The Outcast
    Book 2 of the Time Master Trilogy
    by Louise Cooper
    Version 1.0
    
    Chapter 1
    
    'I'm telling you, you won't find better foodstuffs any-
    where in Shu, or Prospect or Han for that matter!' The
    market trader thrust a handful of dark pinkish-purple
    roots under his customer's nose and brandished them
    almost threateningly. 'And I've better things to do on a
    market day than waste my time with an outland slut who
    probably hasn't even got a coin to her name - so make
    your mind up now, before I set my dog on you!'
    
    The mangy cross-breed hound that was sprawled inel-
    egantly under the rickety stall glowered jaundicedly at
    his master, and the girl the trader had addressed stared
    back coldly, unimpressed. She was too experienced a
    haggler these days to pay any attention to threats or
    insults; she had judged the quality of the fruit and veg-
    etables on offer and made her own decision as to their
    worth. She thrust a dirty hand into her belt-pouch and
    pulled out a tarnished brass coin.
    
    'I said a quarter-gravine and I meant a quarter. Take it
    or leave it.'
    
    For a moment the man glared at her, resenting her
    manner, the fact that she refused to be intimidated, the
    ignominy of having to barter with a woman - and a low-
    class of woman - in the first place. But it was obvious she
    didn't intend to give way, and a sale was a sale . . .
    Winter business was slack at the best of times.
    
    He snatched the money ungraciously and dumped the
    roots into the hemp bag she held out.
    
    'And the fruit,' she said.
    
    Resentfully he threw six shrivelled pears in after the
    vegetables, then spat on the ground at her feet. 'There!
    And may cats eat your carcass!'
    
    Quickly, reflexively, the girl made a gesture before
    her own face intended to ward off curses and negate the
    evil eye, and for a moment the look in her peculiar
    amber eyes made the trader feel distinctly uncomfort-
    able. Something about her had raised his hackles; she
    was a coastal Easterner to judge by her accent, and they
    weren't noted for feyness . . . but as she made that sign
    he'd felt as if the venom in his own words was being
    palpably turned back on him.
    
    Ah, damn the woman. Nothing but a peasant girl in
    handed-down men's clothes ... he had her money in
    his pocket, and that was what counted. Nonetheless, he
    watched her surreptitiously as she walked away, and the
    unease only left him when she had finally merged with
    the crowd and vanished from sight.
    
    Cyllan Anassan swallowed her anger as she headed back
    through the market square towards her uncle's pitch on
    the outskirts of the clusters of stalls. She should be
    accustomed, by now, to the attitude of such men,
    especially here in the more affluent South - they
    expected a girl of her age and lowly status to be at best a
    simpleton; and when they failed to palm her off with the
    dregs of their produce at extortionate prices, they
    resorted to abuse. Admittedly Shu-Nhadek - province
    capital of Shu - was an improvement on many towns she
    had visited, but the cavalier treatment still rankled. And
    when all was said and done, she had come away with
    substandard foodstuffs that would take twice the cook-
    ing to make them palatable.
    
    She would have liked to linger at the better end of the
    market and choose from the succulent vegetables on sale
    there - and, she admitted to herself, have had the secret
    pleasure of mingling with the high-clan folk who graced
    those stalls with their custom - but the thought of her
    uncle's rage at such profligacy had deterred her. If he
    was sober she'd feel the buckle of his belt across her
    back; if he was drunk he would probably kick her from
    one end of the square to the other.
    
    Unconsciously goaded by that thought, she quickened 
    her steps, muttering an apology as she bumped against a
    group of well-dressed women who were gossiping beside
    a stand selling sweetmeats and wine, and tried to make
    haste through the crowd. But now that she had left the
    cheaper and less well-patronised section of the market
    behind, haste was impossible; the press of people had
    simply become too great. And the temptation to dawdle
    was irresistible; this was her first visit to Shu-Nhadek,
    and there was so much to see and take in. All around her
    the huge market square was filled with colour and move-
    ment; in the distance the jumbled rooftops and pastel-
    washed walls of the tall old buildings rose to frame the
    picture, and further away still, if she craned her neck to
    look, the slender masts of ships riding at anchor in the
    harbour were just visible. Shu-Nhadek was the largest
    and oldest sea-port in the entire land; sheltered in the
    South-facing Bay of Illusions and served by the kindly
    currents of the Summerisle Straits, it was a perfect year-
    round haven for traders and travellers alike. Most of the
    major drove-roads terminated at the town, and its prox-
    imity to the Summer Isle, home of the High Margrave
    himself, lent it a status no other province capital could
    hope to match. People from every walk of life imagin-
    able could be found here; wealthy merchants, crafts-
    men, farmers, drovers like her uncle's band, white-
    robed Sisters of Aeoris, even men and women from the
    Summer Isle taking a respite from the formalities of
    court life. And on the two days of the monthly market,
    the town's population increased fivefold. Cyllan could
    have simply stood by and watched the bustle from dawn
    to dusk without ever growing bored.
    
