing as the younger man wheeled his horse and pulled it up to ride beside him. Captain Oman and Captain Marat glanced at one another, and fell back a few paces.

“You’re their hero now,” Tobas said, not smiling. “The Queen wants a full report as soon as you’ve rested and had a doctor look at you. She’ll expect you before supper.”

Kyellan felt his weariness crashing down on him. The crowded streets wavered in the grey rain, and he blinked to try to focus his vision. “I’ll be there.”

“It was well done,” Tobas said. “But another commander would have done as well. You were already wounded. You look scarcely able to sit your horse. Damn it, Ky, I ordered you to go back to your apartment and stay there. And last night the Queen ordered you to stay away from Narden. It seems to make little difference to you what we say.”

They started up the road through the parkland that led to the broad hilltop of the Tiranon. The white walls of the marble and ivory palace gleamed in the wash of rain. Kyellan could not think clearly enough to respond to what Tobas had said. He did not try.

“We needed Narden,” said the young Earl, “and you killed him. He died soon after you rode for the walls.”

This registered. “So you’ll have me tried for murder?” Kyellan felt detached, almost disinterested. Narden had become only one of many who had died today.

“No.” They waited for the gates to open. Tobas dismounted, and a groom took his horse. He stood by Kyellan’s stirrup looking up. “With him gone, we need you more than ever. The Goddess damn you. If you were tried you’d be convicted. So we have to pretend it didn’t happen, because we can’t afford to lose you. They’ll accuse the Queen of protecting you. They’ll probably decide she paid you to do it, just as she’s supposed to have paid you to kill Arel.”

“I gave him a chance to surrender,” Kyellan said vaguely. Tobas shook his head, stepping back and waving him on. Kyellan turned his horse to lead his men back to the barracks. He was glad he was not going to be tried for murder; that would mean he could go out and win more battles, murder more people. What would Briana say, he wondered? He ought to talk to her about it. The palace roads seemed very long as darkness drew in around him like a cloak. Kyellan was barely able to dismount at the door of the barracks hospital and stagger inside.

The Commander woke hours later on a hospital cot. He was clean, and had been bandaged in half a dozen new places. His right leg had been dressed again. Its new bandage continued down the thigh to wrap around his knee and immobilize it. He had probably strained the muscles around the knee, overusing them to compensate for the wound.

He was certainly not in bad enough shape to have to stay here. Kyellan sat up slowly, wary of his aching head. If he did not move too quickly, he would not be dizzy. All around him, the long, low-ceilinged room was filled with men hurt worse than he was. The surgeons were busy in an adjoining room. Kyellan could hear a man screaming. An amputation, he thought. That was the scream of a man having something cut off. Damn. The sound made him sick to his stomach. And this was the aftermath of a victory.

Kyellan looked around for his clothing. The leather jerkin and trousers that had been new this morning were piled beneath his cot, rent in gashes worse than his wounds and stained with blood that was mostly the enemy’s. His boots, swordbelt, and scabbard were there, too. His borrowed mail-coat and helmet must have been returned to their owner. His sword had not been cleaned. He would have to see to that before he slept tonight.

“They have tunics for us to wear, Commander,” said a young man from the cot next to his, pointing toward a pile of folded linen. The youth had a bandage over one ear and his right arm in a sling, but he grinned at Kyellan. “You were dead asleep, sir. Your lady’s been in looking after you. She just went to help the doctors in the surgery.”

Kyellan limped over to the shelf, keeping his balance with difficulty. He took one of the tunics and pulled it on. It was soft and light, and fell to his knees. He moved slowly back to his cot. His head felt as if it was going to fall off. The screaming from the other room had stopped. He hoped it meant the patient had fainted.

He sat down and pulled on his boots, then buckled his swordbelt over the thin, material of the tunic. The rough leather of the belt rubbed against a bandaged cut at his waist. It would do until he got back to his apartment. He got to his feet again and walked stiffly down the rows of hospital beds, pausing here and there to speak with men who were awake.

“You look like you were in the thick of it, Sergeant,” to a man whose bare chest was covered with sword-scratches, none of them very deep.

“Oh, I faced my share of them, sir.”

“I saw you going in on one of the rafts, Faril,” to the young Parahnese corporal. “See you made it to shore.”

“I never saw the fish that bit me, Commander.” Faril chuckled. He lay on his stomach with a bandage on his backside.

Alaira chased Kyellan down halfway to the door. “You shouldn’t be going anywhere,” she chided. Her dress of Queen’s livery was dark with blood down the front. She looked as tired as the men on the cots. “The doctor said you needed to rest.”

“You could use some rest yourself.” He took her arm. “Come. They can manage without you here. Walk me back to our rooms.”

“Then will you lie still for a while?”

“I have to see the Queen and Tobas before supper. I won’t let them keep me long.” He looked at her thin, worried face, and bent to kiss her lightly on the lips. There were whistles from nearby cots. Kyellan and Alaira walked out together into the early evening rain.

“It was a diversionary attack,” Tobas said, when he had seen Kyellan settled into a comfortable chair in the Queen’s front room.

Valahtia sat on the couch beside her consort with their infant son in her lap. The baby had been fussy with his relief nurse, so the Queen had taken him herself. Ciffra’s soldier son had been wounded at Shalkir, and the woman had gone to be with him.

“What do you mean?” Kyellan’s mind was a little sharper now than it had been after the battle, but his eyes were heavy-lidded.

“While the northern wall was attacked and our forces were concentrated there, Werlinen and most of his army landed south of the city.”

“They had another diversion going on in the bay.” Valahtia rocked her baby gently on her shoulder. Duarnan whimpered softly. “Thirty of their ships lured our warfleet toward the Parahn coast, while Werlinen’s flagship and the others made their landing.” She never said the Kerisian Princess name without an expression of loathing. “We didn’t even know they were there until Werlinen sent a herald to the southern gate. His message was short, and to the point.”

“The King of Caerlin has come to take his throne,” Tobas declaimed. “Let his people welcome him.”

“He sounds sure of himself,” Kyellan said. “Where are they? How many?”

“They’ve established two camps,” Tobas said. “Werlinen and his noblemen are ten miles down the coast in an abandoned fishing village, a place called Tramorr. Our scouts couldn’t get near it, but they saw a few thousand men working on entrenchments around it. The main camp is closer to the southern wall. At least five divisions there. Fifteen thousand men. They’ve begun a counterwall three miles south of the city.” Tobas passed a map over to Kyellan. “They’re marking out the foundations and digging as we speak.”

Kyellan looked at the lightly inked line over the farmlands below the southern wall. “A counterwall? They’re getting ready for a long siege, then. Cutting off our supply routes to Erinon.” He traced the line of the coast down to the tiny indentation that was the harbor of Tramorr. “Are their ships beached?”

Tobas shook his head. “No. They didn’t leave them vulnerable. The ships landed the troops and pulled away again. Went back to forming a blockade a few miles west of the harbor.”

“They have more than a hundred ships,” Valahtia said. “That would be enough to close off the bay, at least to merchant traffic from outside Caerlin. Yes, they intend to invest the city. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. All their troops can be accounted for now. Some on the ships, some in the northern camp, most of them in the new southern camp. They have nothing left to use to block us off to the east.”

“The Caravan Road is still free. We can call in our division from Laenar and have them come down that way,” Tobas said. “And the S’tari will help us from the desert.”

“With troops?” Kyellan said sharply. He had heard nothing of the result of Valahtia’s meeting with the S’tari delegation. He remembered that Istam had been skeptical of a new alliance with the desert tribesmen.

“Probably not,” the Queen said. Her baby began to cry in earnest, and she turned her attention to him.

“Not unless Werlinen pushes into their territory,” Tobas said. “But they’ll keep the road to Khymer open, and supply us with horses and weapons, as much as they can spare.”

“Better than nothing,” Kyellan said. “But I wish I had S’tari troops to train, rather than those men you’ve been conscripting from the city.”

“We have almost five thousand of them now,” Tobas said. “None were volunteers, but I think once they realize how serious the situation is they’ll fight well for us. We’ve housed them in the city, not the palace, and we aren’t holding them prisoner. We’re letting them visit their families, put in a few hours at their businesses.”

“We were going to put Narden in charge of them,” Valahtia said quietly, “after hearing his views on mercenaries last night. We thought we’d give him the native Caer men.”

It was the first time anyone had mentioned the dead Captain. Kyellan felt ashamed of what he had done for the first time, faced with Valahtia’s disappointment. It was far worse than Tobas’s anger had been. “My Queen,” he said uncertainly, “I’m sorry for what happened this morning. I … believe we would have had more trouble with Narden, but I shouldn’t have disobeyed you.”

“No,” she said. “You should not have.” Her baby screamed. She tried to comfort him, stroking him and murmuring, “Hush, Duarnan. Quiet, little Prince.”

“We have double watches on all the walls,” Tobas said. “There are scouts in the Dhalen Meadows and near Tramorr in the south. Most of the fleet is back in the harbor, and Fourth and Fifth Divisions have been sent to barracks, but they’re still on alert. It seems quiet for the moment. You should get some rest, Ky.”

Kyellan nodded, and got to his feet carefully, his bandaged leg making him awkward. “You might consider giving the conscripts to the captain of the wall guards,” he said, “since they won’t make field troops in the short time we have to train them. Harnal won’t be pleased to have them, but he’s capable enough. Give him a few days with them, and they can free up his more experienced men to face the enemy.”

Tobas nodded. “Yes, that makes sense. I’m reminded that we need to replace Captain Narden, as well. Is that Syryni lieutenant competent, or should I transfer one of the other division captains?”

“Epon is a good man. He deserves the promotion,” Kyellan said. He paused on his way to the door. “There was nothing in Werlinen’s message from Ocasta?”

“Nothing,” Tobas said. “She probably stayed behind in Ishar. She’s an old woman, not used to life in an army camp.”

“I think she’s there with him,” Kyellan said. “I wonder why she’s being silent. We should ask Briana to try to find out.”

The Queen frowned, and looked up at Kyellan. “You didn’t know? Briana is gone. She’s nowhere to be found. I can’t get a word out of the priestesses at the Temple. I’m beginning to think even they don’t know where she went.”

“Briana’s gone? Without telling anyone?” Kyellan shook his head. “I can’t believe she would do that. She knows how important it is to stay at the Temple now, to oppose Ocasta as First Priestess.”

“She sent a messenger to me,” Valahtia said. “She said she was going into seclusion for a few days, to seek ways to help me in the war. But she isn’t at the Temple. The priestesses there thought she had gone to the palace. I don’t think she’s in the city at all.”

“We’re going to need her if Ocasta is out there.” Kyellan remembered Istam’s worry about magic on the battlefield. “I hope she turns up soon.” He hoped she was all right. Maybe she had gone somewhere to make a last effort to summon and bind Rahshaiya, to try to prevent the war. She would be back. She had her Goddess’s protection. He had to think that. He could not worry about her now.

The baby began to produce loud, choking wails that felt like knives in Kyellan’s aching head. Tobas looked ruefully at him. “Good night, Commander. We’ll send you reports if anything happens.”

“Good night.” Kyellan made a sketchy salute and went out. As the guards closed the door, he heard the Queen’s voice raised in distress over Duarnan’s crying.

“Oh, Tobas, I don’t understand it.. It’s as if he doesn’t even know I’m his mother. I can’t make him stop crying.”

The fourth day of the war in Cavernon City was quiet. Kyellan did little but sleep. He was wakened every few hours for a report, over Alaira’s protests. Werlinen’s troops to the south continued to work on their counterwall; the city forces were too tired to attempt any sorties to interrupt the building. Besides, the Kerisian numbers were too great for anything less than an all-out attack. To the north, the little more than five thousand men in the Dhalen camp were gathering stones and timber, apparently preparing to build a bridge and siege machines.

In the bay, the enemy had established its blockade, a loosely-woven net far from the city harbor. Warships from the Cavernon fleet might break through, but unarmed merchant vessels from the other Kingdoms would be turned back. The Kerisians meant to cut off supply lines.

Still, the besieging army made no attempt to circle around the city to the east. They made no move toward the Caravan Road. Unless they did something about that flank, they would be unlikely to force Cavernon City to surrender through starvation. That would be a foolish tactic in any case. It was the middle of winter. The people of the city had plenty of stores of food, and there were wells and springs within the walls. The farmers who were being kept from their fields would not have been working the land for at least another month anyway.

Logically, the only way the city would be taken was by assault. If the Kerisians built rams and engines, they still had to face sturdy walls, and Cavernon City had plenty of defenders. Kyellan could foresee a stalemate until springtime, and then the desertion of half the Kerisian forces to go home and plant. Werlinen was unlikely to succeed in his ambition, unless the old First Priestess Ocasta had more Power than Kyellan gave her credit for, and was not afraid to use it.

Although the people of Barena knew nothing of the siege at Cavernon City, Briana could not find a ship to take her there. The merchant captains would not change their schedules for two passengers. Most of the ships at Barena had just come from Cavernon, and were making rounds of the islands. They offered to take Briana and Yalna aboard if they were willing to tour the Kingdoms first before reaching their destination.

Yesterday morning, Briana had faced the wizards, and learned what had happened to her son. Now it was dusk of her second day on the island of Barelin. She sat in a chair in the small, cheap bedchamber she and Yalna shared, staring into a fire that made the room too warm. The wizards had not tried to approach her again. That was wise of them, Briana thought. She would probably have attacked them, out of her frustration and her grief.

“Maybe the Hidden Temple is a tool of the Goddess after all,” she said darkly. “The Goddess probably wanted Cian killed. She saw that as the only way to turn my thoughts completely back to Her. The First Priestess is supposed to bear a child, yes, but then she’s supposed to forget about it. I couldn’t forget.”

“Can you really believe that?” Yalna asked wearily. The conversation had gone on in this vein all day, interrupted by long hours of silence. The young S’tari midwife sat cross-legged on the bed, sewing trim she had bought in the bazzaar onto her yellow dress. “Briana, you can’t even be certain the child is dead. Maybe the Hidden Temple didn’t know who he was. Maybe Pima told them Cian was her son, and they believed her.”

Briana did not reply to that. Gemon and her followers would have known immediately that Cian was a wizard and a Shape-Changer. They might have known before they had attacked the wizard ship. She thought about Kyellan. How could she tell him what had happened? She had promised him his son was safe.

Yalna put her sewing down and moved restlessly from the bed to the dirty window, to look down into the street. “If you blame your Goddess for it, why go back to Her? Leave the Temple to Ocasta. She wants it badly enough.” She peered through the flawed glass. “Briana, I think another ship may have come in this evening. And not from Cavernon City, either. There are sailors coming up the street wearing heavy winter clothes, men with pale skin like yours.”

Briana was not interested in the people on the street. “I gave Duarnan the Goddess’s blessing,” she said. “I have to go back. I can’t desert him or the Queen. And I swore my life to the service of the Goddess. Everything I’ve done—leaving Kyellan, giving up my baby—it would all be meaningless if I ran away. I don’t think the Goddess would grant me that choice anyway … what’s that?”

She stood up suddenly. The fierce, angry knot of Power within her seemed to shout, interrupting her brooding like a geyser. She ran the few steps to the window and edged Yalna aside to look out. A cloudy day had brought an early darkness to the street. A few of the sailors Yalna had mentioned still lingered outside. The rest had come into the inn. Briana could feel the two presences with them, two strong forces that blazed with Power to match her own, as angry and as frustrated.

“What?” Yalna clung to her arm, frightened by her intensity. “What is it?”

“With the sailors,” Briana whispered. “People stronger than anyone should be on this island. Stronger than the wizards we faced yesterday.”

“The Hidden Temple?” Yalna’s eyes widened. “Maybe they never really left Syryn. Maybe they followed us here.”

Briana shook her head. “No. Not the Hidden Temple.” She identified the new arrivals with wonder. “Old friends. Gwydion and Chela.” Strangely changed. Separate, when before there had always been a thin line of connection between them. Their anger was almost enough to make them seem two different people.

“The wizard and his girlfriend?” Yalna said doubtfully. “Can you be sure they’re still your friends? If they’ve come here, they may be in league with the wizards of the city.”

“Maybe they’ve come to invite these wizards back to the College.” Briana moved to get her shawl, and stood for a moment in front of a small bronze mirror by the bed, frowning at the haggard look on her face. She would be unable to hide her grief from them.

“I’m coming with you.” Yalna followed her out of the room, wearing the same expression as she had yesterday, before the expected magical battle for Cian. Yalna did not know either Gwydion or Chela, Briana remembered. When the two had been at the palace, Yalna had been attending Briana in her pregnancy, secluded in a high tower suite. The S’tari woman might have seen them once or twice.

Briana had disliked Gwydion when she had first met him, for no other reason but that he was a wizard. That had changed to respect, and finally affection, during the course of their journey together. Chela had intrigued Briana from the first. She had never convinced the girl to become a priestess, but in the last battle against the wizards Chela had linked with Briana and helped her use the Power of the Goddess’s Seat.

Briana could hear the voices of her friends among the sailors downstairs demanding rooms. The inn could not house them. It seemed most of the other inns were full. Briana paused at the top of the stairs. She did not want to advertise her presence here in Barena, and someone there might recognize her name if Gwydion or Chela called it out.

“Yalna, will you go down for me? Invite them to share our room. It’s as good as they’ll be able to get. Tell them my name, but quietly.”

Yalna obeyed, still uneasy. Soon she reappeared, leading Gwydion and Chela up the stairs. Briana scarcely recognized Gwydion. He had a thin beard, and his hair was dyed light brown. Chela had not changed much outwardly. She looked like any other fifteen-year-old girl, and her blue eyes sparkled when she smiled at Briana.

Briana hurried down the last few steps to catch Chela in a fierce hug. “It’s good to see you, both of you. What in the Goddess’s name are you doing here?”

“We might ask the same of you,” Gwydion said as they climbed back up and entered Briana’s room. Neither he nor Chela carried any luggage. Their clothes were sea-stained from their voyage, and were far too warm for the Barelin climate. Gwydion still wore gloves on his scarred hands, Briana noticed.

Briana told them what had brought her here: the Barena wizards abducting Cian, Pima, and Tary’n, and killing Erlin; the Hidden Temple priestesses sinking the wizard ship; her own confrontation with the wizards yesterday, and her conviction that her son was dead. Gwydion and Chela had not even known that Valahtia had lost her crown, and now they learned she had regained it. Briana told them of Arel’s death, and that the city was at war. They learned of the rival Briana faced in Ocasta.

“Maybe your Rahshaiya is out wandering the earth, as you say,” Gwydion said. He sat cross-legged in front of the fire with Chela beside him. Briana sat in her chair, and Yalna watched from the bed. “Something prompted the Garithian King to strike out at Akesh after all these years.” He began his own story. He spoke with difficulty of the massacre, of his and Chela’s capture, of their escape, of his silent anger, and their final decision to try for Barelin.

“But the leader of the wizard colony met us here at the dock,” Chela said furiously. “They don’t want us here at all.”

“They’re afraid we’ll try to take over,” Gwydion said. “Afraid I’ll claim the title of Master. Afraid King Marayn will somehow trace us here and declare war on Barelin because we killed two of his soldiers and left more of them stranded in the north. I don’t know what else they fear. But they won’t have us. And we won’t be able to convince the ship’s captain who brought us here to take us anywhere else. He’s bound for Cayernon City.”

“If your premonition is right about the siege, he won’t make it into the harbor,” Chela said. “We should warn the captain. On Barelin, sailors listen to wizards’ visions.”

“The ship is headed for Cavernon?” Yalna spoke for the first time.

Gwydion nodded. “Leaving tomorrow. But Chela’s right. I’ll warn the captain not to attempt it.”

Briana felt something leap inside her. We are all tools of the Goddess, she thought. Even the Hidden Temple, even Gwydion and Chela. Even an Atolani ship’s captain. “The ship could make it through the blockade with the three of us aboard.”

The young wizard looked at her uncertainly. Chela’s face was still. Yalna smiled.

“Come back with me to Cavernon City,” Briana said. “The Queen would welcome you back. She never wanted you to leave in the first place. Kyellan and Alaira would be glad to see you. If I’m right, and the Hidden Temple is backing Ocasta in her efforts, I’m going to need help to defeat them.”

“Yes,” Gwydion mused, a shadow crossing his face. “I would like to confront Kyellan with the result of his betrayal.”

“You cannot blame him for what happened,” Chela said, as if she had said it many times.

“He should have known not to trust anyone else to bring the supplies to Akesh. He should have known they could not keep it quiet.”

“You credit him with a Power he no longer has,” Chela said sharply. She turned to Briana. “I fear the Hidden Temple if we don’t stop them now. If they win, Gwydion and I won’t be safe anywhere. First they’d come after the wizards on Barelin, then they’d come after us. On Altimar, on Hoab, it wouldn’t matter. If we help you become First Priestess, then we can live in peace.”

Gwydion shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me where we go. If you want to go with Briana, then we will.”

Chela nodded, her young face troubled. “That is what I want. We are with you, Briana. Now all we have to do is get the ship through that blockade.”

Chapter Thirteen

“That’s the last of them.” Kyellan’s new aide Feren rolled and tied a scroll and wiped his pen clean. He gathered the morning dispatches together from the top of the cluttered desk in the office in the Ministry of War. “I’ll send them out by messenger.” He forgot to salute as he hurried out the door. If he had remembered, he would have dropped a few scrolls in the act. Feren was the fourth son of a minor noble family, who had volunteered for the army yesterday rather than waiting to be conscripted. A frail, clumsy youth of seventeen, he was not fit even for wall duty as a soldier, but he was well-educated and wrote a fair hand. Kyellan had made him his secretary.

A stack of hourly reports awaited Kyellan’s reading. He pulled one from the pile and flattened it out. It was from a squadron sergeant on the southern wall, reporting no more than he had an hour before. Thick fog prevented any visual confirmation, but the noises from the enemy camp indicated they were hard at work on their counterwall and entrenchments.

It was mid-morning. Kyellan had been up since before dawn. Two days had passed since the battle at the northern wall. His leg was stiff, and ached in the damp, but his mind was no longer dulled by exhaustion.

Cavernon City was choked by a heavy fog that rose even over the Tiranon hill. It was too dangerous to send patrol ships out to test the Kerisian blockade. Guards on the northern wall could not see as far as the riverbank, much less to the Dhalen camp. Kyellan had sent First Division back to active duty, with Epon promoted to the position of Captain. In mixed squadrons of foot and horse, Epon’s men were patrolling outside the walls to keep the enemy from getting near in the fog.

Kyellan read the rest of the officers’ reports through quickly. Numbers of dead and wounded per squadron were unchanged since the action two days ago. The men had been given bonuses for their victory. Troop morale was good. Kyellan wondered again how Werlinen could expect to take this city.

Early today, Tobas and the Queen had agreed to a much broader muster of city soldiers. Blacksmiths, shipwrights, millers, butchers, and a few other essential occupations were excused, but only illness or infirmity would keep other city men from conscription. The numbers of the militia might grow to twenty thousand men by noon today, when there was to be a muster in the parklands below the Tiranon in front of the Ministry of War. City guardsmen were moving house to house this morning, carrying the Queen’s orders that every man come to the muster to begin his training as a wall defender. The commands were not welcome, but there seemed to be little protest. People realized the necessity.

The recruits’ new commander, Captain Harnal, had a longer report than most. The captain of the wall guards reported that the earliest conscripts, the men who had been training for three days or more, had been assigned wall duty for today, with a few mercenaries and city veterans with each squadron. By midafternoon, most of Kyellan’s troops would be freed. If the fog lifted, Kyellan thought, it might be the right time for a sortie against the Kerisian counterwall.

Harnal’s report continued. He relayed a few complaints of wealthy recruits, and asked that Kyellan speak at the muster at noon to assure the city men that they would be reserved for the walls, not sent out with the army in battle. Kyellan nodded. No danger of that. It took months, not days, to teach a man to wield a sword or use a spear properly in phalanx. He would not endanger his own men by mixing raw recruits in with the divisions.

The last few sentences of the report were troubling. Harnal relayed news from the guards at the northeastern gate that the flow of refugees into the city had suddenly stopped. For an hour, no one had come through. There was no traffic at all on the Caravan Road. The fog was very thick beyond the street of deserted inns and stables outside the gate; Harnal guessed that travelers might have stopped to wait out the fog. But there could be another reason for it.

Werlinen could have sent troops around the eastern side of Cavernon this morning without being seen. Half his army could be out there now, and if it was then the city was truly besieged, its last supply lines cut. Damn this fog, Kyellan thought. Maybe the Goddess really was with the Kerisians, and had arranged it personally. If Briana had not vanished, he would have asked her about it.

Don’t think about Briana, he told himself firmly as the ache of worry began again. She could take care of herself. Wherever she had gone, there had been some good reason for it. She would be back. Meanwhile, he had work to do. Kyellan got up from his desk and put on his helmet, his swordbelt, and his heavy cloak.

“Feren!” he called. The young man came to the doorway. Empty-handed now, he saluted and stood at attention. “I’ve had a disturbing report from the Caravan Gate. I’m going to go there to see for myself. Send a message to Earl Tobas that he can find me there if he needs me. I’ll be back here in time for the muster.”

Kyellan hurried to the small stable in the back of the building. He had no need of a warhorse to ride through the city. He chose a restive little S’tari bay of the kind he preferred, with a fleece saddle and a bitless bridle. The horse was glad to be out of its stall. It was hard to hold it to a trot as they went up the path to the park road.

The city was quiet. Few people were out on the foggy streets. The markets were crowded, but Kyellan detoured around them. He rode quickly toward the northeastern gate. He wore his gold commander’s sash beneath his cloak; it was hidden, but he was recognized anyway. Soldiers came to attention as he passed, and townspeople stared after him with expressions he could not interpret. They had hated him after the defeat at Shalkir, and had cheered him after the victory at the northern wall. Most thought he had killed Arel, and they knew about his duel with Narden. Kyellan felt their dark, intent eyes on him as his eager S’tari horse trotted past.

He heard the riot at the Caravan Gate before he saw it. Men and women shouted, fearful and angry, an ugly sound. Kyellan urged his mount into a canter and rounded the street corner before the gate. A milling crowd clustered near the right-hand tower. A group of five men in white S’tari robes was surrounded by shouting townspeople. Ten hysterical S’tari horses reared and plunged as the men tried to hold them. Gate guards leaned over the parapet of the wall, shouting for peace, but they went unheard. A few ineffective soldiers pressed in at the edges of the crowd.

People recognized Kyellan and moved to let him through. Voices called up to him as his horse picked its way past them. Kyellan heard only a few words. Something about demons, magic, a fear of wizards, being trapped.

“Lieutenant!” Kyellan called to the leader of the mercenary guardsmen. The man turned. One of the older officers, he had a scarred face and a thick, corded neck over battered leather armor. His name was Cudor, Kyellan remembered. “What’s happening here?”

“Sir, I’m not entirely sure,” called the officer over the shouting. “These S’tari came galloping in at the gate a little while ago. Talking wild nonsense about demons and floods. I can’t understand much of what they say. They’ve managed to frighten people pretty badly.”

“They’re mad, Commander,” said another soldier. “See for yourself.”

The five S’tari men in the center of the crowd looked mad. All were middle-aged, bearded, dressed in white merchant robes. There faces were haggard, their voices hoarse and high-pitched. The horses they had with them were in bad shape. Their eyes were huge and showed rings of white, and their flanks were slick with sweat and foam.

“I had a report that no one was coming through the gate,” Kyellan said to Cudor. “That the road was empty.”

“It was, sir. Until these men came in as if they were being chased. No one has come after them. It’s quiet again. Nothing moving. Nothing out there but fog.”

“Bring the watch down from the walls and get these people out of here,” Kyellan said. “Take the horses to the cavalry stable by the tower and have them looked after. I want to talk to these madmen.”

Finally, Kyellan and Lieutenant Cudor were alone with the S’tari merchants in the first floor guardroom of the gate tower. Kyellan spoke to the desert men in slow S’tari, using the respectful address of a young tribesman to an elder.

“You are safe now. I promise you that. Can you tell me what happened to you?” He had not gotten the elaborate verb-endings and gestures right, but it was the best he could manage.

“Something about demons on the road,” Cudor muttered.

“Not demons, sir,” said one of the men in poor Caer. “We saw no demons.” His hands shook in his lap. He clasped them together as if to hold them still.

The oldest of the S’tari glanced up at Kyellan. “I am Farehan of the White Sand tribe,” he said in his own language. “I am no liar and no madman, and you may believe what I say or not as you like.” He did not appear mad so much as exhausted, now that he was away from the panic of the crowd.

Kyellan spread his hands in a further gesture of respect. “I am listening.”

“Our tribe was one of the first to learn of the new treaty with your Queen. We agreed to help her in her war, with weapons and horses. We gathered together a small herd of young horses, fifty of them, and ten men. Our leader was a caravan master named Shal. We started three days ago to bring the horses to sell to your army.”

“What happened to the other five men and forty horses? Were you attacked?”

Farehan shrugged. “Yes. But it was no enemy I can name for you. Unless the Kerisian army is made of shadows and fog and storm. Perhaps there were demons behind it all, as the people at the gate thought we were saying.”

“You caused a panic.”

“We meant to warn them not to go out there. The edge of it is only three miles from the city.”

“The edge of what?” Kyellan said impatiently.

“A storm,” Farehan said. “Yes, I will call it a storm. The first warning of it we had was two hours ago when we came to the top of the hills that overlook the city from the Caravan Road. We saw only the dark clouds, the fog. Well, I had seen fog on the coast before, and so had Shal. We thought nothing of it and rode on, herding our horses.

“There is a stream between two low hills, on the high ground five miles from the city. Perhaps you know the place? It crosses the road. There is a wooden bridge there, a sturdy, low bridge that just clears the water’s surface. Maybe it is a stream that never rises over its banks. The fog began there with a sharp line, like a wall. Half of us were across the bridge when the water rose against us.” Farehan’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“A flash flood?” Kyellan said.

“There was no rain,” said the merchant. “Though I heard sounds like thunder. Shal and Deleb and thirty of the horses were swept away with the bridge by a roaring ram’s head of water, water of enough force to break a hole in your city’s walls.”

“I have seen a flash flood in the desert,” said another of the bearded men. “The Maer Cunin, the salt sea, has tributaries that are dry most of the year. There was a rainstorm, and the ground in one of these gullies could not soak in so much water at once. So it rushed on to the lake in flood. This was different. A green land, a calm stream flowing through good soil. It was no natural flood.”

Farehan sighed. “It was the beginning. We were numb, shocked by what had happened. The water rushed past us in the fog. We left the road to follow the stream bank to search for our people and the horses, but the fog was too thick to see anything. We began to hear noises,” he frowned. “The horses heard them first. They reared and tried to bolt. Then we were surrounded by them. Wails, shrieks. Unnatural, uncanny sounds. Each man of us held the reins of one extra horse, leading them from our own to keep them steady, but then we were terrified ourselves.

“I felt the touch of a wet hand at my neck. The others must have felt something like it. We screamed. The horses ran. We rode like madmen. Perhaps we were mad at that point. Water ran across the ground before us in rivulets like fingers. It must have been the water that cut the gullies. I do not remember the farmland east of Cavernon City being gouged with deep ditches. They were raw cuts in the earth, eight feet and more across, some four feet deep, some fifteen. Horses broke their legs and their necks when they fell. Bain and Jarahad were thrown. We could not get our mounts to stop. We had to leave them there.

“I hope they died.” Farehan’s eyes were downcast. His hands were clenched tightly in his lap. “I hope they are not still lying there hurt, in that place with the shrieking and the touches of the fog. Algad and his horse both screamed soon after the two men had fallen. They bolted off away from us. Algad was shrieking about eyes. I suppose he had seen something. The rest of the horses either fell into ditches or ran off maddened. And we are all that are left.” His voice choked.

Kyellan had listened in a grim mood, finding the tale easy to believe. “You came out three miles from the wall?”

“Yes. I could see the edge of the fogbank, dark against the true sea-fog that was over the city. It runs all down the eastern edges of Cavernon. It is sorcery, Commander. I do not doubt that. It took us two hours to go two miles, and we were riding at a runaway gallop. Perhaps my friends and I are slightly mad now. No man could come through that unchanged.”

“Sorcery,” Kyellan repeated. “Shilemat take them. Istam was right. It must be Ocasta, and she’s using magic against us, despite all her piety and her horror at violence.”

“Sir?” Lieutenant Cudor said uneasily. “What does it mean? What did they say?”

“It means we’re cut off on all sides now. And this will be harder to break through than a naval blockade or a counterwall. I’ll explain it to you later, Cudor. I want you to take Farehan and his friends to the palace. I’ll write a note for you to give to the Chamberlain. The Queen speaks S’tari. Make sure she gives Farehan a private audience.”

“Then he’s telling the truth, sir? There’s something but there?”

Kyellan nodded. “I want five of your men to come with me. There’s a chance the Temple of the Goddess can do something about this.” He found a pen and ink and a piece of parchment to write his note to Mirrem. With Briana gone, he did not think any priestess would be eager to help him. He meant to give them no choice.

“Doctor!” Alaira called out suddenly. She had been changing the dressings on a soldier’s ugly stomach wound when the man began to breathe with a noisy rattling sound. The young soldier’s eyes were closed, and when she touched his cheek it was hot and slick with sweat. He was handsome in a plump, Soft-featured way that made him look even younger than he was. His harsh, shallow breathing and the sudden pallor of his face frightened Alaira. “I need a doctor here!”

Men on nearby cots looked her direction and quickly looked away. The mercenaries in the hospital thought it was unlucky to watch a man die when they were not on a battlefield. Perhaps they thought that if they saw death come, it might come for them. Few of them were badly wounded, though. Most of those who had been in bad shape had died in the two days since the battle. The young soldier with the stomach wound had lasted longer than he was supposed to.

“Give me room,” said one of the two doctors on duty. Alaira stepped back and let him look at the soldier. He touched the man’s face as she had, and felt for the pulse in the neck, then shook his head wearily. “I can’t do anything for him but sit with him while he dies.”

“I’ll do that,” Alaira said quietly.

The doctor smiled at her. “Thank you, my lady. If he wakes up before the end, he’d rather see your face over him than mine. I’ll be in the surgery if you need me.”

Alaira sat back down at the edge of the soldier’s cot and took hold of his limp right hand to wait with him. She wished she knew healing magic. The little Power she had was enough to make her sensitive to people’s moods and to magic being used by others. It was useless against a young man’s death.

Her head began to ache as if she had been sitting in a hot sun. Alaira blinked and tried to clear her vision. She saw bright dots of yellow fire around the soldier’s head. The man’s face looked different, thinner and sharper. Alaira glanced around. The nearest soldiers were turned on their side away from her. No one else could have seen anything.

The dying man’s breathing slowed, still hoarse and labored. His chest heaved with the effort of breath. There was a long, drawn out sigh, and then he was still. Alaira felt tears prick behind her eyes. How many men had she seen die in the past two days? More than twenty, in the few hours each day she had worked in the hospital. Each time she felt guilty, as if she could have done something to prevent it. She held the young man’s hand a little longer as if to will him back to life. She listened to the sounds of the army hospital, men grumbling at one another, men snoring in their sleep. The silence beside her on the cot was horrible.

Then the soldier’s hand gripped hers. She felt it squeeze and hold. He was not breathing. He was not breathing, but his eyes were open. He was looking at her. Fear clutched at Alaira with the dead man’s hand. The soldier’s lips curled upward in a thin smile, and then pursed to suck in a little air, enough to speak.

“Alaira,” he said. The voice was the Shape-Changer’s.

Anger replaced Alaira’s fear. “What do you want?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this to me? Go away. There are other people here.”

“They won’t hear us.” He spoke almost without sound. “This is important. Briana is returning. She’ll be in the city tonight. Gwydion and Chela are with her. The Queen is sure to receive them. They’ll discover what we’ve done with her child.”

Alaira frowned. “I thought that was what you wanted. So Briana would be blamed for it.” So the priestess was coming back. Alaira’s jealousy of her seemed unimportant now in the midst of war.

The dead man’s head shook from one side to the other. “No. I don’t want it discovered. My son has become the heir to the throne of Caerlin. I want him to be its King someday. Keep Briana from holding him. Keep Gwydion and Chela from coming anywhere near him. But if you can’t prevent that, then get Cian away from there.”

“How can I do that without coming under suspicion myself?”

“That’s your problem. I want my son safe.”

Alaira glared at him, wishing she could read more expression in the soldier’s face. “What if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll reclaim Kyellan’s body. I have found a way to do it without him calling me back. I’ll take over a dying man in the next battle. Some man Kyellan thinks he has just killed. I’ll give Kyellan a death wound, and take his body. I have enough Power to heal the wound and live on. You’ll lose your precious soldier forever if you don’t do as I say. Protect Cian.” The hand went limp again. The eyes were still open, but now they stared unseeing. The Shape-Changer was gone.

“Damn you,” Alaira muttered, dropping the soldier’s hand. “How do I know you aren’t planning to do that anyway?”

She should tell Kyellan everything, she thought. Warn him of the wizard’s plans. But if she did, she would lose him as surely as if the Shape-Changer had taken his body. She would have to tell him of her part in the Shape-Changer’s scheming, of her plotting against Briana, of her aid to the Hidden Temple in kidnapping Prince Duarnan. He would hate her for it. He would probably have her arrested.

How had she gotten into this? She should never have listened to the Shape-Changer at all. Now she was bound to his will as if mesmerized. Whether she did what he wanted or not, Alaira could see nothing ahead but trouble.

Kyellan waited impatiently at the gate of Cavernon City with five mounted men of Cudor’s command in tight formation behind him. He had sent a novice in to speak with the woman who led the Temple, Rithia, whom he had never met. The novice was a young girl named Erissa with long, black hair and a determined, plain face. She returned now to the open gate and scowled at him.

“The Priestess Rithia will not come out to speak with you, Commander,” the girl said coolly. Kyellan remembered the way Briana had greeted him and Tobas at their first meeting, before the gates of the Sanctuary. Erissa showed much the same arrogance. “She has vowed to do nothing to help the city, until the Queen recognizes the independence of the Temple and stops giving us orders. The Priestess told me to tell you that if the enemy has invested the eastern side of the city with magic, then it shows the Goddess’s hand working for them.”

“If not Rithia, then will some other priestess come with me?” He kept his voice polite. “Surely there are women in the Cavernon Temple who care what happens to the city that shelters them.”

Erissa shook her head stubbornly. “We live in obedience to our superiors. We have been forbidden to help you.”

“That isn’t good enough.” Kyellan dismounted and turned to three of the five soldiers. “Come with me. We’re going in.” They slid from their horses and followed him between the open gates, hands on swordhilts. If they felt any nervousness, their faces did not show it.

“No, you mustn’t,” Erissa said, hurrying along with them down the path toward the inner compound. “Oh, sir, you aren’t allowed here. This is a holy place.”

“Men have died,” Kyellan said. “More will probably die if they try to get through that fogbank. Someone with Power has to dispel the fog. There are no wizards in Cavernon, so it has to be a priestess.”

“I’ll come with you,” Erissa said in a pleading voice. “I’ll go, if you’ll turn around now and not bother Rithia.”

“A brave offer.” Kyellan smiled slightly at the girl. “But I need someone with more Power and training than a novice.”

They passed the Work House. Priestesses abandoned their weaving and mending in the yard and fled inside, silent as grey shadows. A white-clad novice sprinted to the Great House and bounded across the threshold of the high door. Kyellan guessed she was going to warn Rithia. If the woman had Power, she would already have sensed the invasion of her holy grounds. Kyellan felt a brief touch of fear. If the woman chose to lash out with her Power, he had no defenses, nor did his men.

She came out to meet him. A Second Rank priestess, tall and bony in her black robe, with narrow black eyes that glared at him beneath thick grey brows. He had thought she would be older, but Rithia was no more than fifty years old, vigorous and blazing with outrage.

“Erissa,” Rithia said to the miserable girl, “you have betrayed your Order. It is sacrilege to allow a man into the Temple of the Goddess.”

Kyellan stepped in front of the girl, aware of hundreds of eyes on him as priestesses stepped out of shadows to watch. “She tried to stop me. But this is no time to be concerned with such things. The city needs your help. No one else can combat the enemy at the eastern wall.”

The hawk-faced priestess did not seem to hear him. “The Queen adds to her crimes by sending you here. And for you, Commander, know that it is death to come inside the Temple walls unasked.”

Kyellan almost laughed aloud at her. He had done it before, and had not died yet. “You’re to come with me, Priestess. If you need a few more Second Rank women to raise enough Power, gather them.”

“No man commands the Temple of the Goddess,” Rithia said in fury.

“Will you come freely or not?”

“I will not. I see no need to stand here and listen to this. Leave this place, soldier, killer in your Queen’s name. You defile the ground upon which you stand. The Goddess will punish you for it. I call upon Her to witness this sacrilege …”

Two soldiers stalked forward at Kyellan’s nod and took hold of the priestess at either elbow. The women who were watching cried out in fear and anger. Erissa screamed, “Let her go!”

Rithia seemed at a loss for words as Kyellan turned on his heel and walked back toward the horses at the gate. The two soldiers came close behind him with the outraged priestess between them. The third soldier followed. Erissa ran after them, apparently the only one in the place with the courage to resist.

“You can’t do this! Where are you taking her?”

“Out to the fogbank beyond the eastern wall,” Kyellan said. “You can come along if you like, to see that we don’t harm her.”

“The Goddess will strike you down,” Rithia said, getting her voice back as they reached the gate. “You cannot treat Her servants thus.”

The soldiers helped her onto a horse, gently but firmly. Erissa hesitated a moment, then climbed up behind the priestess. Kyellan mounted his S’tari horse and took up the leadrope of the women’s mount. The mercenaries from Cudor’s wall guards followed him toward the northeastern gate, except for the one man left afoot, who was sent to the palace to inform the Queen of what Kyellan had done.

Rithia’s anger seemed to turn to fear when she actually saw the dark line of Power-created fog three miles from the northeastern gate. Kyellan stopped the riders at its edge, dismounted, and helped the priestess from her horse. He looked at her with some sympathy as she stared at the fogbank and trembled. Erissa slid down on her own, landing lightly, and came to stand by Rithia and take her hand.

“Well?” Kyellan said.

Rithia nodded at last. She feared the fog, but he guessed she feared him more. Since he had come into her sacred place and forced her from it, she could not be sure what else he might be willing to do. “I will go in and see what this thing may be,” she said softly. “Erissa, attend me.”

The woman and the girl walked forward together. The dark wall of unnatural fog obscured their outlines immediately, far thicker than the cool dampness of the sea-mist that still shrouded Cavernon City. Kyellan strained his eyes to see them. He hoped they would be safe here so near the edge of it. He had overstepped his authority in this, by not waiting for the Queen to agree to the attempt. No doubt Valahtia would be angry. If Briana had been here, she would have been furious at his daring to command the Temple priestesses. If Briana had been here, Kyellan thought, he would not have had to drag anyone out against her will. Briana would have come herself to face whoever had made this weird barrier.

Someone shrieked ahead of him in the fog. Kyellan drew his sword, ordered his men to stand firm, and walked cautiously forward. The cold mist weighed down on him, fingering under his collar, seeping in at the seams of his uniform. It felt rotten with Power, hostile, like a living thing. The Shape-Changer might have dismissed it with a muttered phrase and a few passes. Kyellan wanted out of it as quickly as possible.

Erissa staggered toward him, a vaguely outlined form half carrying the older woman’s tall, thin shape. They were a few feet away before they seemed real and solid. Rithia’s eyes were closed and her mouth was slack as she slumped in the young girl’s arms. Kyellan quickly sheathed his sword and lifted the priestess to carry her out.

“She fainted,” Erissa said, as they hurried back to the road. “Something touched her and spoke to her. I didn’t hear what it said.”

“Did you learn anything?” Kyellan could breathe again as they emerged into the lighter mist, where the soldiers waited uneasily. He eased Rithia’s limp form down onto the gravel.

Erissa rubbed the older woman’s wrists and cheeks to try to revive her. “It was made by Power. You already knew that.” Rithia’s eyelids fluttered. “I had thought it must be Ocasta’s doing, but Ocasta isn’t that strong,” Erissa continued with a frown. “It felt like priestesses’ Power, though. But it’s far too strong and complex for us to get rid of it for you.”

“The Hidden Temple,” Kyellan said softly. “It must be.”

Erissa’s head snapped up, and her eyes widened. “How do you know that name? No one is supposed to know about that. No one outside the Order.”

“I hope I’m wrong,” Kyellan said. “Because if it is the Hidden Temple, the city is as much as taken. Only Briana might be strong enough to face them. And Briana isn’t here.” The priestesses who controlled the Goddess’s Seat had attacked him at least twice, bent on killing the Shape-Changer. They had almost succeeded. If they tried again, they would certainly succeed, since he no longer had the wizard’s Power to draw upon.

“I don’t agree that it would be the Hidden Temple,” Erissa said as she helped a pale Rithia to sit up. “They’re supposed to be somewhere near Khymer, studying the Goddess’s Seat. They would have no reason to side with Werlinen in this war. I suspect that Ocasta has found some powerful priestesses in Keris to help her, and this is the result.”

“No,” Rithia said in a slurred voice. “The Power that created that fog has its roots in the Seat of the Goddess. It is the Hidden Temple. And I do not think the entire Cavernon City Order has enough Power to battle them. Expect no further help from me, Queen’s soldier, even if you drag me out here again. My task is to keep the Temple safe until Ocasta’s return.”

“The fog feels wrong, and evil,” Erissa said. “I think we should try to get rid of it.”

Rithia shook her head. “Surely the Goddess does not require that we endanger our lives. Commander, take me back to the Temple, and do not seek to come there again.”

Kyellan did not argue with her. The girl Erissa was troubled, and he thought that if Briana returned she would find an ally in the novice. Maybe there were others in the Temple who would feel the same way. Rithia was not one of them. Kyellan had made an enemy in the priestess. Sometime today, he would have to explain that to the Queen. He did not think Valahtia would be pleased.

Chapter Fourteen

Briana stood high on the forecastle deck of the Atolani ship, bracing herself against the railing. Spray stung her face as the vessel plunged through the high waves. They had run all day before a wind of almost gale force, first through the sea lanes to the east, now turning toward the north as they entered Cavernon Bay. The vessel was called the Sea-Wealth, for its master’s hopes. It was a winter trader, built to withstand ice storms and heavy seas. It was well suited for this voyage. With the wind howling, the Wealth scudded across the ocean like a cloud in a dark sky.

The ship bore full sail, which would have been madness if this had been an ordinary wind. The wind was Gwydion’s doing. The young wizard stood on the maindeck near the foremast, and the sailors of the Atolani ship averted their eyes when they had to pass him. His hair was unruffled, and his cloak lay in smooth folds. The wind did not touch him. He was the eye of the storm.

Chela sat on the sterncastle deck with all the sails in view, and it was only her spells that bound the canvas and kept it from ripping into tatters. The ship’s master, a cool trader named Malus, had been told of the danger of the blockade. Briana had assured him that between them she, Gwydion, and Chela could get the ship through it. Malus had thought of the profit to be made as the only ship to reach Cavernon City in days, and he agreed to take the risk.

The sailors were all on deck. Most were aloft in the straining rigging, fighting to keep the Wealth from being swamped as the uncanny wind shifted to the north amid troughs and hills of ocean. It was dusk. They should be nearing Cavernon City, Briana thought. The blockade should be close ahead. She strained her Power-heightened sight and hearing to try to sense what lay before them.

There was a heavier darkness against the horizon. A bank of thick fog, and within it lay the Kerisian line, ships strung out at intervals a half mile apart. Briana was as sure of this as she had been of the existence of the siege at Cavernon. She did not question how she could know. It gave her no pleasure, this new strength of her Power. She suspected the Goddess of granting it to try to make her forget her grief.

The dark line of fog was closer. Briana turned into the wind and climbed with difficulty down the forecastle ladder to cross to the place where Gwydion stood. “Stop the wind,” she said in a harsh tone, using focused Power to break through the wizard’s intense concentration. “There is fog ahead. We can use it, if you don’t blow a hole through it.”

Gwydion frowned, and his dyed brown hair began to lift a little in a breeze that invaded his stillness. Briana knew how difficult it would be to pull out of such an involved spell. If Gwydion could not contain the force he had summoned, it might escape his control and become the storm that had threatened since they had begun this morning. The strain of effort showed now in the young wizard’s face as it had not done before. Briana murmured a prayer to Cianya out of habit, but she doubted the Goddess would answer such a bitter call.

The wind was suddenly fierce on the maindeck at the place where Briana and Gwydion stood. The ship shuddered before the strengthening gale. Briana heard Chela call out high, sharp words in the wizards’ language, bidding the sails hold firm. They did, though the masts creaked and groaned. The ship gave a hard forward lurch, and the wind was left behind them.

Briana could see it whipping up waves where the ship had been, as Gwydion muttered and chanted, and sweat ran down his face into his short brown beard. The waves were caught in stillness for a moment. Then their direction reversed. The wind blew hard toward the southwest. Probably the island of Syryn would be storm-battered tonight. The sails of the Sea Wealth filled lightly with a soft northerly breeze, and the ship took a slow, gentle tack into the fog.

Gwydion stumbled and almost fell. Briana caught his arm and helped him over to a bench on deck. His face was pale, and his golden eyes were cloudy and dim. The breeze that nudged the Wealth along to the north must be the true weather of the bay, Briana thought. Gwydion was certainly not controlling it. He was about to faint.

Yalna peered out the door of the ship’s single cabin, where she had been huddled in misery during the voyage. The desert woman hated ships and the sea more the more she knew of them. Briana waved her over. She could tend to Gwydion. Briana and Chela had a task before them still, to get the Sea Wealth safely in to the city.

Chela had let go her control of the sails. Sailors shouted orders to men high in the rigging as the canvas sagged within its ropes, too heavy for the breeze. Briana left Gwydion to Yalna’s care and hurried aft toward the sterncastle where Chela sat. The younger woman was drained and tired, but not as exhausted as Gwydion.

The fog was upon them, thick and cold. Briana linked hands with Chela on the stern deck to give the girl more Power, and whispered that they needed silence to pass through the blockade unseen. Chela nodded, and raised her voice to sing a muted blanket of force around the ship. Soon the creaking of mast and sail, the shouts of crewmen, the slap of low waves against the hull of the ship, all softened and vanished in the fog. The men would have to resort to pantomime to carry out their task of reducing sail.

A faint gleam appeared fifty yards to starboard, scarcely visible through the heavy fog. It was the deck lantern of a Kerisian ship. Briana could hear the call of the officer of the watch as he marked the sunset. The ship rode at a light sea anchor that could be pulled up quickly to chase a blockade runner. The Sea Wealth ran without lights, voiceless, not even a whisper to betray it as Chela murmured her song. Cavernon City was only a few miles ahead.

The day had worn down to a dusk no darker than the fogbound afternoon had been. Kyellan leaned against the parapet of the southern wall, near the huge towers and barbican of the city’s main southern gate. Near him, Captain Harnal was taking a group of city recruits through a drill on how to repel siege ladders. Harnal was a gruff old man, a soldier who had served under the old King, and who would not be ready to retire until he collapsed one day while shouting at a clumsy trainee.

Young men and old, from all parts of the city, Rahan cutpurses to sober bazaar merchants, the new conscripts did not inspire much confidence in Kyellan. He watched as teams of three men ran to the edge of the wall, one with a sword, one with a wicked hooked pike, the third with a wooden wedge to thrust between the enemy ladder and the stones of the wall. They went through the charade with a show of spirits, but no real Kerisian soldiers were climbing up and trying to kill them. Kyellan doubted they would move forward so eagerly in an actual assault.

The Commander was waiting for a small force of First Division scouts to return from a foray toward the enemy counterwall. He wanted to know more than could be learned by listening to the sounds of building. The scouts were due back at sunset. Epon’s wall patrols were still out on their circuit as well, but still they had brought no reports of enemy actions.

The news of the eerie fogbank to the east had spread quickly through Cavernon City, causing a new panic. People remembered the wizards and their dreaded magic. Rumors were spreading that the enemy had a renegade wizard or two in their camp. The priestesses at the Temple had been under a small siege themselves this afternoon, as citizens nearly broke down their gates with demands for protection from the new menace. Kyellan had stationed a full squadron of palace guardsmen in the Temple square. The priestesses had remained inside their walls with their gate closed, silent as the dead.

There had been a brief action near the northern wall that afternoon, as the Kerisians in the Dhalen camp had sent bridge-builders to the riverbank. Caer archers had driven them off without many losses on either side. Other than that, the enemy had been quiet. Kyellan did not like it. What was Werlinen up to?

Finally, the scouts reappeared in the broken ground outside the southern gate. There were six of them, and with them was a mounted man in the enemy’s colors, bearing a messenger staff. Kyellan watched them as they were passed through the barbican gate, and he hurried down the long stairway from the battlements to greet them. As they came in, he saw that to a man they had been disarmed. Their sword sheaths flapped empty at their sides, their quivers were limp, their bows and knives were gone. The Kerisian courier on his horse grinned down at Kyellan.

“What happened?” the Commander growled to the leader of the scouts.

The man did not meet his gaze. “We got to within half a mile of the counterwall,” he said. “An enemy patrol was waiting for us. I swear we were moving silently, Commander, silently and in thick fog. But they knew we were there.”

“It was only bad luck, sir,” said a red-faced corporal. “In the fog we didn’t know they’d changed the postings for their outer guards.”

“It was a whole patrol, twenty men,” said the leader, a thin Caer sergeant named Jelm. “Just standing there smiling as we came up out of the grass. They were waiting for us, sir.”

Kyellan nodded. The Hidden Temple had Power to spare for wards around the lines. No doubt the scouts had crossed a spell-boundary. “Did you escape, or did they let you go to escort this messenger?”

Jelm’s face grew even longer. “I’d like to say we escaped, Commander. But we were captured, and they took our weapons and sent us back with the messenger. We could hear them laughing behind us.”

“If we sent a few squadrons out we could stop their laughing,” said the corporal. “They’re probably still where we found them, sir.”

Kyellan ignored the suggestion. He turned to the enemy courier. “Well, Kerisian? What’s your business?”