    At last though, she was forced to stop altogether to
    allow a groom with several Southern blood-horses to
    lead his charges across her path. Waiting, Cyllan stared
    enviously at the tall, elegant animals - a far cry from the
    stocky and evil-tempered little pony she herself rode
    when she travelled with Kand Brialen and his drovers -
    and abruptly, unbidden, the colour and bustle and sheer
    exuberant life of the market brought back a memory
    that she had been trying for months to quell. A memory
    
    of another place, another festive occasion . . . and one
    beside which the grand market of Shu-Nhadek suddenly
    shrank to a pale echo. A spectacle that probably
    wouldn't be repeated in her lifetime - the inaugural
    celebrations for the new High Initiate, at the Castle of
    the Star Peninsula on its remote stack far away in the
    North. It had been late Summer then, even the Northern
    climate kindly, and images of the ceremony and pan-
    oply, the unimaginably ancient Castle decorated with
    streamers and pennants, the long processions of
    nobility, the bonfires, the music, the dancing flashed
    through her inner vision as clearly as though she were
    seeing them again with her physical senses. She had even
    glimpsed the new High Initiate himself, Keridil Toln,
    young, assured and resplendent in his ceremonial robes,
    when his procession emerged through the Castle gates to
    give Aeoris's blessing to the vast crowd.
    
    It had been an unforgettable experience . . . but the
    memory which had caused her both joy and pain over
    the last months stood apart from the glory of the celebra-
    tions. A man; tall, black-haired, pale-skinned, with a
    haunted disquiet in his green eyes; a sorcerer and high
    Adept of the Circle. They had met once before, by
    chance, and against all likelihood he had remembered
    her. She had been drinking some vile brew which she
    had bought with her last coin from a wine stall; he had
    tipped the cup's contents on to the grass, given the stall-
    holder a tongue-lashing and replaced the wine with a high
    quality vintage. And Cyllan, overcome by shyness and
    by an acute sense of her own lowliness, had made a
    feeble excuse and run away as soon as she prudently
    could. Since then she had regretted her cowardice a
    thousand times; yearned for another chance . . . but the
    chance hadn't come her way. And later that same night,
    her psychic senses had told her that her dreams could
    have borne no fruit when she had conjured a vision of
    him in his private rooms, with a graceful, patrician girl,
    and had known that she was already forgotten . . .
    
    The horses had cleared the square now and the crowd
    moved forward again. Passing a stall that sold ornaments
    of fashioned metal and enamel, Cyllan paused suddenly as
    something, half hidden among the piled wares, caught
    her eye. She moved closer, peering, then looked guiltily
    towards the stallholder, expecting to be driven away.
    This trader, however, knew from experience that good
    customers often appeared in the most unlikely guises,
    and courteously nodded for her to continue. Encour-
    aged, Cyllan took out the object which had intrigued her
    and held it up. It was a necklace; a finely wrought chain
    of copper from which depended three beaten copper
    discs. On the centremost and largest, a skilled craftsman
    had worked a filigree design in silver and blue enamel - a
    lightning-flash bisected by a single eye.
    
    The lightning-flash . . . symbol of an Adept . . .
    Cyllan bit her lip as memory surged again, and won-
    dered how much the necklace might cost. She wouldn't
    dare to haggle at a stall of this nature; and besides, she
    knew nothing of metal values. But she had a little money
    - a very little; one or two gravines she had managed to
    scrimp for herself over the months. And it would be so
    gratifying to own just one beautiful thing; one artefact to
    remind her . . .
    