A young man with long brown hair, the courier bowed elegantly over his horse’s neck. “I am Lord Ewenn of the Crown Prince’s household. Do I have the honor of addressing Commander Kyellan? Then my mission is a simple one. Here is a letter from the royal Prince Werlinen to the usurper Queen Valahtia. My Prince hoped that you would deliver the letter personally, Commander. You will find that its contents concern you.” He handed Kyellan a rolled parchment weighted by a massive seal on a ribbon. The seal was the yellow rose of Avolla embraced by the Goddess’s flame. Werlinen was not being subtle about his claim to the Goddess’s blessing.

“The Queen will get the letter,” Kyellan said. “You can wait here to carry a reply, my lord, if she chooses to make one. Jelm, you and your men keep the courier company. When Captain Epon comes, give him the same report you gave me. The gate is to be shut until further orders.” He stalked off to the nearest stable to retrieve his horse.

Valahtia greeted Kyellan in her reception room. She wore a dull black dressing gown and no jewelry, and her face was weary. A baby’s cry sounded through the royal quarters, piercing nursery walls with its thin, shrill tone. Duarnan seemed to be a more than usually fussy child, Kyellan thought. He bowed to the Queen and kissed her hand.

“Tobas and Senomar are in the map room right now, reading over the dispatches from the harbor,” the Queen began. “They haven’t given me a report yet. They’re eager to hear your scouts’ news of the counterwall.”

“There won’t be any news.” Kyellan told her what had happened, and handed her the letter from Werlinen. “Did you talk to the S’tari trader I sent you?”

Valahtia nodded. “It was distressing to hear his story. I have given Farehan and his companions rooms in the palace.” She slit the wax of Werlinen’s arrogant seal with a thin knife. “And I had a visit from a priestess complaining about you. Really, you should have asked me before you went in and dragged Rithia out of the Temple. The woman has apparently not yet recovered from her experience.” She sighed. “I only wish she had been able to do something about that fogbank. Did you know that it’s creeping closer to the city? My latest report from the northeastern gate places it only two and a half miles from the wall.”

“Damn,” Kyellan muttered. He paced to the garden archway, to look out into the lantern-lit courtyard. “There’s nothing any of us can do about it, my Queen. And if Farehan is telling the truth, that thing is really dangerous. I don’t want to see houses in the city falling into sudden chasms, or flash floods coming down the streets. How do you defend against something like that?”

Valahtia sat down at a small marble-topped table, and read the letter through. Her scowl deepened, and when she had finished she glared up at Kyellan. He was taken aback by her expression. She lifted the letter and waved it at him.

“Did you send men to try to assassinate Werlinen in Ishar?” She rose from her seat. “Did you?”

Kyellan spoke quietly. “Does Werlinen accuse me of it?”

“He says that the Goddess’s favor was all that stood between him and death in the night. Death by my hand. He accuses me, of course, but I knew nothing of it.” She paced the ornamented room like a tigress. “He says the assassins took their orders from you. I never gave you permission to do that! You never even asked me!”

“Tobas agreed to …”

“Tobas agreed to it? Of course. Of course you asked him and not me. Who rules Caerlin, me or my consort? Or do you, Kyellan? Tobas takes your advice in everything. Damn you, how could you do this?” She was near enough to strike him, and Kyellan readied himself for the blow, but it did not come.

“Do you doubt my loyalty, my Queen?” he said.

She glared at him, pinning him with her brown eyes. “No. No, I don’t doubt that you think you did this for my benefit. You thought that if you could quietly knock Werlinen out of the way I’d be glad of it. Maybe I would have been. But the assassins you sent didn’t do their job. Now Werlinen will have told all the Council of Royalty of my treachery. It is more for him to use against me. Such loyalty as yours is no help to me.”

Kyellan stood at stiff attention. Old anger knotted his stomach, anger at the arrogance of the highorn, even though he recognized there was justice in the Queen’s words. He fought to keep his voice steady. “If I failed you that badly, then accept my resignation.”

The young Queen was trembling. “I … I would be a fool to allow you to resign your command, and you are a fool to offer it. Much as I hate to admit it, I need you.” She crumpled the letter in her hands. “Besides, it would seem to Werlinen that I believed the accusations in this letter.”

“About the assassins?”

“There’s more than that in here. Werlinen goes on and on about the Goddess’s favor and the Goddess’s blessing and the magic that aids the true King of Caerlin in his holy cause. He says the fog barrier is a sign from heaven, a sign I can’t ignore.” She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “He also says that he has proof that you are some sort of evil, demonic creature, a soulless killer, Arel’s murderer, and a wizard besides.”

Kyellan attempted a smile. “You know I didn’t kill Arel.”

Valahtia arched a delicate eyebrow. “So you and Tobas say. I was giving birth to Duarnan at the time. Maybe the two of you are lying, and Tobas was only pretending to feel guilty about driving my brother down those tower stairs.” She shook her head. “No. I know you didn’t kill him. Is Werlinen mad, to accuse you of these things? What does he hope to gain? And how can he expect me to believe it, any of it? I would not have believed the part about the assassins, if you hadn’t admitted it so easily.”

“Really, this letter encourages me,” Kyellan said. “Werlinen must begin to doubt himself, if he has to go on about his holy cause. He wants to frighten you into a surrender he knows he can’t achieve any other way.” Kyellan wondered what sort of “proof” the Kerisian Prince might have that he was a wizard. The word of the Hidden Temple, most likely. They were wrong, now that the Shape-Changer was gone.

“Well.” Valahtia took her knife and began to pound Werlinen’s wax seal to bits with the hilt, denting her marble table. “That’s a pleasant thought. But I think Werlinen has reason to feel confident, with his army and his blockade, and now this magical barrier to block the Caravan Road. Kyellan, if you really are a wizard, I give you my permission to come out of hiding and blast Werlinen with your Power.”

“Your wish is my command,” he said soberly, making a ridiculous gesture in the air that reduced the Queen to giggles. That was how Alaira found them when she burst into the room in her messenger garb, passed by the guards without even a knock on the Queen’s door.

“What is it?” Valahtia said, alarmed at the young woman’s tense expression.

“A ship,” Alaira said, panting for air. “A ship has come into the harbor. A Garithian ship. Briana is on board, and Gwydion and Chela. They’re waiting for an escort to the palace. The harbormaster didn’t think it would be wise to send them through the city without a guard.”

“An unguarded wizard wouldn’t last long in Cavernon tonight.” Kyellan felt a fierce happiness leaping inside him. “That must be where Briana went, to get Gwydion and Chela to help us. My Queen …” He bowed to Valahtia; he was smiling in disbelief. “May I go and bring them to you?”

Valahtia laughed aloud. “Go. So much for Werlinen’s fogbank. Take an honor guard. And send someone to the southern gate, to tell that Kerisian messenger to get back to his master. I’m not going to honor his letter with a reply.”

“I’ll go,” Alaira said quickly. “A Kerisian courier at the southern gate? Only give me a moment. I have a message to take to Ciffra from her son at the hospital.” She hurried through the arch into the garden, her messenger’s pack slung over her shoulder.

Kyellan forgot his weariness as he hurried from the Queen’s chambers. Briana was back. She was alive. It was the first time he had realized how badly he had been frightened for her since she had disappeared. The difference was amazing. He grinned as he walked, a fierce smile that annoyed everyone he passed in the corridors. They had all been morose and glum since hearing the news of the fog in the east. Kyellan wanted to shout at them not to worry. Briana was back, and everything was all right.

Alaira could scarcely think as she stumbled through the deserted garden. If Briana did not find out the baby’s real identity, Gwydion or Chela would. The baby could not be discovered. He must not be endangered. Protect Cian, the Shape-Changer had said. Alaira had to keep him safe, or else the wizard would take over Kyellan’s body again, and she would lose him forever. The Shape-Changer had grown in strength. He had shown that he could act in the world again. Alaira had no doubts he would carry out his threat if she failed him.

She had to get the baby away. Hide it, guard it. For Kyellan’s sake. She would have to leave Cavernon City. If she tried to hide the baby in the city, Kyellan would find them. She would be hunted. Alaira was sure it would mean she would lose Kyellan’s love. Better that than to cause him to lose his soul to the Shape-Changer. Alaira bit her tongue to stop her tears. She could not show any of her anguish yet. Later, there would be time to cry.

The nursery was brightly lit by oil lamps. The baby was crying. Ciffra’s round face looked harried and drawn. She turned and curtseyed to Alaira. “My lady.”

“I’m here to relieve you for a while,” Alaira said. She was unable to keep an edge of tension from her voice. “Go visit your son in the hospital, if you want. I’ll watch the young Prince.”

Ciffra left the nursery immediately, gratefully calling back her thanks. She told Alaira that Duarnan had been fed only a half hour before. Alaira swallowed hard and bent over the crib. The false Prince lay there, red-faced. He was thin, and when she touched his skin it felt dry and hot. Perhaps he was ill. Alaira felt a moment of panic. What if Cian died while he was in her care? Would the Shape-Changer hold her to blame for it, and carry out his threat to Kyellan?

Dark brown eyes blinked at her. The baby quieted at her touch as Alaira lifted him from the cradle and wrapped him in a quilt. “Little Cian,” Alaira murmured. “You’re in danger, baby wizard. We have to get you out of here. But I can’t be seen carrying a baby from the palace. Can you be quiet and still, still as a loaf of bread in a messenger’s pack? I’ll take you out as soon as it’s safe. I promise.”

The baby made no protest as she opened her pack and lay him carefully inside. The sides of the pack were stiffened and waterproofed, and showed no details of the form within. Alaira tied the straps loosely, hoping the child had enough air. He was a wizard, and they were not easily hurt. She prayed he would be all right.

She could not delay. She could not reconsider. She shouldered the pack, balancing the odd weight carefully, and slipped out of the nursery to the servants’ door in the hall. In a moment, she was out of the palace, considering what she should say to the Kerisian courier at the southern gate. She had a vague plan to use the courier to get her put of the city, then perhaps to steal his horse to make her escape. Alaira did not allow herself to think about the fear and grief the Queen would feel, or about Kyellan’s anger. They would haunt her fiercely later, she knew.

Fog still choked the city as Kyellan led a mounted troop of five honor guards and four saddled horses toward the harbor. The streets were nearly deserted. Pools of lamplight illuminated only small circles along the rows of shuttered, silent houses. Kyellan knew that the rumors of the fogbank in the east had frightened the people; many of them feared that the fog within the city might suddenly prove to be haunted as well. Now that night had come, they stayed indoors. Even the street dwellers in Rahan Quarter were probably hiding from the night. The thought saddened Kyellan, but not for long. He was going to greet Briana. The uneasy mood of the besieged city could not affect his happiness.

The Sea Wealth had been towed into the inner harbor. Its gangplank was down, and the ship’s captain had come ashore to talk with the harbormaster. They were going over the ship’s ledgers as Kyellan and his guardsmen rode up the pier. The Commander heard some argument about the prices the cargo might bring in the wartime city.

The ship’s captain interrupted his talk long enough to wave in Kyellan’s direction. “You’re here to escort the wizard and the others? They’re still aboard, waiting for you. Go on up.” He turned away again.

“Stay here, in formation,” Kyellan said to his honor guards. They wore dress uniforms, hastily donned and ill-fitting but sharp enough in the darkness and the fog. Each of the horses they led wore harness that gleamed with silver and gems from the Queen’s processional finery. The soldiers were palace guardsmen, used to ceremony. They sat at attention, holding their mounts’ heads up at a sharp angle.

Kyellan started up the gangplank, straightening his gold sash as he walked. The Atolani ship rode low in the water for stability. Its deck railing was less than ten feet up from the pier. Lanterns hung at each side of the gangplank and along the rail, giving off a little light. The fog was thicker here, closer to the bay.

“It’s Kyellan!” Chela’s slight, thin form hurtled out of the mist on the deck and slammed into him, in an embrace that almost sent him stumbling back down the gangplank. Kyellan braced himself and hugged the young woman tightly. She wore a thick, dark woolen cloak, and her red hair was braided down her back. “I didn’t think you’d come yourself.” Chela grinned at him. “Briana said you were the Commander of the Army now.”

“Blame my curiosity,” Kyellan said. “I wanted to be the first to know what brought you here, just when we need you so badly. It’s a long way from Akesh.”

“Briana convinced us to come here to help her against the Hidden Temple,” Chela said, no longer smiling. “We were at Barena, at a loss for what to do or where to go next. Akesh was destroyed, Ky. Marayn sent soldiers to burn it to the ground. Gwydion and I are the only people who escaped.”

He stared down at her, feeling suddenly cold. “Gods … Chela, how could that be? All the children, and the old teachers …”

“All dead. Murdered. We thought it was you and Alaira coming back with the supplies. But someone in Atolan found out that the men you and Haval left there were headed for Akesh. They were arrested, and soldiers were sent instead. We had no time to defend ourselves. Gwydion and I were both powerless from a spell backlash when they came. Gwydion …” She paused. “Gwydion wasn’t himself for a while. He’s still very angry, very bitter. You need to be careful with him.”

Kyellan lowered his voice to match Chela’s. “Does he blame me for it? Because Alaira and I didn’t come back, because we sent men in our place?”

“Men who never got out of Atolan,” Chela said. “I’m sure you trusted them, but one of them must have talked. I don’t blame you. Marayn probably would have come after Akesh soon, anyway. But Gwydion … just be careful.”

“Where is he?”

“Briana and Yalna are bringing him from the cabin. He was sleeping off a backlash. It took a lot of Power to get us here through the Kerisian blockade. We’re all tired. I hope the Queen can wait until tomorrow for her audience.”

Three more people walked slowly toward them, indistinct figures in the fog. They resolved themselves as a plump, young S’tari woman in a yellow dress, a brown-bearded youth who was still half asleep leaning on her shoulder, and Briana like a widow in mourning. The young priestess wore a black gown, and hid her auburn hair beneath a black shawl. Her face was drawn with exhaustion and something else; grief, Kyellan thought, and then he dismissed it as his imagination because of her widow’s clothes. He recognized Gwydion now despite his dyed hair. He supposed the S’tari woman must be Yalna.

Chela left him to help with Gwydion. Briana’s green eyes met his gaze, and Kyellan was shocked at the bleak expression in them. He had been planning to greet her with a formal speech. A welcome to the First Priestess in the Queen’s name.

Instead, Kyellan spoke in a low voice, fighting the urge to take her in his arms. “I’m glad to see you. I was worried. Where were you? Are you all right?”

“I’m unhurt,” Briana murmured. “I … I must talk to you later, alone. But the Queen sent you to bring us to her, didn’t she? We had better go.”

There was no joy in this reunion, none of the happiness Kyellan had felt in riding to it. Chela and Gwydion had survived a massacre that might have been partly his fault. Whatever had happened to Briana had been something overwhelming; Kyellan had seen her so defeated only once before, when she had failed to stop Ocasta from becoming First Priestess. Whatever she had to tell him in private, Kyellan did not think it would be anything he would want to hear.

Chapter Fifteen

Alaira hurried through the foggy streets of Rahan Quarter toward the southern gate, conspicuous in her livery but unlikely to be accosted since she bore the staff and pack of a Queen’s messenger. There were fewer night-dwellers out than usual, but the taverns were crowded with off-duty soldiers and those who preyed on them. No doubt the Thieves’ Highroad, the rooftop maze of the Quarter, was well-traveled tonight. Fog would hide a multitude of crimes.

No one bothered Alaira as she strode along the narrow streets, turning off into little-used shortcuts and alleys, finding the fastest way to the gate. She knew the Quarter better than she knew the corridors of the Tiranon. She had lived all her life here, until Kyellan had come to her some ten months ago and invited her to come away with him. Alaira wondered what her life would have been like if she had refused him. She would have survived. She might have known occasional days of pleasure, a full stomach and a place to sleep. She would never have heard Kyellan finally say that he loved her; she would never have found herself running away from him as she was doing tonight, under the shadow of a wizard’s threats.

She could not think about Kyellan, she told herself. Not until she had found some safe place to hide herself and the child that lay quietly in her pack. The gate was near. Alaira slowed her pace and smoothed her expression into one of calm purpose. Her walk through the city had been a long one. She had not dared to request a horse from the palace stables, for fear someone would notice that the baby was gone before she got away. Now her legs burned with effort, and there was a tightness across her ribs.

“Queen’s messenger,” she said, holding her staff high as she pushed her way through soldiers, grooms, and curious citizens that thronged the wide street behind the wall. “Let me pass. Messenger from Her Majesty.”

A soldier in an ill-fitting new uniform stopped her at a barricade before the gate. A portly middle-aged man, he glared at her fiercely and held up a spear to bar her way. “No one passes until further orders from the Commander.”

“Lieutenant Epon! No, I mean Captain,” Alaira called out, seeing the young Syryni officer talking to a group of scouts by the towering wall.

Epon turned, smiled slightly, and waved at her. “My lady Alaira!” He excused himself to his soldiers and walked over to the barricade.

“Sir, this man won’t let me through,” she complained. The din of the milling people below the wall, the shouts of recruits in training on the ramparts, were too loud. She feared that the child would begin to cry. She had to get out of the city now.

“Private, don’t you know royal livery when you see it? This is the Lady Alaira, attendant to the Queen and a royal messenger.” The newly promoted Captain indicated Alaira’s striped staff. “Next time you see someone carrying this, you give them no trouble. Understand?”

“I’ve never seen a royal messenger before in my life,” the overweight recruit grumbled. “None of them ever came into my shop. How do you expect me to …”

Epon stepped in front of the man and spoke inches from his face. “When I ask you if you understand an order, you don’t give me excuses, soldier. You say, ‘Yes, sir,’ and that’s the end of it. Understand?” He paused for a long moment. “Understand, private?”

“Yes, sir,” the recruit finally muttered.

Epon sighed and turned to Alaira. “My apologies, Lady. How can I assist you?”

“I carry a message in reply to the enemy courier. Where is he?”

Epon nodded toward an angry-looking young man with long brown hair, still sitting on his horse under guard. “There. I won’t be sorry to be rid of this Lord Ewenn. Come with me. You can give him the Queen’s reply personally.”

Alaira followed the Syryni officer. “Actually, my orders are to carry the message into Werlinen’s camp. The courier is to escort me.” Epon looked at her, startled. “Since the scouts failed to get a look at the fortifications, we have to try another way,” she improvised.

“But that’s dangerous. You’re the Commander’s lady. I don’t doubt that someone in Tramorr knows it. They could hold you hostage, or … insult you, to get at Commander Kyellan.” Epon shook his head. “I agree that we need to know about their activities, but surely there is someone else who could be sent instead.”

“The Crown Prince may be a fool, but he has a sense of honor,” Alaira said, amused by Epon’s concern. “I’ll be in no danger, unless I’m suspected of being a spy as well as a messenger. That’s exactly why the Queen and Kyellan chose to send me. I’m less likely to be accused of spying than a man would be.”

Epon tried one last suggestion. “At least have us keep Lord Ewenn hostage for your safe return, my lady.”

“And send me out in the fog to be shot down before anyone recognizes my staff?” Alaira smiled ruefully at him. She could not bear this much longer. Any moment now, someone might come riding from the palace with news of Duarnan’s abduction, and all would be lost.

The Syryni mercenary finally relented. “Very well. I still can’t believe the Commander would allow this. But I’ll have the postern gate opened for you and the courier. Hinan!” he called to a groom. “Bring a horse for the lady Alaira.”

She could have allowed Epon to keep the Kerisian courier hostage. It would have made it much easier for her to finish her plan, and escape through the edge of the haunted fogbank to the southeast, away toward Erinon. But she would not return, and when she had been gone long enough, Epon would have the Kerisian killed for the apparent treachery of his people. Alaira did not want to be responsible for that. She thought that it would be easy enough to lose the courier in the fog when they were nearer the enemy lines.

As they rode toward the palace, Kyellan told Briana of the new threat in the east, and the effort he had made to force Rithia to confront it. Behind them, Yalna, and the honor guard rode in a circle around Gwydion and Chela’s horse. The wizard was too weak and dizzy from the spell backlash to ride alone. Chela’s arms around him kept him from falling off. Kyellan was almost glad of Gwydion’s condition. It meant he had time to think of a way to speak with the wizard, to defuse Gwydion’s anger and try to make amends.

Briana did not appear to be angry about Kyellan’s invasion of the Temple. “From what you say, I’m sure you’re right that the Hidden Temple created the fogbank,” she said. “And if that’s true, I’m going to need the help of the Cavernon priestesses to defeat them. I don’t know how I can convince them of the need, or make them obey me.” She sighed. “I know I don’t have the strength to confront them tonight.”

“Stay at the palace,” Kyellan said quietly. “Until you’re rested and strong. Then when you go to the Temple, impress them. Dress as the First Priestess. The Queen’s seamstress can make you a new robe, and her jewelers can adapt one of her silver crowns into a moon headdress. Don’t give them the chance to ignore you this time. Command them from the moment you walk in the gate.”

They rode up the street through the parks, past the crowded refugee camps. Briana was silent for a few minutes. “You’re right,” she said at last. “And I could use Power to give myself presence. I don’t have time to win them over with subtlety.” She did not sound pleased or excited at the prospect. “Still, it may not be enough. Short of mesmerizing them with the Binding Dance, I can’t be sure of their loyalty until Ocasta gives up her claim to be First Priestess.”

The palace gate opened before them suddenly, and they had to pull their horses aside to let a mounted guard patrol gallop past. Kyellan counted twenty-five men, grim-looking, spurring their horses through the gate and down the long, inclined road. The Tiranon courtyard blazed with lights. The night was alive with shouts, coming from all over the palace grounds. It had not been like this when Kyellan had left. He wondered what had happened to cause the uproar.

They dismounted. Briana sent Yalna to find the keyholder of the Chamberlain’s staff, to ask if they could have a room in the palace at least for tonight. Kyellan’s guardsmen assisted Gwydion and Chela off their horse. Their old apartment was still free, Kyellan knew. No one had wanted the rooms where a wizard had lived. There would be enough time in the morning for them to report to the Queen. With the help of a guardsman, Chela supported Gwydion, and the three of them walked slowly away toward the same southeastern palace building where Kyellan and Alaira lived, with most of the Queen’s noble counselors.

Kyellan and Briana were halfway up the steps to the main hall when Tobas came out of the palace door at the head of a patrol of guardsmen. In the light of the porch lamps, the young Earl’s face was a mask of rage and fear. He ran into Kyellan even as the Commander tried to step out of his way. Both men stumbled, and Tobas righted himself with a hand on Kyellan’s shoulder.

“You’re back,” Tobas said. “Oh, gods, Ky … we have to find them right away. Who knows what they’ll do. They may have killed them already.”

Briana spoke sharply. “What has happened?”

Tobas turned to look blindly at her. “It’s my son. The Crown Prince. Someone took him. Stole him from his cradle in the middle of the palace. Maybe it was those priestesses who made the fogbank. Someone from Werlinen, anyway. Alaira was with him, and they took her, too.”

Kyellan was stunned. He felt as if an invisible hand was strangling him. “Alaira and Duarnan both? How long ago?”

The younger man shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe half an hour. After you left. Ciffra went to see her son in the hospital, and Alaira said she’d watch the baby.” His voice was a little calmer. “But Ciffra’s son was asleep, so she came back right away. There was no one in the nursery. Valahtia had been in the front room, and she had heard nothing. None of the guards saw anything. It must have been magic. Those priestesses, the Hidden Temple you told us about.”

Kyellan nodded grimly. “Have you closed the gates?”

“I sent troops to all the gates. It was probably already too late. If it was those priestesses, they’d have found a way to get out with the gates guarded.” Tobas ran a distracted hand through his curly hair. “Valahtia won’t stop crying. She thinks he’s dead. She tore up the nursery looking for him, screaming all the time. She says they must have killed him by now. I told her that maybe they thought Alaira was the baby’s nurse, and that’s why they took her, too. They must be planning to keep him alive, if they needed someone to take care of him.”

“Show me up to the nursery, Commander,” Briana said, taking Kyellan’s arm. “I might be able to trace them if they used Power. At least I should be able to tell you what direction they took.”

“Oh.” Tobas looked at her clearly for the first time. “It’s you, Priestess. I’m sorry we don’t have a better welcome for you. Where are Gwydion and Chela? Can they help me search the palace grounds?”

“They won’t be any help tonight,” Briana said. “They had to use a lot of Power to get our ship through the blockade. Don’t worry. We’ll find Duarnan, and Alaira as well. But not if they get too far away. Come, Kyellan.” Tobas stepped aside to let them pass, watching them with a hopeful expression as they raced up the palace steps.

The nursery looked as if a whirlwind had gone through it. Drapes were pulled from niches, furniture was overturned and broken, lamp oil had spilled on the luxurious rugs. When Valahtia had come to investigate Ciffra’s cries, at first she could not believe her son could be missing. She had gone through the room like a madwoman looking for him, even accusing Ciffra of having hidden him. Now Valahtia wailed in her bedroom, accompanied by all her ladies but Alaira. The sounds of her grief were uncanny. They rang out through the garden at the center of the royal quarters, and echoed in the demolished nursery. They made Kyellan’s head ache.

He wanted to go out on horseback with Tobas’s guards, to race through the city looking for Alaira and the stolen prince, to kill whoever had taken them. He could not grieve with Valahtia; he was sure they were alive. He felt only anger, a murderous anger that made him pace the room with his hand gripping his sword hilt, as if the abductors might appear from the air for him to slay. He craved action. But he knew that his best chance of finding Alaira and the baby lay with Briana and her Power-tracing magic. He would wait until the priestess told him where to look.

Briana sat cross-legged beside the Prince’s empty cradle, which she had righted and set back into its proper place. Her eyes were closed, and her hands traced a pattern of white fire in the air around her. Kyellan had seen too much magic to be awed by this. He paced, staying out of the circle of Power that glowed around Briana, impatient for the spell to work.

Kyellan’s anger was haunted by thoughts of how much he had been neglecting Alaira. He had scarcely kissed her in the past few days, had rarely spoken with her, and had spent almost no time with her. He had been too involved with the business of the siege. And when he had heard that Briana had returned safely, he had been overwhelmed by his old love for the priestess. From the moment he had heard the news until Tobas had run into him on the palace steps, Kyellan had not thought of Alaira at all. He felt disloyal, and even more so because he still yearned for Briana’s smile and Briana’s touch.

Lord Ewenn rode close beside Alaira, annoyingly attentive. The courier had led her two of the three miles between the enemy countervail and Cavernon City’s southern gate. No opportunity had arisen for Alaira to break away. The fog that shrouded the city was thinner here; Alaira had thought she would follow Ewenn’s horse, and make her move without him seeing it. That would not work. The brown-haired nobleman pressed his horse against hers and carried on a light conversation, calling her my lady and complimenting her on her courage and the way she sat her horse.

The Shape-Changer’s child was quiet in the pack. Alaira thought that he must have fallen asleep, or he would have cried by now. Either that, or else his wizard father had reached out some Power from the spirit road to keep him still and safe. The weight of the baby felt heavier with every plodding hoofbeat of the tall bay gelding Alaira rode. She could not ride into the enemy camp with the child. The Hidden Temple priestesses were there. If the baby had been in danger at the Tiranon, it was worse for him in Tramorr.

She would simply have to gallop off, Alaira decided. She would trust to her horse’s long legs and the fog. Eventually, the courier would lose her, or lose interest in chasing her. If he chased her at all. He might think she had lost her nerve and was headed back for the city. If he was a gentleman, he would let her go.

Lord Ewenn lay a hand on top of hers as Alaira began to slowly gather up her reins. He smiled at her sidelong, and said something inane about how they were in the same impossible situation, the two of them, peaceful messengers in the midst of a senseless war. Alaira shrugged in answer, jerked her horse’s head to the left, and spurred the bay with her heels in the sensitive place behind its shoulders.

The gelding leaped in the proper direction. Lord Ewenn cried out, and Alaira almost fell off. Damn it, she was no rider. She had learned some skill on the journey to Akesh, but before that she had lived her life afoot in Rahan Quarter. She had never learned to sit a galloping horse across deserted farmland on a foggy night.

The courier started after her. Alaira glanced back over her shoulder, and lost her balance. She clutched at the saddle bow and sought with one toe for a stirrup that had fallen free of her slippered foot. Why hadn’t she worn riding boots? The stupid horse interpreted her prodding foot as an instruction to change direction. It shifted smoothly toward the right, to converge with Lord Ewenn’s path.

Her enemy was the better rider. Though Alaira’s horse was faster, she did not know how to tell it to keep galloping. Having found the stirrup, she sat back slightly, and the horse slowed down. She had been given a warhorse, trained to follow body cues instead of steering with the reins. Alaira leaned her weight forward again.

She felt a bump from behind. Her horse half reared and lashed out with its hind hooves, kicking at Lord Ewenn’s mount. The Kerisian deftly guided his horse to one side and urged it forward again. They were running side by side now. Lord Ewenn laughed at Alaira, showing white teeth in the darkness. He lifted his hands, dropping his reins like a little boy-showing off for his mother. One hand reached for Alaira’s wrist, another for her reins.

Alaira screamed and struck out at him. She lost control of her horse’s head. The Kerisian shoved his horse against hers, slowing them both to a nervous, prancing trot. He caught Alaira’s wrist in a grip that surprised her. She could not pull away. She tried to scratch at his face with her other hand, and he caught that, too. Slowly, irresistably, he dragged her from her saddle and slung her across his horse’s withers.

The pack bumped against Alaira’s back as she struggled. She was wild with fear for the baby inside. Ewenn’s arm was clamped around her waist just below the lump in her messenger pack. Now he halted his horse, and Alaira’s traitorous bay pranced to a stop beside them, blowing nervously at Alaira’s kicking feet.

“You’re a little wildcat,” said the Kerisian with a harsh laugh. He slid from his saddle and dragged Alaira with him. She twisted to keep herself from falling flat on her back; she landed face down on the spongy turf. Lord Ewenn kept talking. “Did I frighten you so badly that you had to run away? Or were you running to try to get a look at what your foolish scouts had missed? Are you a spy, instead of a pretty messenger?” He had drawn a knife, and held it to Alaira’s throat. He knelt beside her with one hand twisted in her hair in a cruel grip, holding the knife steadily pressing against her skin.

“I’m … no spy,” she gasped. “Get away from me, you long-haired ape. I’m the Commander’s lady. Your Prince wouldn’t want me molested.”

“The Commander’s lady?” Ewenn chuckled. “I’ve heard of her. A whore from the streets, a dancing girl, with no virtue to be tarnished.” Alaira winced at the tug of his fingers in her hair. He shifted the knife to lie against her right cheek, and snarled, “Hold still, or I’ll give you another scar to match the one on your left side. The Prince’s spies have found out about your Commander Kyellan’s criminal past, and they found out about you in the process. It will all be brought out at his trial, when we take the city.”

Alaira felt a squirming against her back. The baby was awake. She could not let this oaf find Cian. “Whatever you may think of me, I’m a messenger of the Queen.” She felt the knife’s edge as if it burned her cheek. “I carry her staff. I carry a message for your Prince. The Goddess damn you, let me up. If you stop this now, I won’t say anything about it. I promise.”

She tried not to let her voice sound pleading, but she could not help it. She feared the knife even more than the threat of rape, and both reminded her sickeningly of a memory she had tried very hard to suppress. The weeks she had spent as the abused slave of spellbound wizards’ soldiers had left scars. The scars were not that old, and she did not think they would ever heal.

“So you claim to be a messenger.” Lord Ewenn hauled her to her knees by her hair. “All right. Show me the message you carry. If I find one, I’ll see that the Prince gets it.” He tugged at her pack, slitting the straps with his knife.

“Don’t touch that!” Alaira cried. “It … it’s not in there. I’ll show you where it is.” She moved quickly to loosen the lacings of her tunic. Better to distract him, amuse him, await her chance to get the knife away from him.

The Kerisian set the pack down on the grass. A wail split the foggy air like a cat’s night howl. The courier leaped back, startled, and Alaira lunged at his knife hand. The baby cried, a sound that might even carry to the city wall. The courier slashed at Alaira with the knife and cut her, a deep gash down the upper side of her right forearm. As she shrieked with the pain, he hit her a blow with his fist curled around the hilt of the knife. Her head seemed to explode, and she fell sideways to the ground.

Whimpering, Alaira tried to push herself up on her elbows. She was too dizzy to see clearly, but she could tell that Ewenn was crouched over the pack, ripping it open to lift the baby out. Cian cried out for comfort. The Kerisian held him gently, looking at the embroidered quilt that Alaira had wrapped around him in the nursery. Alaira tried to focus her eyes on the quilt, but she could not see very well. Goddess, her head hurt, and her arm was on fire as blood dripped from the long cut.

“The crest of the Ardavan house,” said the courier at last. “A baby wrapped in a silken quilt that is embroidered with a tiger … a very small baby, no more than a month old.” His cruel laughter had been stilled. “How in the nine hells did you get him to stay quiet for so long? Was he drugged? There’s no other he could be but the Queen’s son. You must have been sent to take him off to a safe place. Valahtia must believe she has no chance to hold out against us.”

He unwrapped a scarf from around his neck and tossed it to Alaira. She stared at him, not understanding.

“Bind up your arm with it,” said the nobleman impatiently. “And get on your horse.” He grinned. “The Prince could hardly expect a more satisfactory reply to his letter to the Queen.”

Briana came out of her trance at last. The white flame vanished. The heavy atmosphere of the room began to lighten. Kyellan leaned down to help her to her feet. Briana took his hands and let him pull her up. She was trembling, and for a moment she looked old. Old and exhausted.

“What did you learn?” Kyellan demanded, trying to be gentle and not succeeding. He led her to a couch, cleared a fallen drape off of it, and sat down with her. “Where did they take Alaira?”

Briana shook her head, not looking at him. She sat hunched over at the edge of the couch. “There are … traces of Power all around, but they are old traces. Some great magic was worked here within the past week. But since then, nothing.”

“But what about the Hidden Temple, and Alaira and the baby?”

“Nothing, I said. No one with Power has been in this room for days. If Gemon and her priestesses took them, they did it without using Power. Or they had shields so strong they still remain.”

“Then you couldn’t find them?” Kyellan said harshly.

“I don’t know where they are. I don’t know if they’re still alive.” Briana’s voice broke like a young boy’s. “I can give no comfort to Valahtia, nothing at all—she has lost her child, and I can’t do anything about it, any more than I could do anything to save Cian. Oh, Goddess, I am so tired.” She began to weep. Her tears were silent as they ran freely down her cheeks.

Kyellan could still hear the hysterical Queen through the closed door of the nursery and across the garden. He had been so sure that Briana could find Alaira for him, or at least that she could send him on the right trail to overtake her abductors. Now he was left as helpless as Tobas, with a whole city to search, and he was almost certain that those he sought were no longer in Cavernon.

He sat by Briana and watched her cry. His own eyes were dry. His anger and frustration were a different thing from this overwhelming grief. Why was Briana grieving so, he thought suddenly? What had she said—that she could not save Cian? That was the name of her child. Kyellan’s son. And she had had something to tell him in private.

“Gods,” he breathed, a prayer to forces he had never worshipped. “Briana, what has happened? Has something happened to Cian?”

After a moment, Briana spoke through her tears. “Do you remember when we were at Laenar, and you warned me that the Shape-Changer had found our child? And that he … that he was in danger in the place where I had hidden him? I thought he was safe enough. I thought he was well guarded.”

“Tell me.” He took her hands between his. He wondered what he felt for this child, this son of his that he had never known.

“The Barena wizards found the valley,” Briana said in a hoarse, soft voice. “They killed the S’tari priestesses who were guarding it. They killed Erlin. They stole Pima and the babies. Yalna and Tapeth went to the valley after they left Laenar, and they found out what had happened. Yalna came back to tell me. I went to Barelin to get Cian back.” A sob choked her, but she went on. “He wasn’t there. The Hidden Temple had attacked the ship he was on. They killed the wizards who had stolen him, and they burned the ship.”

“So the Hidden Temple has him.” Kyellan thought of what he knew of that fanatic group of priestesses. “He could be in Tramorr with them right now.”

Briana’s hands clutched him in a fierce grip. “No. No, Kyellan, they wouldn’t keep him alive. Not the Shape-Changer’s child. Not my child. He must be dead. And you … you never even saw him. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …”

Slowly, gently, Kyellan pulled Briana toward him, put his arms around her, and held her as she wept. She pressed her face against his shoulder. Her silent tears had become harsh, gasping sobs. Kyellan held her tightly, rocking her as he might a child.

A child, he thought. His son that he had never seen. The Shape-Changer’s son—but it had not been the Shape-Changer who had loved Briana, and it had not been the wizard who had lain with her during those few precious weeks after the war was over. It had been Kyellan. Wizard or not, the baby was his. He was Cian’s father.

He had accepted Briana’s insistence that she send the child away to be fostered. Wizard infants were killed at birth by the people of the Kingdoms, since the harsh reign of the Akesh wizards. Wizard children were hunted out and slain. The baby had to be somewhere safe, away from the madness. Kyellan had agreed to that.

He wished it had been different. Briana’s Goddess had told her to bear a child, and the Goddess had told Briana to go back to her Temple, leaving the child and its father. Kyellan thought that he should never have let Briana go. Was this what the Goddess had meant for Her servant—that Briana be broken with grief, blaming herself for leaving Cian and for being unable to save him? All part of the Goddess’s plan, Kyellan thought bitterly. He and the baby had been minor pieces in the game, trials for Briana to go through to forge the Goddess a humble servant.

It was too much, Kyellan thought, to almost kill a woman with pain and then to leave her nothing but the Temple to care for. He had no doubt that the Goddess would disapprove of Briana seeking comfort in his arms tonight. If he could, Kyellan meant to win Briana away from her cruel mistress. He promised that silently to himself and to her. He would cheat the Goddess, and give Briana the happiness she deserved.

For now, he mourned with her. His grief was more for Briana’s pain than it was for the murdered child. Truthfully, he grieved more for Erlin’s death than he grieved for Cian’s. The young soldier had been a loyal friend.

If Briana had to remain a priestess to defeat the Hidden Temple, Kyellan was willing to wait. But after that—after that, he swore to himself, he would steal her away from his rival, the Goddess. He sat on the couch in the dark ruined nursery with Briana sobbing out her grief in his arms. He felt her weight against him, her tears wetting his jerkin. He still feared for Alaira, but Briana needed him now. He loved her desperately. If that was disloyalty, he thought, then he was a traitor.

Chapter Sixteen

Alaira sat quietly on her horse as the courier led it through the torchlit enemy camp. Lord Ewenn carried the infant Shape-Changer on his own mount. Alaira was bruised and sore from her fall. Her bound forearm pulsed with pain as blood soaked the courier’s scarf. Her head still rang from the force of his blow. She did not have the strength to think of trying another escape. She had failed. The Shape-Changer’s child was in the enemy’s hands. Gemon and her followers would know who the baby was. They would probably kill him, and then Alaira feared that the Shape-Changer would act against Kyellan.

She wished she had dared tell Kyellan everything. She had not wanted to face his anger or his disappointment in her. It was bad enough to know how much he must hate her now. It would have been worse to have seen it in his eyes. Yet it might have prevented this from happening, and at least he would be warned against the wizard’s threats.

As Lord Ewenn led her horse, Alaira saw the fog reveal unexpected information about the Kerisian forces. The counterwall itself was no more than five feet high, and work on it had been abandoned at least a day before. The edges of the ditches before it had crumbled inward, no longer sharp as if freshly cut. The sounds of building that Kyellan’s patrols had heard coming from the south had not been work on the wall. Alaira saw vast siege towers laid out on the grass, ready to be erected on huge wagon bases and towed to the assault by teams of draft horses. There were massive iron-headed rams, moles to bore into the earth below walls and towers, catapults large enough to hurl boulders three feet in diameter. Werlinen was not preparing for a long siege. He was making ready for an all-out assault, and it would be soon.

The vast army camp seemed strangely tense and silent, as if waiting. Alaira saw men honing their weapons and going over their mail coats with careful fingers, seeking out broken links. There were no women or children around the fires tonight, no camp followers. Most of the troops were Kerisian, sturdy, brown-haired farmers, but there were also large camps of dark-skinned Parahnese troops and pale Ryasans. They did not look like mercenaries to Alaira. She suspected they might be reinforcements sent by their rulers to aid Werlinen’s cause. Under the cover of the fog, ships could have landed men unseen. The numbers of enemy soldiers might run ten or twenty thousand men higher than Kyellan and Tobas thought.

At last they reached the fishing village of Tramorr. The place had been transformed in a matter of a few days. The banners of noble Kerisian houses flew from rude huts of stone, and lanterns and candle trees inside the huts let Alaira see through their windows from horseback. The interiors were hung with damask and tapestries, and furnished with ornate pieces that must have displaced a ship’s-hold worth of weapons and army supplies.

The flag of the yellow rose clasped by the Goddess’s flame flew above a building that had been a fish warehouse, a long, low structure of weathered stone that perched on a bluff overlooking the dark little bay. Lord Ewenn called to a groom and dismounted, careful of the baby. He offered a hand to Alaira, but she disdained it and slid down from her horse.

The guards at the enemy headquarters bowed and let them pass without a challenge. The door nearly clipped a young man in the back as Ewenn thrust it inward. The youth turned and smiled at the courier. He wore a glittering array of jewelry, and Alaira wondered for a moment if he might be the Prince. But Lord Ewenn showed him no courtesy.

“Do you bring the Queen’s answer?” the young man said. “Was she angry at the letter? Who’s this? Ewenn, were you gone long enough to make a conquest in the Lower City? A wife and a babe.” He laughed. “I hope you bring some word from Valahtia that will amuse the Prince. He’s in a foul mood. The priestesses are here for dinner, and you know how they are.”

Alaira smelled the wine on the young man’s breath as they passed him. They entered a long room set with tables. It was brightly lit, filled with the scents of a spicy feast, with an underlying smell offish that brought Alaira another wave of dizziness. She looked down the hall. The priestesses were at the head table, standing out in their black robes, the only women present. Five old women, one of whom must be Ocasta, and Gemon with her pinched features and reddish hair. Their eyes swiveled from their conversation towards the aisle where Alaira walked with Lord Ewenn and the baby. Gemon leaned over to whisper something to one of the old women. The woman rose from her place and hobbled away toward the back of the building. She went out a door.

In the center of the priestesses sat a plump, pasty-faced man in a crown of colored jewels. Alaira supposed he was the Kerisian prince. She remembered the Queen describing Werlinen as a fool. He might or might not be that, but any sane woman would prefer Tobas to this crowned potato. He frowned at Ewenn as the courier made a half bow, still holding the baby. Alaira stood beside him, in no mood to curtsey.

“My lord, do you bring the Queen’s reaction to my letter?” Werlinen said. His voice was high-pitched, and would probably sound annoyed even when he was in a good mood.

“Your Royal Highness, look at what I bring you.” Ewenn held the child up with a predatory smile. Cian kicked his legs. “An answer to please you very much. The pretender Queen was so frightened by your words of warning that she feared for the safety of her child in her own palace. She sent him away in care of the Commander’s lady, Alaira. I had the good fortune to intercept them, and here they are.”

Alaira heard gasps of wonder and disbelief. A slow smile spread across Werlinen’s soft features. “The Queen’s son? The Prince Duarnan is my hostage?”

“Here is the proof, Your Highness,” said the courier, holding up the embroidered quilt. “And you will have further proof tomorrow, when the Queen surrenders her city to you to have her son returned safely.”

“Do you think she will?” Werlinen said delightedly. “Do you really think so, Lord Ewenn? I will demand more than that. Her hand in marriage as well. She won’t refuse me again.”

“If she does, then we will take the city!” cried a hard-looking general from his place at a lesser table. “And you will take the woman, my Prince!”

Men laughed and cheered. The Kerisian Prince turned to the priestesses. “What do you say to this? There will be no need now for you to use the fog, or perform rituals to give my men heart in the battle. It will all be over in the morning. We’ll ride into Cavernon City in triumph, as its King and its First Priestess.” One of the old women drew herself up a little at the words; that must be Ocasta, Alaira thought sourly. She was small and wizened, but her eyes were bright.

Gemon made an impatient gesture. “Briana has returned. There will still be plenty of work for us, I think. And if we do not have to aid you in your battle, we will have our own.” She rose from her seat, and the other priestesses followed suit. “I do not believe the Queen will give up so easily. Will she?” She looked directly at Alaira.

“She will not,” Alaira said. “Not even for her child. I think you will have your battle.”

“Surely not, surely not,” said Werlinen cheerfully. He motioned to Ewenn, who brought the baby closer for the Prince to look at him. “After all, a young mother, her firstborn son. I’ll threaten to kill him if she doesn’t surrender. Of course, I wouldn’t do it.” He glanced quickly at the priestesses.

“Goddess forbid,” Gemon said almost sarcastically. Alaira suspected the young priestess did not think much of the Prince. “Your Highness, we will care for the child tonight and bring him to you in the morning. Are you holding the Lady Alaira prisoner, or may we offer her our hospitality?”

“Prisoner?” Werlinen said, blinking at Alaira as if seeing her for the first time. “Of course not, she’s to be treated honorably. But we can’t allow her to go back to the city until it’s over. Go with the holy priestesses, Lady. You’ll be quite safe.”

Alaira would rather have been held prisoner in the most awful dungeon than to follow Gemon and her shadows out of the cheerful hall. Yet she was too exhausted and in too much pain from the cut on her arm; she could not protest even when she saw Gemon reach out and take the infant Shape-Changer in her arms. The thin, adolescent face wore a mask of polite concern, but Alaira had some Power herself. She could feel the hatred and fury in Gemon. The transformed wizard-child had escaped the city unharmed, without implicating Briana in the abduction of the true Prince. It was Alaira’s fault. She was numb with fear as she walked with the black-robed women out into the foggy night.

Briana had fallen asleep in Kyellan’s arms, drained by her tears and by the efforts of Power she had made in getting the ship through the blockade and seeking the Prince’s captors. Kyellan would have liked to sit there all night with her on the couch in the battered nursery, but he was afraid they would be discovered, and Briana compromised. So he left her sleeping there and went to find her S’tari companion.

Yalna had convinced the keyholder to give them a suite of rooms. One of Valahtia’s ladies-in-waiting moved in with another. Kyellan found Yalna there, and told her where she could find her mistress. Then he went to his own apartment to throw himself on his bed and wait for sleep.

It did not come. The palace grounds were quiet now as night wore on. Valahtia had stopped her wailing, but Kyellan doubted she slept either. Neither of them could do anything to bring back Duarnan or Alaira. They were surely in Tramorr by now. Kyellan planned a dozen rescue operations, from two men attempting to sneak through the Kerisian lines to an all-out attack on the enemy counterwall. Every plan was brought up short by the knowledge that Ocasta and the Hidden Temple were with Werlinen. Their magical wards would warn them if anyone tried to get through. An attempt would only endanger Alaira and the baby.

A knock sounded on his door an hour after he had retired. Swearing at the interruption of his sleeplessness, Kyellan got up and put on a dressing gown. He walked through his dark sitting-room and opened the door. Captain Epon greeted him there. The dark-skinned Syryni mercenary looked tired and worried, which was unsurprising.

“Come in,” Kyellan said. “What is it, Captain?” He went to light an oil lamp on a table. The room was suddenly filled with sharp-edged shadows.

Epon closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. I just got off duty. I didn’t want to send a messenger. I didn’t know how many people knew about Alaira’s mission. When they told us the Prince had been abducted, they thought Alaira had been stolen with him. Anyway, it seemed as if you wanted this a secret. So I waited until I could come in person.” He looked to Kyellan for approval.

Kyellan was bewildered. “What do you mean?” He sat down in the chair by the lamp table.

“I guess I should just tell you,” Epon said. “She hasn’t come back. The Kerisians must be holding her hostage. I didn’t like the looks of that courier they sent. Too sly and sharp-eyed. Maybe he figured out she was a spy as well as a messenger. Anyway, she must be in trouble. What should we do, Commander?”

Kyellan shook his head. He picked up a carven figurine from the table, a painted dancer Alaira had bought in the bazaar. “Epon, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s late. I’m half asleep. But even so, I think I’d know if I’d sent Alaira on some kind of mission to spy on the Kerisians.”

“You didn’t send her?” Epon sat down abruptly in the other chair, facing Kyellan, now equally confused.

“As far as I know, she was kidnapped along with the Prince.”

“But I saw her leave the city. She came to the southern gate in messenger livery, and said she was supposed to take the Queen’s reply and deliver it personally to Werlinen. The courier was to escort her through the enemy lines.” Epon looked miserable. “I didn’t ask to see her orders or the message she was supposed to be carrying. I knew she was your lady, Commander. I trusted her.”

Kyellan held the little figurine up to the light and gazed at its painted black eyes. “Of course. Why should you not trust her? Gods.” He had been lying there, sick with worry for Alaira, unable to sleep for it. “Was she alone?” Epon nodded. “Was she carrying anything?”

“Her staff, her messenger pack …” the mercenary said.

“The pack. She must have had the baby in the pack. Maybe she drugged him to make him sleep. She could have learned some herblore at Akesh. Damn. The Goddess damn her!” Kyellan hurled the painted dancer into the cold stone hearth. He stood up and strode to the terrace doors, opened them, and walked out onto the balcony. He could not see far in the cold, foggy night. The village of Tramorr was miles to the south.

“Do you think she did it?” Epon asked warily, coming out to join him. “Do you think she took the Prince?”

It explained a lot. Why there had been no sounds of a struggle for Valahtia to hear from the nursery, why Alaira had sent Ciffra to go visit her son in the hospital, why no one had seen any strangers entering or leaving the palace. But why? Why in the nine hells would Alaira do it? A reason suggested itself to Kyellan, and he felt it like a blow. Alaira had stolen the Prince after she had found out that Briana had come back. After she had seen Kyellan’s reaction to the news. Maybe she had decided it was no longer worth it to have only part of his love.

“Do you think she was a spy?” Epon persisted. “She could have given Werlinen a lot of information while she was your lover. The battle at Shalkir—could she have gotten word to Keris that you had found out Werlinen’s plans?”

Kyellan shook his head. “No. I think she did this on a moment’s decision, when she thought of how much ransom money a Queen’s son might bring. I’m sure Werlinen will pay her well. But I don’t think he has been paying her anything up until tonight.” Could she have been a spy? Could he have been that badly fooled? He was almost certain that was not true. But then, he would have sworn Alaira would never have done what she had done tonight. He would have killed any man who might have suggested such a thing. That she would betray him …

“Will the Queen think you were involved, Commander?” Epon leaned out over the railing, not looking at Kyellan. “Alaira was your lady. You’re the one who got her into the Queen’s service. Will Valahtia believe Alaira acted without your knowledge?”

“I’ll go to her and tell her myself,” Kyellan said, his voice bleak. “She won’t be pleased to hear it. Maybe she will blame me. I can probably convince her that I didn’t have anything to do with it. I’m as angry about it as the Queen will be. How could Alaira do this? How could she do this to Valahtia, and to me?” If he could catch her, he thought, he might be capable of killing her himself. This was how she repayed his love, his trust.

Epon put a hand lightly on his shoulder, then withdrew it. “I’m sorry, sir. Send for me if you need help to explain this to the Queen. I can tell her you didn’t know about it. Not before I told you what I’d seen at the southern gate.”

“If I need you,” Kyellan said quietly. “Thank you, Captain. Go on. Get some sleep, if you can. If he has the Prince, Werlinen may move tomorrow. You may not have another chance to rest for a while.”

The young officer saluted him and withdrew. Kyellan heard the door of his apartment open and close. After a moment, he went inside and shut the terrace doors. He pulled clean clothes from a chest and began to dress. He would go to Tobas first, he thought, and then together they could explain it to the Queen. None of them would get any sleep tonight.

The black-clad priestesses of the Hidden Temple walked quickly through the narrow dirt streets of Tramorr. Alaira struggled to keep up with them, trapped in their midst, surrounded by the soft rustling of woolen robes and the shuffle of sandaled feet. They smelled faintly of incense, and like all the priestesses she had known, their habitual expressions were so still and composed that she could not tell what they were thinking. But she could guess. At their head, Gemon carried the baby. Cian was quiet again, as if he sensed the danger he was in. Probably he did.

They were walking away from the coast, toward the east. Alaira hoped they did not have far to go. She was beginning to feel really ill. Her vision blurred and clouded at intervals, and her head felt swollen and heavy. The wound in her arm needed stitching. The binding around it only soaked up the blood. The priestesses headed around the edge of the army camp, crossing low stone fences and muddy fields in the darkness. At last, they came to a farmer’s cottage where a lantern burned beside a bolted door. Light filtered out through a narrow slit of a window that was covered with thin paper.

Gemon and one of the old priestesses lifted the bolt from its socket and pushed it back. They opened the door, and Alaira and the others followed them inside. Sleeping mats were rolled up against one wall. A fire was burning in a central pit, and a young woman sat cross-legged beside it, stirring soup in a kettle. Two dark-haired babies were sleeping in a large basket near the woman’s side. One was the twin of the baby Gemon carried. The other was older, maybe three or four months old if Alaira was any judge. She recognized the woman now. She was a novice priestess who had been with Briana and Kyellan during the war. Alaira had never known what had become of Pima.

Pima was thinner than Alaira remembered, and the face that turned upward toward them was full of grief and old anger. Then Pima’s eyes widened like a child’s, and she stared at the infant in Gemon’s arms. “Is that …”

“The Shape-Changer brat,” Gemon said irritably as one of her priestesses shut the door. The cottage was dim and smoky. Alaira backed up to a wall and sat down against it, nearly fainting.

“Give him to me!” Pima got to her feet in a quick movement, and took the baby in her arms. “Oh, Cian … oh, Goddess, I thought they’d kill you.” The baby seemed to recognize her. He reached up his two small arms toward her face and made a happy noise.

“What are we going to do with him?” asked the woman who must be Ocasta. The long walk had been hard on her. She lowered herself wearily to the floor, breathing hard as she sat.

“Werlinen requires the Prince Duarnan,” Gemon said briskly. She looked down at the smaller baby in the basket. “So we’ll give him the real Prince to use as his hostage. There’s no more need for the deception. Va’shindi’s plan failed to work against Briana. We must think of another way.”