    'Derret Morsyth's one of the finest craftsmen in the
    province,' the stallholder said suddenly. Cyllan started,
    then looked up at the man's face. He had moved to stand
    opposite her, and there was no hostility in his eyes.
    
    'It's . . . beautiful,' she said.
    
    'Certainly. Mind you, he tends only to work with the
    lesser metals, and there's some who'll dismiss him
    because he doesn't bedeck his pieces with gold and
    gems. But to my way of thinking, there can be as much
    beauty in a piece of copper or pewter as in any number of
    emeralds. It's the hand and the eye that count, not the
    materials.'
    
    Cyllan nodded emphatically, and the man gestured to
    the necklace. 'Try it on.'
    
    'No, I - I couldn't . . . '
    
    He laughed. 'You don't know the price yet, girl!
    Derret Morsyth doesn't overcharge, and neither do I.
    Try it - the copper almost matches your pretty eyes!'
    
    Cheeks reddened by the unaccustomed compliment,
    Cyllan hesitantly held the necklace up to her throat. The
    metal felt cool and heavy against her skin; it had a
    substantial feel to it... Half turning, she was about to
    let the stallholder fasten it for her when she glimpsed her
    own reflection in a polished bronze mirror, and what she
    saw destroyed her eagerness instantly.
    
    Pretty eyes, the stallholder had said . . . gods, she
    wasn't pretty! Face plain, too tight and pinched, mouth
    too wide, and her amber eyes weren't beautiful, merely
    peculiar. Her hair - so pale that it was almost white -
    hung in tatty strands round her shoulders; she'd made an
    effort this morning, for practicality's sake, to tie it into a
    bunch at the nape of her neck, but now half of it had
    worked free and she looked like a scarecrow. Dirty old
    shirt, jerkin and trousers, handed on from a man in her
    uncle's droving crew. And there on her breast hung the
    necklace she had coveted. It had been fashioned for a
    lady, not a down-at-heel urchin, and on her it became a
    grotesque parody.
    
    Quickly she looked away from the awful revelation,
    and put up a hand to stop the trader who was about to
    fasten the necklace's clasp.
    
    'No. I - I'm sorry, but I can't. Thank you, but I don't
    want to buy it.'
    
    He was nonplussed. 'It's not expensive, girl. And any
    young woman surely deserves -'
    
    The attempt at kind persuasion was like a knife-thrust
    to Cyllan, and she shook her head violently. 'No, please!
    I - haven't got any money anyway. Not even a half-
    gravine. I'm sorry to have wasted your time . . . thank
    you.' And before he could say another word she almost
    ran from the stall.
    
    The baffled trader stared after her until a new voice
    drew his attention back to his business. 'Trader Rishak?'
    
    Collecting himself, Rishak looked at his customer, and
    recognised the eldest son of Shu's Provincial Margrave.
    
    'Oh-forgive me, sir! I didn't see you-I had my mind
    on that young woman there. An odd one if you please!'
    
    Drachea Rannak raised his eyebrows enquiringly. 'Odd!'
    
    Rishak snorted, wryly amused. 'First she shows great
    interest in one of Morsyth's pieces - on the verge of
    buying it, mind you - then suddenly she's changed her
    mind and bolted before I can say a word!'
    
    The young man smiled. They say it's a woman's
    privilege to be contrary.'
    
    'So they do ... ah well, if I was a married man maybe
    I'd understand 'em better. Now, sir; what can I show you
    today?'
    
    'I'm looking for a gift for my mother. It's her birth-
    anniversary in three days, and I'd like something special
    . . . and a little personal.'
    
     'For the Lady Margravine? Well, please give her my
    most respectful congratulations for the day! And I think
    I have just the thing for her good taste right here . . . '
    
    Only when she was well clear of the trinkets stall did
    Cyllan finally stop and get her breath. She was furious
    with herself, both for her initial vanity and for her
    foolish behaviour when she realised her mistake. What
    use would a necklace have been to her? Something to
    wear at her next social occasion, perhaps on her next
    visit to the Castle of the Star Peninsula? She almost
    laughed aloud. Something to get in her way when she
    was trying to stew her third-rate vegetables into edi-
    bility, more like! Or for her uncle to find and sell, and
    pocket the proceeds . . .
    