“It was never Va’shindi,” Alaira said scornfully. It did not matter now, and she found she could speak of whatever she wanted. “You’re all fools. You’ve been following the advice of the Shape-Changer. He spoke to you from the spirit road. And he never really wanted Briana out of the way. He wanted his son to be the heir to the throne.”

“Of course it was Va’shindi,” Gemon said coldly. “Do you think I would not know the Goddess’s Messenger?”

“I think you were easily tricked,” Alaira said. The other old women looked at one another, troubled. “The Shape-Changer knew you’d be eager to believe that the Messenger supported your schemes. So that’s how he appeared to you.” She no longer cared what they did to her. She felt too wretched to care about anything.

“I think she’s telling the truth,” Pima said, looking down at the disguised baby in her arms. “Va’shindi would never plot against Briana or her son. Briana has the Goddess’s favor.”

“The Shape-Changer,” Gemon whispered. “That cannot be.”

“The worst servant of the Dark,” Ocasta said fiercely. “Our greatest enemy, besides Briana. We must destroy him, and his unnatural child.”

Pima grew pale and held the baby close. Gemon was silent for a long time, as the soup over the fire bubbled untended and a few splatters crackled in the flames. At last the young leader of the Hidden Temple nodded and spoke. “Ocasta is right. I see a way to do it, I think. We will use the child to bring Briana to us, and this woman to bring the soldier Kyellan.” She glanced at Alaira. “The Power of the Goddess’s Seat is enough to defeat them. No doubt when we have almost killed the soldier, the Shape-Changer will enter him again, as he did before. We will battle with him again, and this time we will win.”

“Kyellan won’t come for my sake,” Alaira said. “Not after what I’ve done.”

“Do you think he will not?” Gemon said. “We will see. We’ll send the message to them in the morning with Werlinen and the Prince. You will be our messenger.” She turned to Pima. “You may take your daughter and the message into the city. We will have no further need of you here.”

“Don’t make me leave him,” Pima said, looking up from Cian’s face in despair.

“You cannot save him,” Ocasta said almost gently. “And if you stay you will be caught up in the battle, and you will probably die along with him. Think of your own child, and what is best for her. Take her to safety.”

“I cannot give you the choice,” Gemon said. “I am sorry, Pima. Now, give me the wizard. I need to remove his semblance of the Prince, and the shielding that went with it, so Briana may believe you when you say that her son is alive. No, I mean him no harm now. Give him to me.”

At last Pima obeyed her. She put Cian into Gemon’s arms. Gemon knelt down beside the basket to look at the infant Prince. Pima hovered over her anxiously.

Gemon glanced back at her in irritation. “Go and tend Alaira’s wound, if you want to do something useful. I don’t want her dying of shock or loss of blood.” She attempted a smile in Alaira’s direction. “Truly, I have nothing against you. You have only been a tool of the Shape-Changer. I will keep you as a hostage for a little while, but you need not fear that you are in danger here.”

Ocasta nodded soberly. “We are priestesses of the Goddess, after all, and sworn to peace.”

Alaira laughed harshly. “You can say that, while you are planning to kill Briana and Kyellan and the Shape-Changer and his son. You are all mad.” The effort of speaking was too much; she closed her eyes against the dizziness and nausea.

“We do the Goddess’s work,” Ocasta said in her most pious voice. “And they are the enemies of the Goddess. You cannot understand, young woman.”

Alaira thought that she understood very well. She sat with her eyes shut and listened to the sounds of movement around the cottage. She understood. Briana was the first true First Priestess, and so Ocasta had to kill her to take that position. The Shape-Changer and his baby were wizards, which made them evil in Gemon’s eyes. Kyellan was a part of the Shape-Changer, in a sense, and he was Briana’s lover and the father of the wizard child. Rithia had probably gotten word to Gemon that Kyellan had desecrated the Temple and abducted her. Those were reasons enough for the Hidden Temple to count him an enemy of the Goddess.

Surely Gemon and her people were not agents of the Goddess’s will. Surely the Goddess was not so inflexible and frightening. Alaira did not know. She drifted into an aching half-sleep, as Pima’s deft hands began to work on cleaning and stitching her wound. She could not think of anything to do to prevent Gemon’s scheme from working. She was too weary to do anything, anyway. She could only wait for the morning to come, and see if she was bait enough to call Kyellan into the trap.

Kyellan had searched for Tobas throughout the fogbound city in the hours before dawn. The Earl had left no word where he had gone in search of his missing son, and had sent no messengers to the palace with any news. Finally, as dawn was greying the fog on the eastern side of the city, Kyellan found his old friend in the gate tower of the northern wall. The Parahnese captain, Marat, was with him. Kyellan had had no sleep. He was weary, but felt a nervous energy keeping him alert. He wondered how Tobas would react to his news of Alaira.

The first floor office of the gate tower was a small, close room of new stone, part of the rebuilding of the walls. Marat rose from his chair to salute as Kyellan walked in, and Tobas nodded a greeting from where he sat before a table.

“I’ve only just sent a messenger,” Tobas said. “He can’t have reached you by now.”

“He wouldn’t have found me at the palace, my lord. I’ve been looking for you.”

“My lord, is it?” Tobas said. “It must be something serious. But I doubt that it can match my news. On the chance that whoever stole Duarnan and Alaira took them across the river to the Dhalen camp, I sent spies that way. They came back more quickly than I had expected. They couldn’t have had time to sneak around listening to sentries’ talk. I asked them why they were back so soon.” At this, Tobas scowled at Marat. “The camp was deserted. Five thousand enemy soldiers, vanished in the fog. They must have been evacuated by ship. And no one on the northern wall noticed anything.”

“The fog was thick,” Marat said, with the air of a man repeating something for the tenth time.

“And all your men were deaf,” Tobas shot back. “It’s done, I know. The question is, where did they go? Across the river and around to the eastern side? I don’t think that even the enemy would want to face that haunted fog. Down the coast by ship to the camp at Tramorr? Probably. Unless they stayed on the ships to man them for an assault on the harbor. Wherever they are, I think they’ll attack today. We have to get all the divisions out of barracks and on alert, and put the city conscripts on the walls, and we won’t have much time.” Tobas’s handsome face was taut and his eyes were reddened. “Tell me, Kyellan, did Briana find out anything with her magic? Did she find out who took my son?”

“And your lady Alaira?” Marat added in concern.

“Briana could only tell that no Power was used in the kidnapping.” Kyellan found it difficult to speak with Tobas s eyes fastened on him so intently. “But Captain Epon and I have learned who stole the Prince, and the direction they took.”

“What?” Tobas stood up quickly, almost knocking over his chair. “Why wasn’t I told? No, never mind, I couldn’t be found. Go on.”

“Oh, hell,” Kyellan said helplessly. He looked down at the stone floor of the office, at Marat’s dark face, back to Tobas at last. “It was Alaira. She took him. Epon passed her through the southern gate with the enemy courier. She said she was being sent as a messenger to Werlinen’s camp. But she must have had the Prince with her.”

“Alaira?” Tobas repeated in disbelief. “Your Alaira? You’re telling me that Alaira took my son to sell him to Werlinen?”

Kyellan nodded miserably. “Tobas, I …”

“Damn you!” The Queen’s consort took a step forward, swung, and hit Kyellan hard across the jaw. Kyellan staggered three steps to the side as his head rocked with the blow. Tobas shouted, “Traitor! I trusted you … I trusted her … I thought you were loyal. She’ll die for this, I promise you that. When we catch her she’ll die for it. I should have you arrested as an accomplice …”

Kyellan stood unsteadily a few paces from the furious younger man. He blinked to try to clear the sparks from his eyes. There was a fierce pain in his jaw where at least one tooth had been knocked loose. He could see Marat on his feet, with a sword half drawn, ready to prevent this from becoming a duel.

Tobas’s breath sounded fast and hard in the quiet room. After a few heartbeats he spoke again. “I suppose you’re going to say that you had nothing to do with it. You didn’t know she was going to do it.”

“I didn’t know,” Kyellan said, his speech slightly slurred. He felt his jaw gingerly. “You have to believe me.”

“I do,” Tobas said. “I believe you. I can’t help it. It would be too hard to think that you’d betray me. Damn.” He rubbed sore knuckles. “I’m sorry I hit you. Have you told Valahtia yet?”

Kyellan shook his head. “I didn’t want to wake her, and I wanted to talk to you first.”

“I don’t want to tell her,” Tobas said. “Not yet. She might react the same way I did. She might blame you, and if she ordered you arrested I’d have to do it. But we both need you today, if the city has to defend itself against a real attack.” He picked up a scroll from the table and handed it to Kyellan. It was a list of squadron sergeants. “Take a look at this. We need to figure out assignments for everyone we have. And I think we should move all our operations to the southern wall. That’s where they’ll be coming at us. Agreed?”

Kyellan nodded. “Unless they attack the harbor. I’ll want you there, ready to command the fleet. But we’ll go to the southern wall together first.” Marat was still standing with a hand on his sword hilt, unwilling to believe that the violence was over. Kyellan looked over at him. “Captain, pull all your men off the northern wall and out of barracks. Send city recruits to man the wall here. I doubt they’ll see any action. We need Second Division with us.” The Parahnese mercenary bowed and left the room quickly.

Kyellan’s mouth was bleeding. He went to find water to wash it with and a rag to press against the loose tooth. Then he and Tobas mounted their horses and began to ride toward the southern wall of the city to face the morning.

Chapter Seventeen

Briana woke at dawn when Yalna returned to their borrowed suite. The S’tari woman had been busy already; she had wakened seamstresses and the Queen’s jeweler, and she brought Briana a new black priestess’s robe with silver edging, and a moon-crescent headdress that had been hammered out of one of Valahtia’s many unofficial crowns. Yalna lay the improvised First Priestess regalia at the foot of Briana’s bed, smiled, and left to find them both some breakfast.

Briana sat up and stretched her arms, seeing the hint of grey light through the flowered curtains of the bedroom window. She felt surprisingly rested. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, but the knot of mourning within her had begun to loosen a little since she had allowed herself to express her feelings thus. The memory of Kyellan’s touch warmed her, and brought a faint smile to her lips. She did not feel guilty for letting him comfort her. Rithia would be horrified if she knew Briana had spent hours alone with a man. But Rithia would not know, and should not be able to find out.

Sliding out of the soft bed, Briana padded out across the carpet into the sitting room of the ornate suite. There was a new fire in the hearth that warmed the damp air. The fog still hovered over the city. Briana sat down before an ornamented mirror and began to braid and coil her hair. Her Power felt strong, as it had since she had faced the wizards of Barena. She performed her morning ritual, calling up the Goddess’s flame to dance in the mirror. She stared into its white light.

“Wiolai, Cianya, Rahshaiya,” she whispered, “help me convince them. Forgive me for my anger. How can I judge Your reasons for what You do? I should be grateful that You have given me this Power. I am the true First Priestess. I know it, Goddess. Help me break through their resistance. I need to take my rightful place now to stand against the Hidden Temple. Give me the strength.”

Briana’s face seemed to blur in the flame-lit mirror, and for a moment she saw the beautiful, ageless features of the Goddess’s messenger Va’shindi, wreathed in hair as black as fertile earth. The immortal spirit seemed about to speak. But then a smoky darkness passed before her image, and she was gone. Briana could only see her own intent, young face, with sea-green eyes wide and staring and newly braided auburn hair. She sighed and let the white flame die out.

She would take it as an encouraging sign, she decided. She got up, still half in trance, and went to put on the black robe and the silver fillet. She let Power cloak her with the heavy wool. She meant to add an aura of strength and dignity to her presence. Whether that would impress the city priestesses, she did not know.

The sitting room door opened again, and Yalna came inside bearing a tray of pastries and a kettle of hot tea, with plates and cups. “It was all I could find,” she said cheerfully. “It will have to do until you can get something more substantial. I imagine they’ll have eggs and porridge at the Temple.” She paused and set the tray down slowly, staring at Briana as if seeing her for the first time.

“How do I look?” Briana said, straightening up from tying on her sandals.

Yalna sat down at the table beside the food and laughed softly. “Like a Queen. Or a sorceress. Your eyes are so fierce. You’ll frighten them, I think. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“I can’t let them ignore me this time.” Briana thought of the way a wizard prepared for a spell. He would use his trance to build up his confidence to an arrogant level, allowing no self-doubt to interfere. Briana could not go that far. She knew that Rithia’s stubborn hatred was still a formidable opponent. But she felt strong and determined, and she thought that surely the Temple priestesses would finally relent when they understood the threat Gemon represented.

“Good luck,” Yalna said, watching Briana eat one pastry and wash it down with tea, burning her lips. “She-Who-Guides go with you. And I wish you would let me come along.”

Briana reached out and hugged Yalna tightly. “It will feel strange not to have you beside me. But I have to do this alone. I’ll send word from the Temple as soon as it’s over.”

Riding sidesaddle on a tall, handsome bay mare, Briana left the Tiranon under a clouded sky as the city criers called out the hour past dawn. The fog was lifting a little, but the threat of it still hung overhead like a cold, damp canopy. Briana rode down the wide, steep way through the royal parklands, looking straight ahead, but aware of the awe-stricken people who saw her pass. There were no mutterings, no whispered questions. No one seemed to wonder who she was. They just watched her, as if spellbound. Briana hoped her glamour would affect the priestesses as well. She hated the need for it. Why would they not simply accept her? It made no sense.

There were guardsmen stationed throughout the city streets, and squadrons of mounted soldiers and infantry passed at intervals, headed toward the southern wall. Briana wondered if they were still searching for the abducted Prince and for Alaira. She knew Valahtia’s pain, and she could guess at Kyellan’s, though he might not admit it. However, she could not allow her thoughts to dwell on anything but her own task. When all the Temple was united under her leadership, surely it would be easy to find the kidnapped pair with the Goddess’s Power.

The road went straight to the Temple square, which was near the center of Caveraon City. Five newly-built structures of pale stone, surrounded by a wall that kept out wordly life. There were guards at the gates. Briana was surprised. The last time she had been here, the gates had been watched by a few novices from the inside, but they were open for people who wanted to go into the public Temple hall to pray or meditate. The guards came to attention as Briana halted her horse before them. The corporal in charge, a scarred, dark man, stepped out and bowed.

“First Priestess,” he greeted her. “We were told by the women in there not to let you in. But we also have orders from Commander Kyellan to pass you through without delay.” He grinned up at her, met her eyes, and stared. After a moment, he blinked and went on in an altered voice. “So … so, of course, we’ll open the gates for you. But I have to warn you, they don’t want you in there.”

Briana nodded. She had expected as much, if Rithia had found out she was back. Well, she had known it would not be easy. “Open the gate,” she said loudly, hoping to be heard by the novices who would be on duty behind the wall.

The soldiers hurried to obey her as she dismounted and left her horse in their charge. The gates thrust inward onto the wide path of cobblestones that led to the public hall. Beyond that domed building was the inner compound. The Second Rank priestesses would be almost ready for bed, after their night rituals. The rest of the Order would have been awake for perhaps an hour. Briana had chosen her time carefully, to deal with them all at once.

Five young girls in white novice robes appeared from the shadows near the Temple. They approached Briana cautiously as the gates were closed behind her. One girl nudged another, who wore a messenger’s blue armband. The novice turned and fled with her news.

The faces of the girls were familiar, but Erissa’s was the only name Briana knew. Now the dancer stepped forward and spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Be careful, Priestess. They’re waiting for you. Rithia spoke to us all and told us you were coming. They won’t listen to whatever you have to say.”

“The Priestess Rithia commands that you are not to go past the public area,” an older girl said, shrill and nervous.

“But Rithia has no authority over me,” Briana said coolly. “I am First Priestess.”

“She says that you are no longer a part of the Order at all,” said the girl as Briana walked past her. “She says that the First Priestess Ocasta threw you out. Because you were a heretic.” Briana could sense that the girl was shielded. They all were. Her glamour could have little effect. Rithia must have expected something like it, or perhaps she had thought that Briana would attack the Temple with Power.

“Goddess, be with me,” Briana murmured. She held her back straight and walked with her head held high. Erissa was close behind her, worried, obviously sympathetic. Kyellan had told Briana that the novice had seen the enemy fogbank at firsthand. Surely there were others who realized the danger. The other three novices who followed Briana were sullen and fearful, thinking her an intruder, an enemy.

The Temple grounds hummed beneath Briana’s feet, as peaceful and pleasant as they had always been. The serene Power of the underground altar permeated the compound, and Briana did not understand how the thing she sensed ahead of her could be. It was a massed, dark bank of fear and disapproval, all the Temple priestesses together, making a sour contrast to the joy that should fill this place. How could anyone think to serve the Goddess with such bitterness in their hearts? It would be a great service to Cianya to change this Temple back into a place of worship and praise.

In the shadows at the side of the Temple hall, across the garden paths and past the Work House, Briana felt the opposition ahead of her increase as they sensed her presence. At last she stepped into the inner compound yard, before the tall doors of the Great House.

Rithia stood in the forefront of an assembly of priestesses and novices, from women of eighty years old to girls of seven. The tall, thin Mistress of Ritual, self-appointed leader in the absence of Ocasta, faced Briana with a fierce anger that was near madness. Briana let her gaze move slowly across the gathered faces, seeing eyes flinch away from her, finding no allies. There was nothing she could interpret as sympathy or respect; only fear, hatred, outrage that she would dare come to this holy place.

“The Goddess must be weeping with shame.” Briana matched their fear with scorn. “The greatest Temple in the Kingdoms, and you cower away before the enemy, believing that the Hidden Temple cannot be opposed. I tell you that it must be stopped. You are the only ones who can do it. If they are not stopped, Gemon and her followers will destroy everything that is good in our Order.” She softened her voice, appealing to their reason. “Surely you all know this to be true. What have you seen from the Hidden Temple? Peaceful priestesses in service to the Goddess? No. All they know is violence and destruction. What demon has bound you in fear? Together we are strong enough to face this enemy and defeat them. The Goddess has chosen me to lead you. Will you not follow Her bidding?”

Rithia forestalled any chance for the women to consider Briana’s words. “You dare to return here! You dare to use Power against us. We are well shielded against your trickery, Briana. You have no place here. The First Priestess Ocasta banished you from the Order, and with good reason. Since that time we have learned more of your crimes against the Goddess. Go now, before we make those crimes public knowledge.”

“She brought a wizard into the city!” a woman shouted from the crowd. Voices were raised throughout the assembly, repeating the old charge that she was allied with the wizards, that she had summoned Rahshaiya into the world again, that she had tried to use wizards’ Power against the Temple.

Briana stood where she was as Rithia walked toward her, and the three novices behind her closed in. Erissa looked frightened. Would they throw her out bodily, she wondered? Goddess, what was happening? “You have to listen to me,” she began, but her voice was lost as Rithia began a litany of half-chanted accusations. Priestesses quieted to listen to the tirade.

“Heretic!” Rithia said. “Pretender! You claimed the blessing of the old First Priestess with no one to witness your claim, and all know that you lied. You refused to accept the authority of the First Priestess Ocasta, your consecrated superior. You drove her from the city.”

“I did none of those things,” Briana said angrily. “I am the successor to the old First Priestess. Can you deny the truth?”

“You summoned Rahshaiya and used her Power to kill in battle. You gave the son of the usurper Queen Valahtia a false blessing to rule Caerlin. You befriended wizards and used their magic. You were a vowed priestess, but you have shattered every vow, humility, obedience, and chastity.” Rithia’s face was inches from Briana’s now. “We know the truth. Our leader Ocasta has sent us word of it. You allowed a man to come into the Temple, the same murdering soldier who invaded the holy grounds yesterday to abduct me. But before that time, you let him take your virtue.”

There were shrieks of rage at this announcement. Briana was stunned. Gemon must have told Ocasta what she had learned through the Power of the Goddess’s Seat. They knew about Kyellan. They knew.

“Do you deny it?” Rithia demanded. “Do you deny that you betrayed your vows to lie with this man? You gave yourself to him, and you hid the shameful result under the guise of a time of seclusion. You bore a child. And yet you still claim to be a priestess of the Goddess!”

Women surrounded Briana now, some screaming at her, some reaching out in silence, pressing inward. She felt hands clutching at her robe. She kept a rein on her Power, though she wanted to use it to strike out at them. That would be the end of any chance to be First Priestess. But this—was this not the end of her hopes? She could not explain it to them. She was sworn to secrecy by a vow she would not betray. She could reveal it only to her successor. It had been the will of the Goddess. Everything she had done …

“Do you deny it?” Rithia cried again. Briana was trapped. Hands held her at her shoulders and her elbows. The tall, fierce woman in front of her called out for silence, and for everyone to look at the evidence she would show. Then, Rithia crouched and took hold of Briana’s new black robe. With a swift movement, she lifted the edge of the robe up over Briana’s stomach,. exposing the marks of childbirth.

Shamed and furious, Briana kicked out at the older woman. Her foot caught Rithia below the ribs and doubled her over. The robe fell back around her ankles, useless finery with its silver edging that only a First Priestess could wear. Women crowded in to strike out at her, shouting their words of blame and hatred, saying that she was unclean, that she defiled the ground on which she stood. They forgot their vows of nonviolence. Briana tried to crouch, to cover her face with her arms, as they hit at her with clenched fists and open hands. Nails scratched her cheek.

Goddess, why? Briana scarcely felt the blows. Her frustrated Power turned back inside her to whirl like a storm in her mind, seeking release. It was finished. All her efforts were mocked into nothing. The Goddess had deserted her—yet still Briana could not quite believe that. She wanted to strike out at herself for being such a fool. She had been so certain that she knew what the Goddess wanted of her. Perhaps she had been wrong. Then what was it, if not to lead the Temple against the fanatics Gemon commanded?

“Tell me,” Briana moaned, twisting and forcing her way through the hail of words and fists. “Just tell me what you want…”

“Priestess,” said a fierce young voice at her side, “why don’t you fight back? Don’t you see that they’re cowards, they’ll let you pass if you fight them …” Erissa took her own advice, kicking and slamming into women in Briana’s path with wild leaps and turns that Briana recognized as movements of the Third Cycle dance of penance. Women cried out and fell back in the face of real danger.

Briana followed the twelve-year-old through the crowded yard, still overwhelmed by the hatred, the scorn that battered at her, far worse than the physical blows. Rithia’s harsh crow’s-voice called down a curse on Erissa as the two of them reached the garden path.

“You can’t help me,” Briana said wildly, wondering if ‘ she should run. “They’ll never let you come back. You can’t.”

Erissa took her arm in a firm grip and tugged her along. The priestesses did not follow, seeming content to have driven them away. The angry shouts rang out after them, marring the peaceful atmosphere of the holy ground so much that Briana wondered if it could ever recover its true Power. Rithia had accomplished what she had wanted. She had made certain that Briana would never try to come back to the Temple. Neither the Cavernon City Order nor any other would ever accept her, now that all knew she had taken a lover and borne his child.

“I don’t want to come back,” Briana whispered. Not to a place where people cared more about such a trivial thing than they did about a danger that threatened them all.

Erissa called out to the guardsmen to open the gates. She looked at Briana miserably, and reached up to touch a bruise on the priestess’s cheek. “You could have killed them all,” she said, with a slightly inflated view of Briana’s Power. “But you wouldn’t do it. They’re the heretics, not you. The Goddess they worship is someone else, someone wrong. Don’t make me go back to them.”

Briana shook her head, stumbling a little as the two of them walked out of the compound. The guards tried hard not to stare at them, but could not help it. Briana could not meet their eyes. She did not know where to go now. She could not bear the thought of going back to the palace, of explaining to Yalna what had happened, of facing Kyellan with her failure. She turned toward the southern side of the square. Erissa looked back once, and followed her.

Tobas’s commands had gone out quickly from the northern wall. The narrow road that ran along the inside of the wall near the southern gate was already thronged with soldiers, squadrons from all five city divisions awaiting orders. There was an expectant stillness among them, a tense silence of men and horses. Kyellan rode with Tobas to the gate towers, where they both dismounted. Palace guardsmen hurried forward to take their horses. A squadron of soldiers in the Queen’s livery stood at the base of the stairway that led to the ramparts. One man held the rein of a richly caparisoned horse, a handsome black mare with rubies set into her red leather trappings. The sidesaddle was empty.

The Queen was here, then. Kyellan could see the Ardavan house banner flying from a pinnacle of the right-hand gate tower, lazily waving in the slight breeze that was lifting the fog. Valahtia must have come in all her glory. When she was not making a state appearance, the Queen usually rode astride.

Tobas charged a lieutenant of Second Division to relay the deployment orders that he and Kyellan had decided on during their ride through the city. The remnants of First Division were to join the city recruits on the southern wall, scattered in with Harnal’s squadrons as a leavening of experienced men. Second and Fourth Divisions would be the first troops to make the sortie if the enemy attacked. Third Division would be held as an immediate reserve, while Fifth would go to the harbor to man ships and the sea wall in case of a naval attack.

Kyellan felt his lack of sleep as a heaviness in his stomach and a stiffness in his muscles; he banished it to the back of his mind, where he would not think about it. He could ignore it as he was ignoring the ache in his jaw. He would be lucky to get through the day in such good shape, he told himself. His leg wound was healing, but it nagged at him as he climbed the rampart stairs behind Tobas.

At the southern gate, the wall of Cavernon City was forty feet high and fifteen feet thick. The gate towers were stronger still, and a heavily fortified barbican jutted out before the gate to guard the approach. At intervals along the wall to the east and west there were thicker sections, where the great catapults and other engines were mounted. Teams of Senomar’s men attended each catapult and ballista, along with strong recruits to help sling the stones and the clustered javelins into position. Kyellan was surprised to see the men fully deployed on the walls, standing grimly at their posts.

The Queen stood on the battlement in the shadow of the left-hand gate tower, talking with Captain Harnal and with Senomar. Kyellan and Tobas hurried through the ranks of men toward her. Their first glimpse of the field below the walls was through a narrow archer’s port that was unmanned. A dark stain was upon the horizon, rising and falling with the hills and valleys of the fertile farmland to the south of the city. The Kerisian army was spread out for miles in each direction, a solid, unmoving mass. The sunlight through the clearing fog was not enough to pick out details of their deployment at this distance, but Kyellan could see the shafts of siege towers like headless trees rising from dark meadows.

They had not been idle behind their counterwall. And surely their numbers were too great, even allowing for the men who had been evacuated from the Dhalen Meadows. Even with city recruits, palace guardsmen, and wall guards thrown into the reckoning, Kyellan’s army could not match the enemy. He told himself that the city fortifications were enough to even the balance.

Valahtia turned, and looked past her consort to Kyellan. Her gaze was icy beneath the high jeweled crown that had been her father’s, the crown she usually refused to wear. It sat, well secured with pins, atop a cushion of piled-up black hair. She was dressed in full regalia; heavy, rich robes that caught the light with embroidered gems. Careful makeup had erased traces of tears on her beautiful face.

She spoke quietly, in a voice that burned. “I have had a message from Werlinen. Tell me, is it true that Alaira stole my child? Answer me honestly. Is it true, or is it another wild accusation like those he made against you?”

A cold wind blew across the battlements. Kyellan could see a darkness gathering at the eastern edge of the enemy forces; not more soldiers, but the fogbank of the Hidden Temple being pulled in to join the battle. He shivered, and tried to meet the Queen’s cold gaze, feeling the ache in his jaw and steeling himself against more of the same.

“It is true, Your Majesty. Alaira took the Prince. She must have wanted the money Werlinen would pay for such a hostage.”

Valahtia nodded, and turned away to look out over the ramparts. Tobas spoke quickly. “Kyellan had nothing to do with it, my Queen. He didn’t know Alaira was going to do it. You can’t blame him.”

Valahtia made an impatient gesture. “It does not matter. Werlinen will get little use from his hostage. And I will give Kyellan a chance tp prove his loyalty.” She folded her arms, still looking out at the distant enemy forces. “Werlinen demanded that I surrender the city and accept him in marriage. I sent back a message that I wanted a meeting with him first, to see for myself that the baby he has is my son, and that he’s all right. I suggested terms for the meeting. We’ll each be escorted by two officers, who will be unarmed. We’ll ride out to a point three-quarters of a mile from the wall, halfway between the city and his troops. There, I’ll discuss his offer with him.”

“What good will that do?” Tobas said, shaking his head. “If Werlinen will ever accept the meeting.”

Kyellan saw anger flash in the Queen’s eyes behind her cool facade. “He’ll agree to it,” she said. “He considers himself a man of honor. He won’t be expecting treachery. I want three fast horses. Commander Kyellan, you’re coming with me. And another man who can use a knife.”

“Captain Epon,” Kyellan suggested, seeing the young Syryni officer arriving with his troops below the wall. “And our targets …”

“Whoever gets in our way,” the Queen said. “I want my son back, and I am not worried about honor today. We are at war.”

Tobas took her arm urgently. “Valahtia, it’s too dangerous. You can’t go yourself. I’ll do it.”

“Werlinen won’t suspect me,” she said, “but he would be on his guard with you. I need you here on the wall, ready to send the army out the moment we need it. Commander, if you and Captain Epon remove your sword belts and your armor, I believe the sashes in your uniforms would be good places to hide knives.”

Kyellan had not seen Valahtia like this for a long time. It reminded him that she shared the same blood with her dead brother Arel. Their father had not been a gentle man. The gambit she had set into motion was a dangerous one. The officers who would come with Werlinen would doubtless have hidden weapons. Their Prince might trust to the Queen’s honor, but his soldiers would not be so innocent.

It was desperate, but it could work. Kyellan was glad to have the chance to do something to repair the damage Alaira had caused. He began to unbuckle his chain mail with the help of the Queen, as Tobas relayed new orders to be sent to the captains of Second and Fourth Divisions, and a messenger ran for Captain Epon.

They rode out to the parley as if going to a summer picnic. The Queen had exchanged her sidesaddle for glittering trappings that made it easier to dismount and mount quickly, but she still wore her elaborate robes and her crown. Kyellan and Epon were in dress uniforms, without armor, helmets, or swordbelts. Broad sashes wrapped their waists. Kyellan had three knives: one with a long blade for thrusting, two with hilts balanced for throwing. Still, he felt half-naked, vulnerable and very small as he rode at Valahtia’s right hand under the eyes of two armies.

There were four riders coming from the enemy side. One was a woman. A nurse for the baby, Kyellan supposed. Her horse was led. Werlinen had chosen a tall, heavy charger as his mount, and the animal’s mane and tail gleamed with braided jewels. The two officers with him were hard-bitten older men, both bearded, sitting their horses as if they had pillars in their backs. Kyellan caught Epon’s eager glance just behind the Queen, and both of them grinned in anticipation. Kyellan wondered what Briana would think of this attempt. She would probably disapprove of the intended treachery and violence, but she might admit the necessity.

“Your Royal Highness,” Valahtia said in a clear voice, greeting Werlinen when the two groups were twenty yards apart.

“Your Highness,” he echoed, giving her a lesser title than she deserved, the title she would have as his wife. Werlinen raised his hand to bring his companions to a halt. Valahtia did the same. They dismounted.

The ground was flat, covered by springy winter-yellow grass. A farmer’s stone fence stood a short distance to the east. Kyellan glanced beyond it. The Hidden Temple’s weird fog had not advanced since he had looked before. It hovered at the flank of Werlinen’s forces like a threatened storm.

They were close enough now to the enemy for Kyellan to see individual squadrons, bright in their yellow and black armor. The front ranks included bands of archers, shieldmen, and the armed engineers who surrounded the immense siege machines. Behind each ram and mole and tower was ranked light infantry to help man the machines and protect them from attack. The wedges behind the archers and the rams were the heavy Kerisian cavalry. Beyond that, the ranks were a blur.

The Kerisian Prince recognized Kyellan, with a startled look that was quickly masked. They had only met once, at a council in Altimar, and had not spoken to one another then. Kyellan supposed Werlinen feared him, as a man who had sent assassins after him, and as the suspected wizard the Hidden Temple hated so. He wondered for a moment if the Prince would call off the parley. But no, the pale, plump, brown-haired man strode forward with a polite smile, as if welcoming ambassadors to his court.

The woman with him was Pima. She moved from behind Werlinen, and Kyellan stared at her. She met his eyes briefly, startled, and looked down. She carried two infants. Both were well wrapped against the damp, and Kyellan could only see two heads with curly black hair.

The two Kerisian officers walked a pace behind their Prince on either side of him and Pima. They made no show of politeness. Their wary looks and collected, cat-like walks showed them ready for danger. Both looked strong and quick, but they were ten or fifteen years older than Kyellan and Epon, and in a knife fight that edge of youthful speed could be vital.

The two groups stopped ten feet apart. Werlinen made a shallow bow, and smiled, an action that widened his round face even more. “I bow before your beauty, my dear,” he said to Valahtia. “It is, perhaps, even greater than it was when we were betrothed in Altimar, so many months ago.”

“It is a long way from Altimar,” the Queen of Caerlin said in a still, calm voice. Kyellan watched his opposite, the enemy soldier who stood on Werlinen’s left. The man kept his hands near his waist, no doubt where his weapons were concealed. Kyellan’s hands dangled loosely at his sides, but he knew exactly where each knife-hilt was in his sash. He waited for Valahtia to make her move, and watched the enemy, and wondered how he could get Pima out of the way before the fighting started.

Chapter Eighteen

“You have considered my terms?” Werlinen said. “Here is your son. You can see that he is unharmed.” He beckoned Pima forward. She held out the smaller baby.

Valahtia looked at the child for a moment, and, spoke softly. “You say that if I surrender the city, my son will live. If I give myself to you in marriage.”

“I assure you, on my honor,” Werlinen said.

“He will live, but what will be done with him? Will I be allowed to keep him?” She reached out to touch the baby’s cheek with one hand. Pima looked up at her shyly, and Valahtia gave her a troubled smile.

Werlinen cleared his throat and shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. “Well—you see, there is a difficulty. As King of Caerlin, I expect to father my own heir to the throne.” He was almost blushing, Kyellan saw in amusement. “I had thought that your … um … the Earl of Laenar could take the child, to be Earl after him.”

That would be a very foolish thing to do, Kyellan thought. Either Werlinen was a fool, or he was lying. It would be insane to leave Tobas alive and in a position of strength, to raise his son as a contender for Werlinen’s throne. Valahtia pretended to be considering the suggestion. Kyellan could see the two enemy officers relaxing a little, believing the Queen was about to give in. It was only natural for a mother to surrender to save her firstborn child. Kyellan could have told them that surrender was not Valahtia’s way.

“May I hold him?” asked the Queen meekly.

“Certainly, my dear.” The Prince nodded to Pima. She carefully gave Duarnan to Valahtia, then looked sidelong at Kyellan.

“I have a message for you and for Briana,” she said. “I’m supposed to go back to the city with you.” She did not look happy at the prospect.

“Go and get your horse,” Kyellan told her. “We won’t be long.”

Pima had some Power. She must have sensed his tension. She looked to Werlinen for approval, then hurried toward the horses, carrying the second baby. Her daughter, Kyellan guessed. No one moved to interfere with her. She reached her horse and mounted, taking the reins and walking the animal forward in a wide circuit around Werlinen and his soldiers.

Valahtia had gotten a firm, unshakeable hold on the infant Prince. She held him to her breast as Werlinen smiled in satisfaction. “Well?” Werlinen said. “What is your answer, Your Highness?”

“This,” Valahtia said, clutching her infant son and turning to run back to her own horse. Werlinen stared, stupefied, for a moment, as Kyellan and Epon drew their blades and leaped forward to keep the enemy soldiers from following the Queen.

Kyellan grasped his opponent’s right wrist with his left hand as he thrust with his dagger. The blow rang against a mail shirt that the Kerisian wore beneath his surcoat. The enemy soldier fumbled with his left hand at his belt, but Kyellan’s weight bore him backward, and he could not match the speed at which Kyellan brought his knife hand up to plunge the dagger into his enemy’s throat. Blood spurted over them both. Kyellan felt it on his face. The Kerisian officer fell, clutching at his death wound, his eyes wide with shock.

Werlinen had taken a few half-hearted steps to follow Valahtia, but when he saw Kyellan finish his opponent so quickly, he turned and ran as fast as he could toward his horse. Epon’s Kerisian officer was stumbling away from the young Syryni mercenary, half-blinded by a gaping slash across his face, no longer a danger though he had managed to draw his knife.

Pima was galloping her horse toward the city gate, riding like a part of the animal despite the burden of her baby daughter. The Queen had managed to mount and was struggling with the reins, clutching Duarnan in her arms and trying to bend over to catch the leathers in her fingers. The horse was frightened, as were Kyellan’s and Epon’s mounts. A roar of outrage rose from the front ranks of the Kerisian forces, and Kyellan heard a command to charge.

Kyellan pulled his two throwing knives from his sash and tossed them one after the other at Werlinen’s retreating back. The Prince screamed as he was hit twice, once below the right shoulder blade, again near the middle of his back. Yet he kept on, and pulled himself into the saddle of his horse. He let the reins dangle, urging the animal forward with his knees. It broke into a fast gallop back toward the advancing Kerisian lines, with Werlinen swaying on its back, barely able to stay on.

“They’re coming, Commander!” Epon shouted.

It was a furious wave of men and horses, swaying siege towers and engines. Kyellan and Epon swung into their own saddles. The main barbican gate of the city had opened, and the first sortie of Second Division and Fourth Division men was pouring out at a heavy gallop.

The Queen still had not managed to grasp her reins with the baby in her arms. Kyellan spurred his horse up beside her and leaned over to take the child. The baby clung to him, as wide-eyed as a kitten and not much heavier. The Queen grinned at them both and leaned forward. Together with Epon, they raced back toward the city wall, with the charging weight of the Kerisian line closing in fast behind them. Pima was already through the front ranks of Second Division, headed toward the small side gate beneath the eastern gate tower.

The grim armored cavalry swept around and past them. Kyellan caught Marat’s eye as the Parahnese mercenary led his charge. A scattered cheer followed in the Queen’s wake. Soon they were at the side gate. It was open far enough for them to pass through one at a time. Kyellan waited for Epon and the Queen, and then ducked below the portal himself. The gate shut behind them, and grooms ran to take their horses. Pima had already dismounted. Her baby was crying. Valahtia was laughing, a fierce, exultant sound, and her beautiful face was transformed. She reminded Kyellan of a Syryni war goddess. Her heavy crown was only a little off-center on its padding of hair. The jewels glittered on her robes as she dismounted and ran to Kyellan’s side.

He slid from his horse with his awkward burden. The Queen took her son from him and held the baby up like a trophy. Duarnan was giggling with pleasure, not seeming frightened at all.

“We did it!” The Queen hugged her child, and the most hardened soldiers smiled with her. “So much for Werlinen’s terms of surrender. You hit him, didn’t you, Ky? I heard him cry out. Did you kill him?”

An eager question, from a woman who had been so horrified at the news of assassins. Kyellan shook his head. “He’s wounded, but I don’t know how badly.”

Epon joined them. “I wish you had killed him. If you had, they might have given up and gone home. With him hurt, they’ll just fight harder. You made them angry.” Blood stained his dress uniform, and his hands were shaking in reaction to the brief battle.

“Maybe he’ll still die,” Valahtia said brightly. “I’m going back to the palace to get Duarnan to safety. Send reports to me there.”

Kyellan’s muscles tingled, and he felt frayed by his effort. He remembered that he had not slept for more than a day. “When you reach the palace, send someone to see if Gwydion and Chela can come to the walls,” he said. “We’re bound to face magic in the field today.” The Queen nodded in agreement and hurried away. Soldiers came to attention as she passed with her baby.

Pima looked thin and grey, not like herself at all. Kyellan remembered the cheerful girl who had sat by him on a wagon seat, a novice who had been excited by her first trip away from the Sanctuary. She had been through a lot since then. She walked over to Kyellan and spoke in a low voice. He had to strain to hear her over the shouts from the wall and the field beyond.

“My message comes from Gemon and the Hidden Temple,” she said. “They say that they have not forgotten. They have Alaira prisoner. They say they’ll probably kill her.” She looked up at him. “They want you to try to rescue her, but don’t do it. They’re too strong. They mean to trap you and kill you. They won’t really hurt Alaira. They have no reason to.”

“How did she end up the prisoner of the Hidden Temple?” Kyellan said bitterly. “I would have thought Werlinen would have treated her like an honored guest.”

Pima’s brown eyes seemed to measure him, and find him wanting. “Alaira didn’t think you’d come after her. I have a message for Briana, too. Where can I find her?”

“She went to the Temple to pull them together against Gemon. We’ve had no word from her yet, but She’s probably there now.”

The unmistakable swelling roar of battle swept over the walls. The two lines must have met. Kyellan judged that the shrieks and the clatter of arms, the screams of horses and bellows of men, were about half a mile away. It would not be long before the Kerisians pushed their way up to the wall. He had to get back to his command post.

“I can assign guards to escort you to the Temple, if you like,” he said to Pima. “Is Alaira all right?”

She looked at him coolly. “I stitched up a cut in her arm. She had some bruises, and she was miserable and frightened when I saw her last. But I thought that wouldn’t concern you, after what she did.”

“The battle has begun. I can’t leave the walls to go after her, even if I had a chance of getting her away from the Hidden Temple. But maybe Briana can do something, or Gwydion and Chela.”

“Maybe so,” Pima said listlessly. Kyellan assigned a few palace guardsmen from the retinue that had come with the Queen to escort the ex-novice to the Temple. He watched her mount and ride away, then turned and hurried up the steps to the battlements atop the southern gate.

Chela had been waiting for a summons since she had wakened, a little after dawn. She could feel the malaise that hung over the besieged city, a cloud of hopelessness that was an unnatural thing, something created by their enemies. The Hidden Temple, at least, was prepared for battle.

She dressed on the balcony of the suite she shared with Gwydion. The morning was chill and clouded. Chela sought toward the southeast with a gentle probe of Power. The fogbank created by the Goddess’s Seat was there, like a stormcloud with an intelligence of its own. She could feel it gathering to expand and attack. She went inside to wake Gwydion from his heavy backlash sleep.

The beginning of the battle must have been felt throughout the city. It was a shock of anger and fear, bravado and death, and Chela could hear cries in the streets and in the corridors of the palace. The Queen’s messenger arrived soon after. He did not knock on the door. He burst in, a sour-faced man in red and black livery, and looked past Chela to where Gwydion sat groggily at the edge of a couch pulling on his boots.

“The Commander Kyellan summons you to the southern gate. You are needed there.” He left as abruptly and discourteously as he had come.

Chela saw Gwydion’s face flush with anger. She sighed, and pulled on her cloak as he muttered, “I liked him better when he was the Shape-Changer. At least then he had a reason to be arrogant.”

“You told Briana you’d come and help.” They were ready. Chela opened the door, and they walked out into the third floor corridor and down the stairs.

“I intend to help Briana against the Hidden Temple,” Gwydion said. “Not join the army as a tame wizard under Kyellan’s command. We owe him no loyalty, after he deserted us at Akesh.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Chela did not want to argue again. “We’re here. Protecting the city is the same as protecting ourselves now.”

They hurried from the southern palace building, and found horses waiting for them at the main gate of the Tiranon. The people had not forgotten their mistrust of wizards. No one they passed said anything aloud, but Chela noticed their sidelong looks and the signs against evil that they made behind their backs.

As they rode down the steep palace road, Gwydion conceded a little. “I know we have to stop the Hidden Temple. I guess it doesn’t matter how we do it, or from where. But let’s go by the Temple square before we go to the gate. I want to know what Briana is planning to do.”

Chela smiled at him. The dye in his hair and beard was beginning to wear out, and some of the gold showed through, enough so that no one in the streets had any doubts that he was the wizard rumor had said had come into the city last night. Chela wished they had taken the time to wash the rest of the dye away, and find Gwydion some elaborate brocaded clothing or a shimmering cloak. All of a sudden, she wanted him to impress the city he was getting ready to defend.

They rode down the city street. Chela had forgotten the open, airy beauty of the marketplaces, the sharp, dark faces of the people, their quick, musical language that she sometimes could not decipher. Cavernon City had a beauty that was worth defending. The crowds filled the streets. Worried faces moved aimlessly toward the south, and families clustered on corners, not speaking, only watching and waiting. Chela concentrated on guiding her horse and avoiding the children who sometimes darted in front of her to point and stare at the wizard.

The Temple square was thronged with people, as on a feast day or a seasonal celebration. All were women, children, and old men, except for a few guards who stood at the closed gates of the Temple complex itself. People were being turned away at the gate, as they came seeking prayer or sanctuary. They could not get in, but they did not want to leave the square, hoping perhaps for a miracle.

“What’s she doing here?” Gwydion said softly as they guided their horses through the maze of waiting people. Chela recognized the face of a young woman with a baby in her arms who had just been turned away from the gate. It was Pima, and she was badly upset, angry and frightened. Two guards in the Queen’s livery held a horse for her.

“Briana said she was on the ship that the Hidden Temple burned. I thought she might have joined them against the wizards, after the Barelin wizards killed Erlin,” Chela said.

“Maybe she’s the first wave of their attack,” Gwydion muttered.

Chela did not believe that. For one thing, she and Pima had been friends on the long journey south when the wizards had invaded. For another, she sensed no trace of the Seat’s awesome Power about the young woman. There was only Pima’s own gentle strength, much tested and wearied, and the confusion of her emotions now.

A murmur of recognition and hostility ran before Gwydion and Chela; Pima heard it, and turned to see them. It was as if the sight was too horrible for her. She began to cry, standing next to her waiting horse. The guardsmen who attended her looked dismayed. Chela dismounted and went to her.

“It’s good to see you,” Chela said softly. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Chela …” Pima tried to speak between her sobs. “I … I thought that you and Gwydion were dead. Gemon said that Akesh was destroyed, and everyone was killed.”

“We’re the only ones who survived.” Gwydion joined them, leading both his and Chela’s horses. “We heard about Erlin from Briana. We’re very sorry, Pima.”

“And I’m sorry about your College,” she said. “All the little children. Gemon was so pleased when she heard.” She shook her head to clear it, and blinked back tears. Her baby whimpered in her arms. “Did they tell you Briana would be here? She isn’t. They told me at the gate that they drove her away. She’s gone.”

“What do you mean, they drove her away?” Gwydion demanded.

“Ask them yourselves.” Pima waved a hand in the direction of the guarded Temple gate. “They don’t know where she went, and they don’t care. They won’t do anything about the attacking army, or about Gemon’s threats. They said Briana was a heretic, that she denied the priestesshood. They said they finally uncovered her crimes, and cast her out. I have a message for her.” She looked down at her daughter, and her eyes filled again with tears.

“We’ll find her,” Chela said firmly. “We’ll make sure she’s all right. You get your escort to take you and your baby to the palace. Ask for a S’tari woman named Yalna. She’ll take care of you.”

“But I have to give Briana my message,” Pima said. “I’m afraid of what Gemon might do if I disobey her. She said to find Kyellan and tell him about Alaira, and I did.” Pima went on to tell them what had happened between Valahtia and Werlinen, and how the battle had begun. “I have to tell Briana about Cian,” she concluded.

“Cian?” Gwydion’s voice was very low, so only the three of them could hear. “Briana’s son, the Shape-Changer baby you were raising?”

Pima nodded. “He’s alive,” she said miserably. “Or at least he was when I left him. I didn’t want to leave him. Gemon is using him to lure Briana to her. She wants to face her and finish it, she said. She means to kill them both, Briana and the baby. But she also told me that if Briana doesn’t come, she’ll use the baby’s Power to help her in the battle, and then she’ll kill him. I … I was going to beg Briana to try to rescue him.”

Gwydion said, “We’ll find Briana and tell her the Hidden Temple has her son. Go to the palace, Pima. You have to wait it out. There’s nothing more you can do. We’ll find Briana. Go on.” He was using gentle Power in his voice, to urge her onto her horse without further argument. At last she obeyed, and her escort of Queen’s guards cleared a path for her through the crowded square.

“Go away!” a voice called down from the Temple wall. Chela looked up and saw a frightened woman’s face, framed by a grey hood. “Go away, don’t bother us. Cursed wizard! The Goddess will protect Her servants. You cannot harm us …”

Gwydion turned his back on the woman and mounted his horse again. Chela followed his example. She could sense that the Temple behind them was wakening to their presence. The priestesses thought they were about to be attacked, in revenge for what they had done to Briana, perhaps. Chela would have laughed if she had not been so worried. She urged her horse forward after Gwydion’s, and followed him out of the square into a less congested street of rugweavers’ shops.

“Can you find Briana?” He reined his horse in beside her. “She’s the only person with much Power in this idiot city, and she’ll be hurt and angry, not well-shielded. Trace her if you can, and bring her to the southern gate.”

“What are you going to do?” The prospect of searching for one woman in the vast maze of Cavernon City was a daunting one. Chela did not think Briana could have gone far. If she made a circle around the Temple square at an interval of a few miles, maybe she would get lucky—if Briana wanted to be found. If she did not, and if she expected a search, it might well be impossible.

“I’m going to tell Kyellan what we’ve learned,” Gwydion said with grim purpose in his voice. “There’s only one way to get the Shape-Changer child away from the Hidden Temple. There’s only one way to defeat them. I don’t know if I can convince Kyellan to do it.”

“To do what?” Chela demanded. She urged her horse to one side of the narrow street, as a wagon passed them with inches to spare.

“To call the Shape-Changer back,” Gwydion answered. “Without the Temple behind us, without the rituals Briana had planned, we don’t have enough strength without him. We have to have the Shape-Changer with us. We have to have his Power. He defeated them once before, when they attacked him at the Sanctuary.”

“Gwydion, no!” Chela shouted after him. He spurred his horse through a gap in the crowd where the wagon had passed. “Wait … you can’t ask that of Kyellan …” He did not answer her, and she had to attend to her nervous, prancing horse as the wizard turned off the street toward the southern gate.

Surely they had a chance to defeat the Hidden Temple without such a desperate measure. For Kyellan to call the Shape-Changer back would be the same as committing suicide. The wizard spirit would take complete command of his body. The trick that had driven him out the last time would never work again. Chela was furious with Gwydion. He was still angry with Kyellan about the massacre at Akesh, but she had not thought he was that vindictive. Chela wanted to race after him and stop him from going to Kyellan with his ultimatum.

But someone had to find Briana, before the enemy priestesses attacked with no one to resist them. Angry with Gwydion, angry with herself for obeying him, Chela headed toward the outer edge of her imaginary circle around the Temple square. She lowered her shields far enough to open her mind to the chaos of the besieged city, and she sought the one glow of white flame that would be the disgraced priestess.

Briana sat in the dirt and shadows of a narrow Rahan Quarter alley, bruised and defeated. Everything hurt. It hurt to move, it hurt to think. She did not want to face what had happened, but she could not escape it. It went around in circles in her mind, undaunted by her attempts to set up shields against the memory. Rithia’s face, like a skull, like a specter from a childhood dream. The clawing hands and striking fists of the priestesses, thrusting her away, forcing her out of the place where she belonged.

She had not thought beyond what had happened. She did not know what to do next. She could not curse the Goddess for abandoning her. She could only wonder what had gone wrong. She whispered endless prayers for forgiveness, for some sign of what the Goddess wanted from her now. It was upsetting Erissa. The girl probably thought she had run away with a madwoman. Briana did not care. She murmured her pleading litany. She wanted to get up and dance the Third Cycle of penance, but her body was too sore and she was too tired.

Less than an hour had passed since she had been driven out. Erissa leaned against the wall of the squalid tenement that shadowed the alley, her novice robe muddied and frayed. The young girl looked as fierce as a watchdog. Erissa wanted to fight back. She wanted Briana to attack the priestesses with Power and force them to accept her, to apologize for what they had done. Briana did not encourage Erissa’s ideas. It was impossible. It was over.

The two of them had fled southeast from the Temple square, avoiding the most crowded streets as the news swept through the city that the battle was beginning. They had gone deeply into the nearly deserted back ways of Rahan. Briana wondered if perhaps she was trying to get closer to Kyellan, by retreating into the Lower City where he had lived his childhood. She wanted to go to him. She desperately wanted to find him and seek comfort in his arms. But then she would have to explain what had happened. She would have to admit that she had failed. She could not bear the thought of his pity.

The light tattoo of a horse’s trotting gait sounded down the narrow street that fronted the alley. There were not many horses in Rahan Quarter. Briana reached out curiously with her Power and immediately withdrew the probe. She got to her feet and looked wildly for a deeper shadow, a hiding place. There was nothing. Briana felt tears threatening to overwhelm her. She did not want to be found. She did not want sympathy.

Chela dismounted at the opening of the alley. Her horse stood patiently as she walked forward. Erissa stepped out in front of Briana, ready to fight to protect the priestess. She had never met Chela before.

“It’s all right, Erissa,” Briana whispered, “she’s a friend.”

Chela came to Briana and hugged her tightly. It hurt. All Briana’s bruises announced their presence afresh. “It didn’t take long to find you, thank the gods,” Chela said. Briana could feel the tingle of the younger woman’s Power at her fingertips, and she thought that Chela’s voice was on edge as well.

“Why did you come after me?” Briana pulled away from the embrace. She could not meet Chela’s blue eyes. Erissa watched them warily, still unsure if she should trust this stranger.

“No reason,” Chela said irritably. “There’s a battle to be fought with the Hidden Temple. Or had you forgotten that?”

“It’s useless.” Briana scowled at her. “Without the Temple and the Goddess’s favor, I can’t face them. They’re too strong. Even with you and Gwydion helping me, we wouldn’t be strong enough.”

Chela glanced at Erissa, as if unsure of how much she could say in the novice’s presence. Then she shrugged and spoke. “Briana, I don’t know what happened to you this morning at the Temple, but it must have been awful. I don’t blame you for wanting it to be over. I’m sorry, but it can’t be over yet. We can’t just wait for them to come in and kill us. They will kill us, you know. Gemon won’t be content with simply banishing you from the Order. She wants us dead. You and me, Gwydion and Kyellan. And there’s something else. Gwydion and I met Pima at the Temple gate. She had a message for you from Gemon.”

Briana felt a spark of interest through her self-pity. “Pima? Is she all right?”

“She had her baby daughter with her. She said to tell you that your son Cian is alive. Gemon has him. She’s planning to use his Power to help her defeat us, and then she’s going to kill him.”