    Her heart was still thumping painfully with the igno-
    miny of the experience, and she had an illogical convic-
    tion that everyone around her knew of her humiliation
    and was secretly laughing at her. She had finally halted
    near the door of a tavern at the square's edge, and in a
    desultory attempt to cheer herself she pushed through
    the crowd and bought a mug of herb beer and a chunk of
    bread spread with milk-cheese. The tavern room was
    stiflingly overcrowded, so she found a quiet bench out-
    side and watched the market shoppers go by while she
    slowly ate and drank.
    
    After a little while, a steadily droning voice from a
    booth next to the tavern caught her attention. The
    
    boothman was a fortune-teller, and was regaling his
    current customer with a long tale of great fortune and
    fame. Intrigued despite her mood, Cyllan edged closer
    until she could peer across and observe the proceedings
    - and her pulse quickened.
    
    The fortune-teller had cast six stones on to his table,
    and was apparently reading his client's future from the
    pattern they formed. Geomancy was one of the most
    ancient techniques known in Cyllan's Eastern home-
    land, and quickly she looked at the clairvoyant's face,
    searching for the pale skin and distinctive features of a
    Flatlands native. But whatever else the man might be,
    he was no Easterner. And the stones . . . there should
    have been many of them, not merely six. And sand on
    which to cast them. And the pattern they formed was
    nothing but meaningless gibberish . , .
    
    Inwardly, Cyllan seethed. The fortune-teller was a
    charlatan, trading on superstition and on a psychic skill
    that was long dead but for a few secret practitioners. In
    the Great Eastern Flatlands, anyone with the fey touch
    was little better than a pariah now; she herself had
    learned at an early age to keep her innate and develop-
    ing skills a secret from all but the old woman who had
    quietly tutored her in reading the stones, and even her
    uncle knew nothing of the precious collection of
    pebbles, worn smooth by the sea, which lodged in her
    belt-pouch. An apprentice drover, lowliest of the low,
    would never broadcast such a talent if she knew what
    was good for her . . . But Cyllan's talent was real, unlike
    the trumpery lies of this trickster, playing on his client's
    mixture of fear and gullible fascination.
    
    She should have been in a Sisterhood Cot. Suddenly
    she heard the words in her head as clearly as if the tall,
    dark Adept had been standing before her and speaking
    them aloud once more. He had recognised her skill, and
    he had paid her that compliment. She should have been
    admitted to that august body of women, servants of the
    gods, and her talents fostered and nurtured . . . But the
    Sisterhood had no time for the likes of a peasant drover.
    She had no money, no sponsor . . . and so, instead of
    
    wearing the white robe, she sat on a tavern bench and
    listened to a charlatan prostituting a seer's skills, and
    had no authority to intervene.
    
    The fortune-teller's monologue finished and his client
    rose to leave, flushed and thanking him profusely.
    Cyllan saw a five-gravine piece change hands, and was
    disgusted, but if the fake seer felt anything of her fury he
    didn't show it. He was counting his afternoon's takings
    when a slight, brown-haired young man paused by his
    booth. The newcomer's gaze flicked from the fortune-
    teller to Cyllan and lingered a moment as though in
    recognition; then, glancing surreptitiously over his
    shoulder, he slid into the empty chair opposite the
    boothman.
    
    The charlatan made a great show of welcoming his
    visitor; so much so that Cyllan realised he must be the
    favoured son of an out-of-the-ordinary - and wealthy -
    local clan. But whatever his status, the young man was
    clearly no less gullible or superstitious than any peasant.
    His manner, the way he sat attentively forward, his
    whispered questions, all betrayed a naive eagerness
    which the fortune-teller was quick to exploit. Cyllan
    watched as the six stones were produced and meaning-
    less signs and passes made over them, before the fake
    seer began his monologue.
    
    'I see great good fortune for you, young sir. Good
    fortune indeed; for within the year you will wed. A love
    match, if I may venture to say so - a lady whose beauty
    will be unequalled among her peers - and many fine
    children. And I see, too . . . ' Here he paused dramati-
    cally, as though waiting for divine inspiration to touch
    his tongue, while the young man stared fixedly at the
    stones, ' . . . yes! High office, young sir; great power
    and renown. I see you standing in a great hall, a resplen-
    dent hall, dispensing justice and judgement. A long life,
    sir; a good life and a happy one.'
    