It was like a hammer blow, like being drowned far beneath the ocean’s surface. Briana did not know if she would even be heard, answering Chela from such a distance. “He can’t be alive. They killed him on the wizards’ ship.” She had pictured it so often in her mind that she could see it happening again: the burning deck, canvas sheathed in flame falling from the masts, and the wizards helpless before the might of the Hidden Temple, dying in the fire. Cian was with them in the picture, perhaps held in a wizard’s arms, jerked out of them, flung into the flames or thrown overboard or spitted on a soldier’s weapon. The vision had haunted Briana since she had faced the merchant wizards on Barelin.

“He didn’t die,” Chela was saying. “But he will if you don’t do something to prevent it. Gwydion went to the wall to tell Kyellan. Come with me and we’ll go to them.”

Cian was alive. Her baby, her son, that she had conceived in the Goddess’s service. He was alive, and in danger. Briana felt a moment of despair. She still did not have the Temple’s Power to call upon. How could she possibly face Gemon and the Goddess’s Seat to win back her baby?

She would find the strength somehow. “Thank you, Cianya,” she said clearly, and found herself smiling. The Goddess was with her after all. She had never betrayed Briana in allowing her child to die. Whether or not the Temple accepted Briana, it did not matter. She knew herself chosen by the Goddess still. “Oh, great Mother, thank you, thank you …”

“Are you coming?” Chela demanded fiercely.

Erissa caught their excitement. “The horse will be too slow in these winding streets.” She caught Briana’s hand. “I know a short way to the southern gate.”

“Let’s go,” Briana said. Her smile had quickly passed. Now she felt a grim, sober stillness like a coat of mail over her tattered black robe. How did Gemon dare to steal her son from her and hold him hostage? Briana led the way as Chela and Erissa sprang after her like two young wolves. They ran through the narrow streets in the clouded morning light, hearing their thudding footsteps in the dust against the distant roar of the battle. Rahshaiya take whoever tried to stop them, Briana thought. The time for gentleness had passed.

Chapter Nineteen

The battle at the wall was fierce and one-sided. The broad expanse of farmland gave an advantage to the Kerisian numbers, allowing them to spread across a long front, forcing the line of city defenders to thin out to oppose them. The siege machines rolled forward behind the front lines of enemy soldiers, and even the initial charges of Second and Fourth Division cavalry had not broken through to any of them. Kyellan could see Captain Marat in the midst of his men, flinging them into a pattern of sidelong attacks with the skill that had given him his reputation with cavalry. At the forefront of the Fourth Division troops rode Captain Debrell, rallying them with his reckless courage after his front line had gone down before the enemy arrow flights.

They were all good men, professional fighters, but what could they do against so vast a force? Kyellan thought of dispatching a messenger to the harbor to the Fifth Division captain. If there was no sign of a naval attack, those men could be here on the field. Third Division was massed behind the barbican gate, awaiting his command to advance.

Kyellan climbed onto the deck of one of the great catapults for a better view over the battlements. The crew of the engine could do nothing now but wait until the fighting drew closer to the walls. The only soldiers in range down in the field were city men. Epon and Harnal strode up and down the wall, just within sight of Kyellan’s command post to the east and the west, keeping the recruits in formation and ready to meet the first ladders. That would come soon, Kyellan thought as he looked out over the melee. Too soon. Slowly, irreversibly, Second and Fourth Divisions were being forced to retreat into the shadow of the walls.

The dark mass of the priestesses’ fog was rolling over the fields from the eastern flanks of the Kerisian army, like a vast slab of bread dough being kneaded across a board. It flashed with sparks like lightning as it swallowed up the edge of the battling forces without regard for the uniforms men wore. Kyellan wondered what they faced within it. It advanced from an easternly point that seemed to be the centef, no doubt the place where the Goddess’s Seat had been moved, where they were holding Alaira prisoner. She would be all right, Kyellan told himself. Pima had said they would not harm her. He could not try to rescue her, even if he wanted to.

The air was damp as clouds thickened overhead and a strong wind began to blow from the enemy fogbank. The hair on Kyellan’s arms pricked upward at the touch of the wind, and he found himself wishing for the Shape-Changer’s wizard Power, to tell him what danger threatened his men. He thought he could see vague shapes detaching from the fog to drift toward the Caer soldiers, like the demons that had caused such panic in battles against the wizards. Surely the Hidden Temple would not be summoning demons. Kyellan guessed that the weird shapes were only illusions, meant to frighten men and horses. He scowled and leaped down from the catapult deck.

“Tobas!” he shouted. The Royal Consort was acting as his second-in-command, until such time as he was called away to the harbor. Almost like old times, Kyellan thought. Only a little more awkward now. “Any word yet from Briana at the Temple?” The young Earl shook his head, and handed a message off to one of the couriers who waited by the stairs. “And where in hell is the wizard? We need Gwydion and Chela now. That fog is getting closer.”

“Commander!” Captain Epon ran up to him. The Syryni mercenary had been stationed down the wall to the east, in command of First Division and some of Harnal’s recruits. Now he leaned against the parapet, panting as he spoke. “Word from the eastern wall, sir. I didn’t want to spare a man as a messenger. The enemy’s getting too close. The word is that the fog barrier is gone from the eastern side of the city. It withdrew, left the land all broken up and rough, but unguarded.”

Kyellan lifted his helmet to hear over a sudden shout from the city recruits. A squadron of Second Division cavalry had gotten through to one of the siege towers. They cut the traces that connected it to its team of draft horses, and began to slash at the webbing that held its ram to its underside. They did not have long to work before the Kerisians drove them away again, but they had crippled the tower. It swayed a little, standing still as the troops around it pushed forward.

“Gemon’s Power isn’t unlimited,” Kyellan said. “She couldn’t keep up the eastern barrier and throw the fog into the battle at the same time. I wonder if we could get around them to that side, with Third Division out the southeastern gate.”

“A flank attack, Commander?” Epon said cheerfully.

“It could work. But I need to know that the Hidden Temple won’t suddenly turn on us that way if we try it. Gwydion and Chela can keep them occupied here. If they ever get here.” He turned to glare in the direction of the palace. “Go back to your post, Captain. They’re getting closer to the walls. Almost on us now.” Epon saluted and ran back the way he had come. Kyellan could hear Harnal’s gruff voice relaying orders along the battlements to stand ready. Senomar was shouting at the crew of the largest catapult. Men struggled with levers and windlass.

The Caer soldiers outside the wall were losing room to maneuver. Soon it would be time to open postern gates for them, call them in to rest and regroup, leave room for Senomar’s engines to bombard the Kerisians without the worry of hitting city men. Kyellan blinked sweat from his eyes, set his helmet firmly into place again, and waited for the first shock of impact when the enemy would hit the walls.

The Shape-Changer was dismayed at the way things had gone. His schemes, his hopes had failed. The real Prince Duarnan was back with his mother in the palace, and his own son was a captive of the Hidden Temple, and not likely to survive beyond their immediate need of him. Alaira had done her best to serve him, and had failed. His desperate threat to take Kyellan’s body again had not been a realistic one. It would not work that way. The only way they would be rejoined would be if Kyellan could be convinced to call him back. That was unlikely, he knew.

The Shape-Changer was still trapped on the spirit road. For all his Power, he did not think he could survive much longer there. He was so lonely, so tired of his solitary, bodiless existence. What if Kyellan died in the battle? The soldier was a part of him. Perhaps it was the other way around, as Kyellan insisted. Either way, each of them was less than a complete soul when they were separate. He did not think either of them would long survive the other’s death.

He had to do something. He had to try to save his child, and defeat the Hidden Temple before it killed both Cian and Kyellan. If both of them died, it would be the end of the immortal Shape-Changer line. No one would be left to father another child to replace Cian. That could not happen. He could not allow it to happen.

Gathering his weary Power together, the Shape-Changer formed himself once again into the figure of Va’shindi, and he plunged down the spirit road toward the vortex of Power and madness that was the Hidden Temple. The Seat of the Goddess blazed like a city aflame, hidden in the heart of the chaotic fogbank, scarcely under control. It had gouged itself a canyon from the soft, fertile land, and it loomed there in all its vast size and half-alive presence, as it had done for centuries in its gorge by the Tarnsea. Gemon was linked with it, and with Ocasta and the other priestesses, and with the captive Power of the Shape-Changer baby. The young woman was surely overextended, the Shape-Changer told himself.

He sharpened his Power to punch through the veils of the spirit road and appear before Gemon as a wavery spirit, an image in the fog. The fanatic priestess sat on one of the lower steps of the Goddess’s Seat below the giant throne. Cian was in her lap, golden-haired and yellow-eyed, no longer disguised as the infant Prince. Her followers sat around her with clasped hands and closed eyes. Alaira sat on the dirt nearby with her hands tied behind her back, watching the priestesses wearily. Her eyes widened as the form of a beautiful, black-haired woman manifested above them all.

Gemon laughed at him, a mocking sound. “You aren’t Va’shindi. Alaira told us that much. You’re a cursed wizard.”

The Shape-Changer felt a touch of amusement. “What if I had been your Goddess’s messenger, come to warn you against your misuse of the Goddess’s name and Power? But no, you wouldn’t believe that to be true. You think you’re the elect, chosen to rid the world of Darkness.” He could not change the form he had appeared in now; his voice was still the low, calm music of She-Who-Guides.

“What do you want here, wizard?” Gemon demanded angrily.

“Release the child Cian. You have no right to hold him captive, and no right to use his Power. Let him go.”

“And where will you take him? Back to the spirit road with you? He is not so insubstantial,” Gemon said.

“Release Alaira as well, and let her take the child with her.” He saw hope in the prisoner’s bruised face, and felt a tenderness for her that he had not anticipated. He had loved Alaira, he thought, as truly as any man ever had loved, surely as well as Kyellan loved his stubborn priestess.

Gemon rose to her feet and held the wizard baby high in her arms. Power sprang from them both, a blazing gout of flame that lashed out at the Shape-Changer. He fled, half-blinded and hurting, not even attempting to fight back. He managed to get back onto the spirit road. He was so much weaker without a body’s strength to call upon. But even in his best days at Akesh, he did not think he could have defeated the Goddess’s Seat and his son’s Power combined. It was too much. Now he did not know what to do. He floated miserably in the dark mists of the spirit road, curled in upon himself like a frightened child.

Kyellan felt the shock against the wall as the second siege tower bumped against it some hundred yards to the west of his command post. Kerisian soldiers swarmed up its ladders, shielded by dampened hides that had been strewn all over the outside of the structure to make it invulnerable to fire. The Second Division soldiers who had not yet retreated inside the city wall formed ranks of their best archers below the tower, surrounded by heavy cavalry.

As each enemy soldier ventured out onto the upper platform for the leap over to the ramparts, the archers let fly. Men lost their grips and fell like stones. The city conscripts under Harnal’s command yelled in frightened voices, but they held together and thrust out with their long hooked pikes at the Kerisians who had escaped the arrows. The tower still stood, but not one enemy soldier had made it onto the battlements.

Now Kyellan watched with satisfaction as Senomar directed his men to turn the catapults to train them on the tower. Boulders were winched back and let fly with a creak of oiled leather and the slap of wood on wood. They punched holes in the hides that covered the siege tower. More archers joined Harnal’s men on the walls, and shot burning arrows into the gaps to set the wooden structure afire. The fighting went on around it, and there were more of the monstrous things out on the field, slowing drawing toward the walls. Some carried rams. Kyellan blinked sleepiness from his eyes. It was going to be a long day. A hand touched him on the arm, and he turned.

Gwydion had come at last, blazing with intensity like a fiery arrow. The young wizard did not respond to Kyellan’s smile of welcome. “Where can we go to talk unheard?” Gwydion demanded, looking around at the cluster of aides and messengers who awaited orders above the southern gate. Tobas was with a messenger from Fifth Division on the ramparts that led out to the barbican. He waved when he saw Gwydion.

“No time for that,” Kyellan said. “Can you do something about that fog? Look at it. It’s spreading all over the field, crowding both the armies back. Where is Chela? We’re going to need both of you to get rid of that stuff.”

“We need more than the Power Chela and I can muster,” Gwydion said. “We need the Shape-Changer.”

Kyellan stared at him, chilled by the deadly seriousness on the wizard’s face, unsure how to respond. “Come with me,” he said after a moment. He waved aides back and walked with Gwydion to the rear parapet of the wall away from the crowd. They could scarcely hear each other speak over the noise of battle. No one else would hear them here. “What the hell do you mean, we need the Shape-Changer? You’re suggesting I call him back to me? That would be the same as killing myself. I’m not going to let myself be trapped again with him in control. And what were you thinking, to bring that up where people could hear? No one here knows about him.”

“You’re afraid they might not like you so much if they knew you were half a wizard,” Gwydion said contemptuously. “They might not trust you anymore. Or they might take your precious command away, is that it?”

Kyellan remembered Chela’s warning about Gwydion. There were no traces of friendship in the wizard’s face or in his words. He had no time to try to reason with him now. “Don’t be a damn fool. We’re in the middle of a battle. I need to get back to my men. Are you going to help us against the Hidden Temple, or not?”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Gwydion said furiously. “Do you know what has happened? The priestesses wouldn’t listen to Briana. They attacked her, drove her out of the Temple. They found out about you and her. And about the baby. They’ll never accept her as First Priestess now.”

“Briana … is she all right? Where is she?” Kyellan demanded, feeling as stunned as if Gwydion had hit him.

“Chela went to find her. Do you understand what this means? She doesn’t command the Power of the Temple. She’s alone. And one wizard, one priestess and Chela aren’t enough to defeat Gemon’s people. We aren’t enough to save your precious city, and we aren’t enough to save one wizard child. Your son and Briana’s, the next Shape-Changer—he’s alive, and Gemon has him captive. She’ll kill him after she uses his Power to help her destroy us all.”

Kyellan stared at the young wizard, scarcely able to comprehend what Gwydion had said. Gwydion stepped back as if to gauge the effect of his words, and then he nodded slowly.

“It won’t make a difference to you,” Gwydion said. “You didn’t think twice about betraying the children at Akesh to go off and be a hero somewhere else. You won’t do anything to try to save your own wizard son either. You’ll just stay here and command useless defensive strategies until the wall is breached and the city is taken, and you’ll call it the fortunes of war.”

Kyellan forced himself to turn away from Gwydion’s mocking gaze. His son was alive. Alive, and though he had thought he had not mourned the child when Briana told him of Cian’s death, the joy and fear that raced through him now showed him that he had. Yet Gwydion was right about one thing. He would not call the Shape-Changer back into his body to try to save Cian from the Hidden Temple, just as he would not throw himself over the wall of the city to his death to give his men a martyr to avenge. Success or failure then would be meaningless, because he would not be there to realize them. There had to be another way.

Third Division still waited on the long curve of street inside the wall; the eastern approach to the city was still unguarded, with the fog barrier maneuvering in the battle. “How well can you shield your Power?” Kyellan demanded of Gwydion. “Well enough to seem a common soldier, just another mercenary? And could Chela and Briana be disguised as well, mentally disguised?”

The wizard shrugged, still angry but curious as well. “I suppose. Gemon and Ocasta know I’m in the city, but they may think I’m still under the backlash from my weather spells last night. I haven’t faced them openly yet. Neither has Chela. As far as they know, Briana has given up after what happened at the Temple. We could be shielded. What do you suggest we do then?”

Kyellan walked away from him toward Tobas. “My lord, what’s the word from the harbor? Any sign of an attack?”

The young Earl shouted to be heard over the screams from below. An enemy ram had been loosed from its tower, to roll over the uneven ground and crush Kerisian and Caer alike beneath its weight. “Nothing,” Tobas answered. “We think Werlinen landed all his soldiers from his ships to join the army down there. Even the blockade ships seem to be crewed by only a few sailors. It would be a good time to attack them from the sea, don’t you think?”

Kyellan grinned. “No. Sorry, Tobas, but I want you to recall Fifth Division from the harbor. Use them to relive Second and Fourth in the next sortie. I’ve had word that the eastern side of the city is free of the fog. I’m going to take Third Division out the southeastern gate, down and around to come up on the enemy on their eastern flank. Gwydion will be with me, and Chela and Briana. We’ll go after those priestesses, to finish this thing.”

“You aren’t going yourself,” Tobas said positively. “Not out into the middle of the battle. Captain Oman can command the venture if you think it’s a good one, but you’re staying here.”

“Valahtia made me Commander of the Army,” Kyellan said. “There’s no time to ask the Queen’s opinion, my lord, and you can’t command me.”

“Damn you, Ky, I never could,” Tobas muttered. “All right. Go. I’ll hold them here if I can, and send for Fifth Division. Even if you do take out the priestesses, we’ll still have all of Werlinen’s army to defeat.”

“Without the Hidden Temple behind him, and wounded as he is, Werlinen might simply withdraw,” Kyellan said.

“That would be a pleasant surprise,” Tobas said drily. “Go on. The Goddess go with you.”

They embraced, a short, fierce hug that left them both breathless. Kyellan bowed slightly to his old friend and hurried away, conscious that Tobas was watching him go. He rejoined Gwydion, and the two of them started down the stairway to the crowded road below the wall.

Alaira had hoped for a moment that the Shape-Changer would convince Gemon to set her free. She had never seen the beautiful woman’s form before, but she knew it could not be the Goddess’s messenger Va’shindi. The Hidden Temple did not have the favor of any aspect of the true Goddess. She was certain of that. So she had known it was the Shape-Changer, and she had hoped. He had failed and fled, and Alaira was still sitting in the dirt with her hands tied tightly behind her back.

It was worse to have known a brief moment of hope, then be back where she had been, in despair. Alaira’s wounded arm ached dully. The muscles were cramped all around the cut from her awkward position in her bonds. Pima’s stitching had kept her from losing any more blood, but still she felt weakened. Sweat trailed down her face and neck; the fog near the Goddess’s Seat was more like steam in the heat of the Power Gemon had summoned. She knew one thing. She did not want to be here when it was over.

It seemed inevitable that the Hidden Temple would win. If they did, they would kill Kyellan and Briana, Gwydion and Chela, probably Tobas as well. That would be partly Alaira’s fault, for bringing them the Shape-Changer child to add to their Power. Gemon had said she would let Alaira go. It was not a pleasant prospect. And what if the Hidden Temple was defeated? Then Alaira would be found with them. If she was not slain out of hand for abducting the Prince, she would face a trial. Either she would be hanged, or sentenced to years in prison, or exiled on pain of death. She would have to see Kyellan again and face his anger. She did not want that. So she had to escape, to exile herself before it was resolved.

That led her back to where she was: stuck, pulling and tugging at tight rope knots while she watched the circle of fanatic priestesses weave a cone of Power they could scarcely control. Alaira had heard them talking, and she could picture what was happening out on the battlefield as the fog went out to hearten Werlinen’s men and terrify the Caer forces. The Kerisian soldiers would catch glimpses of the Mother aspect of the Goddess, Cianya as she was often painted and carved, and they would hear Her voice urging them on to do battle in Her name. The Caer soldiers would see weird shapes of hags and monsters, and they would be seized by a certain knowledge that they were fighting on the side of evil, of Darkness.

Alaira could not see much through the haze, but the canyon of the Goddess’s Seat looked as out of place in the middle of this farmer’s field as it would have in an alleyway of Rahan Quarter. Illusion overlaid the sides of the cut walls, harsh stone and desert sand, but that did not change the true setting. The walls were sagging and muddy, sliced out of rich black earth that would probaly collapse if the magical force that held it together was stopped. The bottom of the canyon lay in a natural clay bed, an irritating, spongy surface that smelled slightly of sulphur. Alaira’s hands and the back of her dress were yellowed with it, and her feet were coated with the stuff. It was slippery at first, before it dried.

That gave her an idea. No one was watching her. They had not paid her any attention since they had brought her here, early this morning. Alaira leaned back far enough to work her hands around in the clay, to coat them completely with the moist, slick stuff. The ropes that bound her were covered with it. She tugged experimentally. There was a little give to them now, and the rope on her right wrist slid downward slightly. Encouraged, she set to work, ignoring the furious pain of her cramped arms and back. The ropes would soon chafe her wrists raw. She did not care. She had to get out of here.

Guards at the barriers before the wall road were stubborn in refusing to let Chela, Briana, and Erissa pass. Priestesses or no, no non-soldiers were to be allowed anywhere near the southern gate. Briana was in no mood for patient reasoning. The city oppressed her. The frightened crowds in the streets, the sullen, closed-in feeling of the Temple behind her, the high walls and the roar of battle between her and her child—all only added to her frustration.

She could sense the Hidden Temple as if it were a few feet ahead of her. The Goddess’s Seat was no longer shielded. It blazed with Power, so wild and fierce that Briana wondered how anyone could direct it. The clashing spells in the fog outside the walls were so complex and far-ranging that it would have to take all the concentration of Gemon, Ocasta, and the four old women to merely send them to the right places. They dared to use the pretended face and voice of the Goddess Herself to urge on the Kerisians. These were the true believers Rithia and the city Temple preferred to follow.

“At least send a messenger,” Chela said, when shouting failed to produce any results. “Send someone to Commander Kyellan or the wizard Gwydion. I tell you, they’re expecting us.”

“It’s the Commander himself who ordered us not to let any civilians through,” said a heavyset man in a corporal’s uniform. He held a long spear in a tight grip.

“Civilians!” Chela shouted. “Idiot, I fought in the war against the wizards, and so did the priestess here. What were you doing then? Hoping they’d come buy something from your shop?”

The man’s face grew ugly, and he waved his spear at them. “Get back. I don’t have time to argue with girls.”

“There they are,” Erissa said quietly, at Briana’s elbow. She pointed at two men riding at the side of a marching column. Both wore officers’ uniforms, mail shirts, heavy cloaks, and black iron helmets, but they were unmistakeably Kyellan and Gwydion.

The noise of battle muffled everything, but Chela’s shriek probably carried to the top of the wall and onto the field beyond. “Gwydion! Over here!”

The wizard’s head turned sharply, and he motioned to Kyellan. The Commander halted the column and spurred his horse through the ranks of guards before the gate barricades. Gwydion followed more slowly on his own mount. The guard who had been so menacing now looked nervous. Erissa grinned at him.

Briana drew herself up to stand erect and still as she waited. Her cheeks burned like a girl’s. Gwydion must have told Kyellan what had happened at the Temple. He knew of her disgrace. Briana could not let him see the despair she still felt. She had to hide it from him, beneath her fierce determination to find her child. She pictured herself, bruised and cut in her bedraggled First Priestess finery, and could scarcely bring herself to meet Kyellan’s eyes when he dismounted and hurried over to her.

Erissa backed away a step, wide-eyed. Kyellan did look frightening, Briana thought; every inch the murdering soldier Rithia had named him. His black armor was clean, but his cloak and sash were spattered with blood. It was smeared on his face, and on his trousers where he had wiped his hands and his knife clean on it. He was unshaven and haggard, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead beneath the rim of his helmet. His dark eyes were troubled, full of something that was too fierce to be pity.

Briana tried to smile at him, and began to cry. She should not have looked into his eyes. Damn it. Kyellan brushed the stammering guard aside, and put a heavy, mailed arm around her shoulders. “Oh, Briana,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. They’re cursed fools, all of them in that Temple. They aren’t worthy of you.”

“I don’t care … about the Temple,” Briana said. “I just want to get Cian away from Gemon. We have to save him, Ky. You’ve never even … seen him.” She could not stop her tears. He led her slowly toward his waiting horse.

Briana thought that she should feel repulsed by him. Chela had told her Pima’s story of the treacherous meeting between the Queen and Werlinen, and how Kyellan had killed a man in cold blood and had tried to assassinate the Prince. It was the Kerisian officer’s blood on him, Briana supposed. It was an outrage against the Goddess. But she felt only comfort as she walked with his arm around her.

Chela walked ahead of Gwydion, anger evident in her occasional glances at the wizard. There was something between them that Briana did not understand. Some argument. She supposed they would soon be reconciled. Erissa trailed after Briana and Kyellan. Her plain, childish face resisted the obvious knowledge that she would have to be left behind.

Briana ducked away from Kyellan for a moment and went to hug the young novice. “You can’t come with us, little sister. You must wait for us to come back.”

“I want to fight them,” Erissa said, outraged. “I have Power, you know I do. I want to stay with you.”

“You’ve never had to use your Power in battle. If we’re successful, I pray that you will never have to. Erissa, you don’t have the knowledge or the discipline necessary. You’ve been taught to resist anything that seems like wizard magic. You’d only endanger yourself, and the rest of us as well.”

“Do you think I’m too young?” Erissa demanded. “Chela is fifteen, she told me so. That’s only three years older than me. I fought beside you in the Temple.”

“I have not forgotten that,” Briana said solemnly. “You saved me. Now I want you to go to the palace and tell Pima and Yalna and the Queen where we’ve gone. Do you understand? Tell me you’ll obey me.”

The girl looked down shyly. “You’re the First Priestess. It’s my duty to obey you. All right. But promise me you’ll come back.”

“Of course I will.” Briana kissed her. “I still haven’t taught you the Binding Dance, have I?”

Kyellan waited impatiently by his horse, a huge, broad-backed Ryasan charger. It could easily carry two. Gwydion’s mount was the same type. He and Chela were already up on it. Briana left Erissa standing forlornly by the barricade, and went to Kyellan.

She got one foot in the high stirrup, and swung up with Kyellan’s strong hands at her waist. He mounted behind her, and took the reins, his hands above her lap and his mail-shirt pressing into her back. The warhorse pranced heavily and started forward.

Captain Oman, the Hoabi mercenary, looked confused as his Commander rode to the front of the Third Division column with Briana on his saddle. No doubt the soldier had thought Alaira was the Commander’s lady. And, no doubt, he was horrified at the thought of taking two women into battle. But he was a professional. Briana caught a sour look in her direction, then Oman shouted orders for his men to march. They started toward the southeastern gate, as the battle raged beyond the walls over their right shoulders. It was the middle of the morning.

Chapter Twenty

The southeastern gate was manned by city recruits and a few First Division men. The battle had not come to them. They watched almost with envy as Kyellan led Third Division through the gate and out into the strange, barren landscape beyond the walls. Where the priestesses’ fog had been, the land was beaten down, cut in ditches and deep chasms, flattened out beneath the weight of floodwaters into a muddy plain. Horses sank to their hocks in the mud, and infantrymen to their ankles. The progress of the soldiers was measured in wet, sucking sounds as the ground released them for their next steps.

The horses grew more reluctant as Kyellan turned the column toward the south. The heavy, black curtain of the Hidden Temple’s fog was closer with every step. It was shot through with touches of white flame like lightning. Kyellan had no Power, but even he could feel its hostility, the danger it represented. Kyellan wondered how stupid he was really being, to ride toward a magical battle without a trace of magic to call upon. The three thousand men who followed him might be headed for a trap more devastating than Shalkir.

“The land will be fertile this spring,” Briana said in front of him on the horse.

“I suppose so,” Kyellan muttered. It would take the farmers months before planting began to level out the land enough to plow the rich flood-soil under. They would have to fill in the ditches, and build up new banks for the wayward streams.

“It shows something of what the Power of the Goddess’s Seat can do when it’s turned to good purpose,” Briana said. “We have to get it away from them.” She was silent then, and Kyellan heard a whispered prayer under her breath. Perhaps she was strengthening her shields. Gwydion and Chela rode just behind them, and both of them wore intent, self-absorbed expressions as they worked to keep the Hidden Temple from noticing them. Kyellan wondered if all their Power would be enough to face Gemon and her followers. But he did not see that they had a choice.

Alaira almost had her hands free when she felt a gentle touch behind her, and a soft whisper that said, “Not yet. Wait a little, my sister.”

Gemon and the others were drunk with their Power, urging on their illusions in the battle, miles away. They were oblivious to anything that was happening within the crumbling, muddy canyon. Gemon held the Shape-Changer child over her head. The baby was oddly stiff and still, and Alaira would have guessed that he was dead if she had not been able to sense the wizard’s Power that flowed from him into the priestesses’ circle.

Alaira tried to turn to see behind her, but the gentle hands grew firm on her shoulders, keeping her facing the same direction. “Who are you?” Alaira breathed. The canyon was so filled with Gemon’s angry Power that it was almost impossible to sense anything else. Yet, she felt a peaceful strength coming from behind her, a sense of beauty that did not belong in the midst of this war.

“Can you not guess?” said the voice, faintly amused.

“The messenger,” Alaira whispered. “The real one.” Even as she said it, she told herself that it was nonsense. She had never really believed in the Goddess; why should She take any special notice of Alaira?

“Interfering again,” said the low, feminine voice. “Despite my standing orders against it. But I helped to begin this, and I think my help will be needed to see it finished.”

“Can you stop them?” Alaira looked over at the priestesses.

“No. But I can suggest and counsel, and help you find a way to do it. Remain where you are, unnoticed until the time comes. Gemon carries a knife in her belt, which she means to use to kill the child Cian. Think of what you know of the Shape-Changer’s Power, and how that knife could be used to bring him into the world.” Va’shindi paused. “I cannot be more clear. You will know what to do when the time is right. Be brave, my sister.” Alaira felt a soft kiss on her cheek, and then the presence was gone. She sat very still, with the ropes hanging half off her wrists, and tried to puzzle out the messenger’s hints.

“A bargain, Shape-Changer.”

The words touched him where he floated in despair. He recognized the voice immediately. He had imitated it often enough. He was terrified. Surely the Goddess’s messenger had come to pass judgment on him for impersonating her in his schemes.

“A … a bargain?” he stammered in his mind-voice. He could not see Va’shindi, but the white glow of her Power lit the spirit road ahead of him like the fire of a summer dawn.

“A proposal,” said the voice coolly. “A suggestion. To get you at least part of what you want. But if you agree to it, you must swear to be bound by it, or I will leave you to your fate. Do you understand?”

He uncurled his spirit form, embarrassed to face a being of such Power like a cowering child. “What is it that you propose?”

“Listen.”

They had reached the edge of the fogbank. Kyellan slid from his horse’s back and lifted Briana down. Gwydion and Chela dismounted as well, and so did the Third Division cavalry at Kyellan’s command. Captain Oman walked forward to stand with them before the eerie wall of mist.

“Should we leave the horses behind, Commander?”

Kyellan shook his head. “We’ll lead them with us. The footing is sure to be bad, with a lot more of these ditches and maybe some flooding. At least on the way in, we’ll move very slowly. But we may have to get out quickly, and we’ll need the horses then. Are you ready?” He looked toward his friends.

Briana, Gwydion, and Chela had finished their separate preparations. Gwydion glanced uneasily at Kyellan, and muttered, “You won’t even consider calling him? You’ll be walking in unprotected.”

“With three thousand soldiers at my back?” Kyellan said. “I feel safe enough. Let’s go.” Briana smiled at him and took his hand. The soldiers looked at one another with grim faces, and loosened their weapons in their sheaths before they followed.

They stepped into the mist. Cold, damp air surrounded them, so laden with moisture that Kyellan thought he was breathing water. Briana’s hand tightened on his, and she shivered, but walked slowly forward. Behind them came Gwydion and Chela, side by side but not touching. Then was Captain Oman, scowling, hand on his sword hilt. The dismounted cavalry followed, leading their horses, then the infantry of Third Division, already tired from forcing their way through the mud toward the fogbank. The fog swallowed up the last of them.

Kyellan led his horse with his right hand, as Briana walked at his left. The ground was fairly even so far, and no weird shapes materialized to leer at them from the darkness. Kyellan remembered when he had commanded the Power of the Goddess’s Seat himself, in the battle with the wizards Belaric and Onedon. It had been the first wakening of his Shape-Changer half. The priestesses called the Seat a focus of Power, but it was also a source. He had felt invincible, omnipotent, when he had sat on its oversized throne. No doubt Gemon felt the same way now. It was probably an idiot’s gambit to oppose her.

“Goddess, be with us,” Briana whispered. She prayed quietly as she walked. Kyellan recognized the three names of the Goddess, but the rest was in the Old Tongue of the priestesses. He kept hold of her hand and walked carefully, straining his eyes to see ahead of him, watching the ground for sudden changes. The tale of the S’tari horsetraders was vivid in his mind. He thought of flash floods, and forced his mind away from the picture.

“We should link with one another,” Chela said from behind him. “It’s foolish to face them separately.”

“Not yet,” Gwydion answered. “We’d have to open our shields to do it. As soon as we do, they’ll know we’re coming. Wait.”

Kyellan felt ground crumble beneath his foot, and he pulled back quickly. A shallow ditch lay inches from his boot. Beyond it, a three-foot high fence marked some farmer’s boundary. The ditch was probably the farmer’s, too. No more than a drainage conduit. Kyellan laughed at his own fears. There was a wooden gate a few yards down, wide enough to get the horses through.

His horse stopped in its tracks. Kyellan tugged at the reins. It was a well-trained warhorse, but it did not move. Its eyes were wide, with the whites gleaming around the dark pupils. Kyellan heard curses from the cavalry. He let go of Briana’s hand and walked to one side of the horse, to push at it and try to get it off balance so that it would move. The horse lay back its ears and turned its head with teeth bared.

“They won’t go on,” Gwydion said. “There’s a barrier. They won’t obey mental commands, either.”

“Leave the horses, then,” Kyellan said at last. Damn it, he hated to think of the animals left alone in this haunted fog. Who could tell how many of them would find their way back out again. “Come on. We don’t have time to wait.”

Briana stepped across the shallow ditch and climbed over the stone wall. Kyellan followed her, with Gwydion and Chela close behind. He glanced back, and saw Captain Oman standing with an almost comical look of dismay on his face. The mercenary had one foot raised. He leaned forward as if against a strong wind, but his predicament was obvious. He could not cross the ditch. Other soldiers attempted it. They cursed and strained and threw themselves against the invisible barrier, but none of them could cross.

“They’re only letting us through,” Chela said in a small voice. “They want to face us, but not the soldiers.”

“Then they know we’re coming.” Kyellan felt cold.

“Maybe not. Maybe they set this here a long time ago. I don’t feel any awareness yet,” Briana said.

“Commander,” Oman called, “what should we do?”

In frustration, Kyellan looked at the short distance that divided them. “Don’t wait for us. Take your men around the edge of the fog and attack Werlinen’s army from the rear. Cut off their lines of communication with Tramorr, and give them two fronts to deal with.”

“And you, sir?”

“We’re going on,” Kyellan said. “Against the Hidden Temple.”

Oman shook his head. “Luck go with you, Commander,” he said with little confidence. He called to his men, and they struck out along the edge of the barrier ditch toward the west.

“Now,” Chela said. “Gwydion, we should link together now.”

The wizard nodded, and reached his gloved hands toward her. Kyellan could almost see the energy leaping between them, as Chela’s face grew thoughtful, as Gwydion’s golden eyes widened and stilled. It seemed a very short time before they turned as one and looked at Briana.

The priestess shook her head. “No. I won’t link with you now. I’m going to try some things of my own, between me and the Goddess. I need to know … what I can expect from Her. Come.” She turned to Kyellan. “Walk with me.” He took her hand again, and they set out over the fog-shrouded field.

Briana could feel the pressure ahead of her increasing with every step. It was a pressure that made her eyes hurt, her ears ring, her skin feel like a massive bruise. The Goddess’s Seat was just ahead. Chela and Gwydion had begun to chant together, a round spell of shielding that spread outward to protect Kyellan and Briana as well. The words in the wizards’ language spiraled around them in an endless circle, folding in upon themselves like the spokes of a wheel. The pattern of the spell was strong. Both the wizard and his companion had drawn on reserves of Power to overcome the remaining backlash from last night. The shielding was renewed with each pass of the circular spell.

It was like a taunting shout to the Hidden Temple. We are coming. We are here. The Power-laced fog suddenly thickened around them, and hallucinatory figures sprang out at them to gibber and shriek around the edges of Gwydion and Chela’s shielding. Kyellan drew his sword, letting go of Briana’s hand. They walked on slowly into the realm of chaos. Earth cracked and crumbled at their feet, but the wizards’ spell kept them from falling, and found them ways around the sudden chasms. Briana could have moved toward her enemies blinded, deafened, asleep. Their Power was that strong and that focused. It blazed like a beacon ahead of them.

A tall Kerisian soldier in black and yellow armor suddenly stepped out of the fog, armed with a longsword. Kyellan leaped in front of Briana with his sword raised, but when the enemy touched the edge of Gwydion and Chela’s spell, he vanished. Kyellan cursed softly and resumed walking just ahead of them. Briana was afraid for him. She knew that Gwydion was right. It was foolish for a man without Power to attempt to face Gemon and her followers.

Briana did not know how long the wizards’ spell could protect Kyellan. She wanted to send him away, to sent him back to the other battle, where he could fight with skill and strength. But she could not bring herself to say it, and she did not want to be parted from him.

Suddenly, a huge canyon opened up before them, and Briana could see the Goddess’s Seat. The vast stone chair dwarfed the black-clad women who stood on its lower steps. The canyon was an imitation of the one along the Tarnsea coast where Briana had first seen the Goddess’s Seat. A trail led down into it from the top, a narrow path cut into the soft loam. Far down below, Briana could see the small form that blazed with Power in Gemon’s arms. It was her son, Cian. She saw Alaira sitting off to one side in the foggy canyon, looking up toward the rim where they stood.

Gwydion and Chela stepped ahead of Kyellan and Briana, chanting their circular spell in childish, sing-song voices that belied the Power they were using to maintain it. Kyellan took Briana’s hand with the hand that was not holding his sword. They started down the path.

Briana felt the unstable earth beneath her feet on the narrow trail. Soil fell away as they walked, shaken loose with every step. The Hidden Temple began to batter against Gwydion and Chela’s shield with the force of a gale. Power howled around the four of them, concentrated hatred, meant to kill.

She might not be consecrated as First Priestess, Briana thought. But she was more than a match for Gemon if the girl stood alone, without her allies and the Goddess’s Seat. If only she could find a way to break Gemon’s concentration and break the links. She wanted to kill the young fanatic, more than she could remember ever wanting to hurt anything before.

Cianya, Wiolai, maybe you are still with me, Briana thought. You won’t be much help. Rahshaiya’s Power is what I need. It is Her year. If I could not summon her before to bind her, perhaps I can summon her with the promise of battle.

The ritual was difficult even in the quiet sanctity of the Temple of the Altar. Here, in the maelstrom of the Hidden Temple’s unrelenting attack, it was hard to remember the proper words. But Briana raised her voice in prayer, with an authority in her that the pretender First Priestess Ocasta could never muster. The women of the Hidden Temple seemed to recognize what she was trying to do. Briana could sense their horror. She was proving to them that she was a heretic. She did not care. She no longer wanted to be a part of the Temple anyway.

Alaira watched the four of them struggling down the path like fish trying to swim against a raging current. She could feel the ferocity of the Power that faced them. Now was the time, she thought. This was what Va’shindi had meant. They could not succeed without the Power of the Shape-Changer. And Gemon’s knife was the way to call him into the world.

Alaira remembered the eerie conversation she had had with the wizard in the hospital, when he had briefly possessed a dying man. That was the answer; someone had to die to give him a body to return to. Alaira thought briefly of killing herself, and calling him with her last breath. No. An hour ago, in her despair, she might have done it. Now she had hope again. Va’shindi had spoken to her. There was a chance, with one so powerful on their side.

She rubbed her hands together, breaking the soft scabs that had formed on her wrists. The pain renewed her determination. Alaira felt the ropes fall away. She looked toward the priestesses. Their attention was focused on their four enemies, as they reached the floor of the canyon. Alaira got to her feet in a crouch, and began to creep toward the side of the Goddess’s Seat.

Briana’s breath came short, in a wheezing, painful rhythm, and the words of her chant were only whispered now. She had managed to summon some strength with her ritual, but she did not think that Rahshaiya had answered. The Death-Bringer was probably preoccupied with the carnage outside Cavernon City’s southern gate. Briana had merely tapped some deep level of her own Power. It was not helping much.

Gwydion and Chela struggled to continue their circle spell, but the force that opposed them was too great. They stood together on the canyon floor, incapable of moving forward. Briana managed to take a step. It was like walking through drying mud, as if the air was becoming solid. She spoke the old ritual words, and in her mind she called to Rahshaiya: I will give you deaths if you come to me. I will kill them all if you help me. Why do you not answer?

Ocasta spoke to Gemon in a hoarse voice. “The battle is being lost. We must turn our attention there. They cannot take the city.”

Gemon answered without taking her attention away from the link she controlled. “The city … does not matter, old woman. This is the true battle. The enemies … of the Goddess … must be destroyed.”

“You are the enemies of the Goddess!” Briana cried out. Her voice echoed through the dark canyon. She drew her ritual to a close and struck out with more Power than she could remember ever commanding before. A shield flew up to face her, made of golden fire. They used her own child’s Power against her. Briana was enraged. She walked forward toward them, across the soft clay of the canyon floor.

Then Briana felt a bolt of force like a battering ram, directed around her at Gwydion and Chela’s shield. The spell was shattered, and the two of them fell to their knees. Behind them, Kyellan staggered backward, his sword held up as if to protect him. The Power he faced was inexorable. He was driven against the dirt of the canyon wall and splayed out like a trapped insect. Briana turned and ran back toward him, trying to drive a wedge of her hard-won Power between Kyellan and the Hidden Temple.

“Rahshaiya,” she cried, “Rahshaiya, oh, Goddess, help me …”

He could not move. He could not breathe. Kyellan could only see straight ahead, the Goddess’s Seat and Briana running to him.

“Call the Shape-Changer,” Gwydion moaned between clenched teeth. Kyellan could not see him. “Damn you, Ky, they’re killing you!”

Briana hurtled against him and clutched his shoulders. He could scarcely feel her hands. He was flattened against the dirt with the weight of a fortress built upon his chest. He was helpless, powerless against this vast force. Yet he could not do it. He could not call the wizard and give up his body to him again. Better to die, he thought. What difference was there between death and a half-life imprisoned inside the wizard’s mind?

Kyellan heard a wordless cry of rage, and saw the sudden leap Alaira made across the stairs of the Goddess’s Seat to brush against Gemon. Alaira fell back with something glittering in her hand. A bright light gathered quickly around Gemon, but Alaira did not try to attack her. She turned, and flung herself upon one of the older priestesses. The knife rose and fell; the old woman screamed; Kyellan heard Alaira call out to the Shape-Changer in a desperate voice. He realized what she had done. She had killed the old priestess to give the wizard spirit a body to inhabit.

The sledgehammer force that crushed him lessened a little, and Kyellan found that he could breathe again. Alaira’s action had broken part of Gemon’s carefully constructed pattern. Now Gemon turned to Alaira. The Hidden Temple priestess held Cian high in the air. From his small form came a white-hot blaze of Power that even Kyellan could see. The flame hit Alaira, and flung her bodily off the Goddess’s Seat. She landed in the dirt a few feet from the bottom step, as limp as a discarded rag.

A vast, dark shape suddenly appeared, hovering over the narrow gorge. It was the face of an ancient woman, a toothless hag, terrible and violent, with eyes that were so old Kyellan thought they might have watched the world being made. A wrinkled hand of fog reached down toward Alaira.

“No,” Kyellan whispered.

“It is Rahshaiya,” Briana said weakly. The priestess still fought to keep Kyellan shielded, but she was tiring.

The old woman that Alaira had slain got up from where she had fallen, and rose to her feet. There was an odd stiffness about her movements. The other Hidden Temple priestesses stared at her. She raised her arms and began to chant in a familiar voice, the Shape-Changer’s voice. Gemon and Ocasta and the other three old women scrambled away from her, climbing higher onto the Goddess’s Seat.

Rahshaiya’s withered hand was about to touch Alaira. “No,” Kyellan said. “You can’t take her …”

But there was another woman beside Alaira now, kneeling there with one hand raised in a warding gesture. A maiden all of smoke, her beauty made of flame and darkness. It was Va’shindi, looking more fierce than Kyellan had seen her before. The Death-Bringer’s hand withdrew, but she still hovered over them all, a stormcloud of ancient bitterness and desire.

Va’shindi turned toward Kyellan and beckoned to him. The old woman who had become the Shape-Changer walked down the steps of the Goddess’s Seat. Kyellan could see the gapping wound in her breast, where the black robe was torn. Her eyes gleamed yellow, like a beast’s. Kyellan found that he could move. He obeyed Va’shindi, glancing back at his friends.

Briana had renewed her attack on Gemon, and the Hidden Temple priestess called forth all the Power she commanded to fight back. Briana was stumbling backward, faced with the same pressing weight Gemon had used against Kyellan. Gwydion and Chela were both trapped, unable to move at all, struggling to retain consciousness. Gemon laughed, and held out the golden-haired baby mockingly, channeling her strength through Cian. She was going to kill them all, Kyellan thought.

“Do something!” he shouted at the Shape-Changer in the old woman’s form. The walking corpse stopped beside Alaira’s still body, and spread its hands helplessly.

“My … abilities are limited in this form.”

“There was a bargain made,” Va’shindi said. “I agreed to save Alaira’s life. The Shape-Changer agreed to submit to your control, if you call him back into your body. An equal partnership. And so it is up to you, Kyellan.”

“What if I refuse?” Kyellan whispered.

“Then Rahshaiya takes Alaira, and the Shape-Changer returns to the spirit road.” Va’shindi’s dark eyes were calm. “And your friends are defeated, and you yourself are slain by Gemon and Ocasta. The Hidden Temple wins the Power it seeks, and Werlinen of Keris takes Cavernon City.” She shrugged, as if to disclaim responsibility. “There is a balance to be righted. You are the focal point. It is unavoidable.”

There was no time for debate. Gemon had climbed to the throne at the top of the Goddess’s Seat. She held Cian clutched in her arms. He would be another to die, without the Shape-Changer. Briana was crouched with her hands before her face, and Gwydion and Chela had fallen to the ground. Ocasta wore a look of self-satisfied triumph. She did not seem to see either Rahshaiya or Va’shindi, this woman who claimed to be the voice of the Goddess on the earth.

“Yes,” Kyellan said. “If it isn’t too late. I call the Shape-Changer back into me.”

The words were all the ritual needed. The body of the murdered priestess sagged and fell beside Alaira, and Kyellan felt the wizard spirit enter him. Power filled him, a familiar golden light, and in the dark place where his soul was kept he felt a blazing spirit entwine with his, filling a void he had not known was there.

“An equal partnership,” whispered a sardonic voice in his mind. Kyellan was stunned by the addition of the Shape-Changer’s knowledge and memories to his own. He was a wizard now, who had trained himself at Akesh to equal the most powerful sorcerer. Yet, as the Shape-Changer had promised Va’shindi, he was still Kyellan. He felt good. He felt whole. Power welled up in him at his call, and he turned to face the Hidden Temple.

Alaira woke from what had seemed a dreamless sleep. Her body ached, but the beautiful face that looked down at her seemed to bring healing with a glance. She realized that this was the voice that had spoken to her. Alaira grinned at the Goddess’s messenger, and sat up slowly. “Did I do it right?”

The woman smiled at her gravely. “You did very well. You turned the battle around. Now you may remain here for its aftermath, or I will take you wherever you might wish to go.”

Alaira saw Briana getting to her feet and going to Kyellan. The soldier made a splendid figure in his armor and helmet and cloak, and Gemon was screaming at him as he advanced on her with his hands raised. He was chanting. Alaira felt the Power emanating from him. He was half-wizard again. Briana reached his side, and he put an arm around her. The two of them smiled at one another as they joined their strength to face their enemies.

“She needs him more than I do,” Alaira said ruefully. “And he loves her more than he does me. There’s no point in staying around for the end of it. I did kidnap the baby, after all, even if he wasn’t really Prince Duarnan. I wouldn’t be welcome back in Cavernon City.”

Va’shindi helped her to her feet and took her hand. “I will give them the message that you are safe and well. Now where would you like to go?”

“How about Erinon? At least I speak the language.” Alaira felt strangely cheerful. She had spent most of her life expecting Kyellan to take care of her. She felt a new sense of freedom, a feeling that her fate was her own to make. There was nothing she needed to take with her.

She watched Kyellan’s face as she felt herself lifted into a place that must be the spirit road. She would miss him, and she supposed he would miss her, too. The familiar features of her childhood companion began to blur as she left the canyon with Va’shindi, and Alaira whispered, “Luck go with you.”

Kyellan had heard Alaira’s conversation with Va’shindi with his augmented wizard senses; he had not been able to let go his concentration long enough to argue with Alaira that she should stay. He knew now that she had done it to try to protect him. As the Shape-Changer, now he was the one responsible for the abduction of Prince Duarnan. He would send word to Alaira in Erinon that she did not need to fear returning to Cavernon City. But he wondered if she would return even when she knew it was safe. He had sensed a finality about her words, and a deep sadness within him told him that this part of his life was over.

Kyellan and Briana had forged a steel link the moment they had touched, and the strength of the Shape-Changer and the First Priestess together had begun to unravel Gemon’s overwrought web. Behind them, Gwydion and Chela were recovering their composure, and the wizard and his lover moved to attack Gemon’s links with the other old women of the Hidden Temple. Kyellan and Briana concentrated their Power on the channel between Gemon and Cian. There was a moment when the balance of forces was about even, but then Gemon wavered as one of the old women collapsed and withdrew from the circle.

It was a matter of a few minutes before Gemon stood alone. Her connection with the Goddess’s Seat faded as the bonds of the Hidden Temple were dissolved. She faced Briana and Kyellan like a cornered wildcat, standing on the throne of the huge stone structure that was no longer hers to command. Released from her control, the three-month-old baby cried in her arms and flailed out with his own unshielded Power. Kyellan felt his son like an extended arm, another part of him. The feeling of kinship was intense.

The three old women who had once been Second Rank priestesses from the Khymer Temple all walked down to the canyon floor to surrender. Ocasta stood near the middle of the steps, still disbelieving, but all her aged store of Power had been used up, and she had nothing left with which to resist. Kyellan and Briana climbed the steps of the Goddess’s Seat. The vast Power of the throne churned beneath them, no longer focused or controlled.

“Damn you!” Gemon shrieked as they approached her. “Damn you all … servants of Darkness … enemies of the Goddess!”

Suddenly she lifted the baby in her arms up over her head, ready to throw him down against the stones. Kyellan let go of Briana and took the stairs two at a time, reaching ahead of himself with Power to slow Cian’s fall. He caught his son on the way down. They both landed at Gemon’s feet, as Kyellan twisted to hit the stones on his side, holding the baby protectively against his body.

Gemon stared down at them. The fanatic hatred seemed to drain from her thin, pale face. She nodded once, slowly, as if to acknowledge her defeat. Then she stepped sideways and threw herself over the side of the throne’s arm. She fell without a sound to the earth below. Kyellan had not had time to think to lunge and stop her, and Cian would have been in his way if he had tried.

Rahshaiya still waited over the canyon. Perhaps the Goddess’s third aspect had known that one more death would come of this. Now her smoky arm reached down to touch Gemon’s slack, upturned face. Kyellan did not see the young novice’s soul leave her body, but Rahshaiya folded her arms to her chest like a mother holding a baby. She looked down over the rest of them with weary acceptance in her hooded eyes.

“Until midwinter, First Priestess,” she said in a voice that raised the hairs along Kyellan’s spine and made Cian wail in his father’s arms. Then a light wind blew over them, thinning the fog, and Rahshaiya was gone.

“She spoke to me,” Ocasta said in a shrill voice. “I am the consecrated First Priestess. Nothing can change that.”

Briana had paused in horror to watch Gemon’s fall. Now she climbed the last few steps to the throne. Kyellan held Cian out, and his mother took him in her arms. She held the baby gingerly, scarcely able to believe that he was real. “He needs new shields,” she said with a grimace, as if suggesting that a diaper needed changing. Kyellan laughed, and pulled her into a fierce hug, careful of the baby.

“Did you hear me, Briana?” Ocasta demanded. “I said …”

“You’re welcome to the Temple,” Briana said. “I won’t be needing it.”

Kyellan looked at Briana in amazement. “What do you mean?”

Her green eyes smiled at him. “I can’t stop serving the Goddess, but I’ll have to work outside the Order. I’ll gather women to help me, with Erissa the first of them. Maybe I’ll try to build a new Temple.” She laughed at the disappointment in his face. “But I won’t be bound by the rules of the old one. I’ve been thinking how the S’tari priestesses live. They serve Va’shindi with great devotion, but … they have full lives, they have families.”

She was saying that they could be together. Kyellan looked at her upturned face in wonder. He had waited for this. He had wanted it even when he had been with Alaira, but now he could scarcely believe it was possible. “Is that a promise?” he asked.

There were tears in her eyes again. “I love you, Kyellan. It’s … selfish of me, but I want to be with you, and serve the Goddess as well.”

“I think She would approve,” Kyellan said with a wide smile. He bent to kiss her, and then he kissed the baby. Cian’s yellow eyes blinked at him, and the baby smiled. Kyellan could feel the infant’s unshielded Power. His own newfound Power still burned at a fierce level. He would use some restraining spells to take it down to where he would barely notice it unless he needed it again.

Gwydion and Chela stood with their arms around each other on the canyon floor. They had sent a probe over the fogbank with the last of their battle link. “The Kerisians are disengaging from the fighting,” Gwydion called up to the three on the Goddess’s Seat. “Werlinen died of his knife wounds. What now? Back to the city?”

Kyellan wondered what Tobas would make of all this. He did not think he could explain it to the Earl or the Queen. It was enough for them to know that the Seat of the Goddess was back in good hands, and the threat was over. Now that Kyellan had Power, perhaps he could work with Briana in her healing mission for the Kingdoms.

“Erissa and Yalna will be glad to see us,” Briana said. “And Pima will be so happy to see Cian safe at last. He’ll have two mothers now. That may be enough to keep him under control.”

Kyellan looked at her and at the child, feeling a joy so great that he could not smile. He spoke gravely. “I think this is what your Goddess meant all along. I love you so much, Briana.”

She shifted Cian’s weight to one hip, and reached up with her other hand to pull Kyellan’s face down to hers. She kissed him again, a promise of better to come, as the fog began to lift over the canyon of the Goddess’s Seat.

TK Scanned and proofed. FEB 2011. (v1.0) (html)