    The young man's eyes were alight. Breathless, and
    completely enamoured of the charlatan's pronouncement,
    he murmured a question which Cyllan didn't catch, and
    suddenly, watching him, she found herself
    
    unconsciously adjusting her vision so that the two figures
    at the cloth-covered table faded out of focus. On rare
    occasions, she had discovered, she could make predic-
    tions in a small way, or divine a stranger's character or
    background, without the need for her stones. It was a
    sporadic talent, unpredictable at the best of times; but
    now she felt that her psychic touch was sure . . . Closing
    her eyes she concentrated harder and a vague mental
    impression began to form, growing clearer until at last,
    satisfied, she opened her eyes again.
    
    The fortune-teller had done, and the young man was
    getting up to leave. Coins changed hands, thanks were
    given and obsequious bows received in exchange; then
    the boothman dodged behind his curtain and out of sight.
    
    The young man was about to pass by Cyllan's bench,
    and she knew suddenly that she couldn't keep silent.
    Little good it might do her, but her sense of justice
    rebelled at the thought of letting such chicanery go
    unremarked. As the young man reached her she stood
    up.
    
    'Excuse me, sir . . . '
    
    He started, turned, then frowned, clearly unused to
    being so directly addressed by a low-class stranger.
    Anxious that he shouldn't think she was importuning
    him, Cyllan spoke quickly and softly.
    
    'The fortune-teller is a charlatan, sir. I thought you
    should know.'
    
    He was surprised. A fresh, smooth face, she thought;
    he'd never known hardship, never wanted for anything -
    and probably that explained his naivety in the face of the
    seer's blandishments. Now, collecting himself, he
    strolled closer to where she sat.
    
    'A charlatan?' His smile was faintly patronising.
    'What makes you so sure?'
    
    Obviously he suspected her of harbouring some personal
    motive for attempting to discredit the man. Cyllan met
    his gaze steadily. 'I was born and brought up in the Great
    Eastern Flatlands. Reading the stones is an ancient skill
    there . . . and therefore I know a faker when I see one.'
    
    The young man clasped his hands together and stared
    
    thoughtfully at an expensive ring on one finger. 'He is a
    stranger to Shu-Nhadek - as, it seems, are you - and yet
    he divined a good deal about my position. Doesn't that
    speak in his favour?'
    
    Cyllan decided to gamble that her flash of clair-
    voyance had been accurate, and smiled. 'It takes small
    seer's skills, sir, to recognise and acknowledge the son
    and heir to the Margrave of Shu Province.'
    
    She had been right ... he raised his eyebrows and
    stared at her with a newly dawning interest. 'You are a
    seer?'
    
    'A stone-reader, and of small talent,' Cyllan said,
    ignoring the insult - no doubt unintentional - that his
    surprise implied. 'I don't ply my skill, nor do I seek to
    profit from it; I'm not trying to steal the boothman's
    trade. But it offends me to see tricksters preying on
    innocent victims.'
    
    The idea that he was one such innocent victim clearly
    didn't appeal to the Margrave's son and for a moment
    she wondered if she had been too blunt, and affronted
    him. But after a brief hesitation he nodded curtly.
    
    'Then I'm indebted to you. I'll have the charlatan run
    out of the province before the day's over!' His eyes
    narrowed suddenly and he studied her face more
    closely. 'And if you are what you say you are, I shall be
    interested to see if you can succeed where the charlatan
    failed!'
    
    He wanted her to read the stones for him, and Cyllan
    was alarmed. Her uncle, who like most of his peers was
    deeply superstitious and regarded psychic talents as the
    rightful province only of the privileged - and officially
    sanctioned - few, would kill her if he ever found out that
    she had been using her skills. And to read for the son of
    the Province Margrave . . . she couldn't do it - she
    didn't dare.
    
    'I'm sorry,' she said indistinctly, 'I can't.'
    
    'Can't?' He was suddenly angry. 'What d'you mean,
    can't? You say you're a seer - I ask you to prove
    it!'
    
    'I mean, sir, that I daren't.' She could do nothing
    
    other than be honest. 'I'm apprenticed to my uncle, and
    he disapproves strongly of such things. If he were ever to
    find out - '
    
    'What is your uncle's name?'
    
    'He is - ' She looked at the young man's face, swal-
    lowed. 'Kand Brialen. A drover.'
    
    'A drover who doesn't exploit a profitable enterprise
    right under his nose? I find that hard to believe!'
    
    'Please!' Cyllan entreated him anxiously. 'If he were
    ever to know -'
    
    'Oh, by the gods I've got better things to do with my
    time than run tattling tales to peasants!' the young man
    retorted petulantly. 'And if you won't read for me, you
    won't But I'll remember the name. Kand Brialen - I'll
    remember it!' And before Cyllan could say anything
    more, he turned on his heel and walked away.
    
    Slowly, she sat down again. Her heart was thumping
    and she wished that she hadn't been so foolhardy as to
    interfere. Now, if the whim took him, the Margrave's
    son might find some excuse to seek out her uncle and, if
    he was sufficiently offended by her refusal, let slip
    enough about their encounter to ensure that she'd suffer
    for it. He wasn't used to having his wishes thwarted; he
    was obviously spoilt and might choose to be spiteful.
    And if-
    
    She checked the train of thought suddenly, and
    sighed. Whatever the Margrave's son did or did not do,
    she couldn't change matters. She had survived Kand
    Brialen's rage before now, and could survive it again.
    Best to finish her beer, return and face whatever had to
    be faced.
    
    The tavern potboy emerged to take her mug and ask if
    she'd like more. Cyllan shook her head and reluctantly
    rose from the bench, heading away towards the side of
    the market place where the crowds began to thin out.
    Here, stalls and booths gave way to the thatch-roofed
    livestock pens, where herds of dull-eyed animals milled
    and complained and awaited their fate. Kand Brialen
    and his drovers had pitched their tents to one side of the
    largest pen, and throughout the day trade had been
    
    brisk; they had a hundred cattle, driven in from Han, to
    sell, together with four good work-horses which Kand
    had bought for a disgracefully low sum after a good deal
    of barter in Prospect. And with Spring and the breeding
    season almost m sight they were fetching good prices.
    
    Cyllan had long ago learned not to think too often
    about her own future with Kand Brialen and his drovers.
    Four years ago, when her mother - Kand's sister - and
    father had been lost with their fishing boat in the treach-
    erous Whiteshoals Sound, her uncle had taken on
    responsibility for her, but from the beginning he'd made
    no effort to disguise his resentment of the duty. As far as
    he was concerned Cyllan was an unwanted liability; he
    had no use for women other than the occasional whore
    when the mood took him, and had made it clear that if
    his orphaned niece expected him to provide for her, she
    must repay him by working as hard as any of the men in
    his band. And so for four years Cyllan had dressed like a
    drover, worked like a drover and coped, too, with all the
    'women's work' demanded of her. Admittedly, she had
    also travelled widely and seen a good deal of the world;
    something unheard offer any girl in the Eastern Flatlands.
    But it was a life that gave her little to look forward to.
    
    Back at home - although it was becoming harder
    every season to think of anywhere as home - she would
    doubtless by now have been matched with the second or
    third son of another local fishing family in a pragmatic
    clan alliance. Hardly a great achievement, but it would
    have been better, surely, than this harsh nomadic exist-
    ence. As it was, her future stretched endlessly ahead;
    work, travel, sleep when she could snatch it, until the
    Northern winds and Southern Sun withered her before
    her time . . .
    
    She shook the unhappy thought off as she glimpsed
    her uncle's burly figure moving among the lines of horses
    tethered near the pens. He was accompanied by a tall
    and slightly stooping middle-aged man who, to judge
    from his fur-trimmed coat and Kand's obsequiousness,
    was a wealthy potential customer. Cyllan tried to make
    herself as inconspicuous as possible as she headed
    
    towards their pitch, anxious not to disturb her uncle
    while he was trading. She had almost reached the tents
    when a voice spoke softly but with satisfaction behind
    her.
    
    'Ah - so there you are!'
    
    Startled, she turned to find herself facing the Mar-
    grave's son. He was grinning conspiratorially, and ges-
    tured in the direction of the two men.
    
    'Kand Brialen -I remembered. And when I saw that
    he had good livestock for sale, I insisted that my father
    should see for himself!'
    
    So that was the Margrave of Shu . . . Cyllan realised
    suddenly that she was staring like a Moonstruck yokel,
    and hastily looked away.
    
    'You and I,' the Margrave's son said, 'have some
    unfinished business. And I think my father and your
    uncle will be quite a time in making their bargain, so
    your secret's safe enough. Come with me!'
    
    He was obviously not about to be argued with, so
    Cyllan made no attempt to protest as he took her arm
    and hurried her away from the pens. They entered a
    narrow street which led off the market square to the
    harbour, and the young man indicated an ill-kept build-
    ing with a sign over the door depicting a crudely painted
    white ship on an unnaturally blue sea.
    
    'The White Barque Tavern, he said as he led the way
    through into the dark interior. 'It's used by sailors and
    traders, mostly - we're unlikely to be seen by anyone
    who might know me.'
    
    Cyllan wryly shrugged aside the implied insult - after
    all, he was in his terms lowering himself by appearing
    publicly in her company - and tried to assess her first
    impressions of her companion. She had noted an almost
    feverish look in his eyes when he demanded that she
    should read her stones for him, and his determination to
    get his own way said far more about his personality than
    any words. She had met such people before; those who,
    preoccupied with the occult, defied the conventions
    which barred the subject to all but the Circle and the
    Sisterhood of Aeoris, and all too often their fascination
    
    bordered on obsession. Cyllan had recognised the trait
    immediately in the Margrave's son, and was wary of it; it
    was a tendency that could, if she wasn't careful, lead her
    into trouble.
    
    But otherwise, the young man seemed unremarkable
    enough. He had the typical good looks of a Shu Province
    native; abundant warm brown hair which curled about
    his head in the short style currently fashionable in the
    South, fine skin with an olive tinge that disguised a
    tendency to floridity, and expressive dark eyes with
    unusually long lashes. He was quite tall for a South-
    erner, and although in later years he would probably run
    to fat, there was no sign of it as yet.
    
    Now he pulled out a stool at an empty table in the
    corner of the tavern, and snapped his fingers to attract a
    potboy. Cyllan slid silently into the seat opposite and
    waited while he ordered wine for them both, and a slice
    of beef on black bread for himself. He didn't ask if
    Cyllan was hungry. The wine and food were brought and
    unceremoniously dumped on the table; the potboy gave

    the well-to-do customer a withering look as he stalked
    away.
    
    'Now,' said the Margrave's son, 'let's deal with first
    things first. Tell me your name.'
    
    'Cyllan Anassan. Apprentice drover, from Kennet
    Head on the Great Eastern Flatlands.' She introduced
    herself in the customary formal way by placing her hand
    palm down on the table.
    
    He laid his over it, but very briefly. 'Drachea Rannak.
    Heir Margrave of Shu Province, from Shu-Nhadek.'
    And leaning back, he added. 'So tell me, Cyllan
    Anassan, what brings you to be a drover, of all the
    unlikely occupations for a female?'
    
    Her story was brief and dreary; she told it in as few words
    as possible, and he regarded her with curious interest.
    
    'And yet you're a seer? I'd have thought the Sister-
    hood would have been of more interest to you than
    droving.'
    
    She smiled thinly. In his world, a girl who wanted to
    join the Sisterhood of Aeoris merely said so and it was
    
    done, and she doubted if he could envisage matters any
    other way.
    
    'Let's just say that the - opportunity - eluded me,' she
    replied. 'Besides, I doubt if I'm what the Sisters would
    call a seer.'
    
    Drachea pushed the slab of black bread around his plate
    with distaste. 'Maybe so - but you should have pursued
    it.' He looked up. 'As a matter of fact, were it not for my
    position here in Shu I might well have thought along similar
    lines and presented myself as a candidate for the Circle.'
    
    'The Circle . . . ?' Her response was immediate and
    her eyes narrowed. Drachea shrugged carelessly. 'As it
    is, of course, such a thing isn't possible unless I were to
    stand down in favour of my younger brother, and
    there'd be all manner of complications.' He paused,
    then: 'You've obviously travelled a great deal. Have you
    ever seen the Star Peninsula?'
    
    Cyllan was beginning to understand what lay behind
    his fascination with arcane matters. 'Yes,' she told him.
    'We were there last Summer, when the new High Initi-
    ate was inaugurated.'
    
    'You were?' Drachea leaned forward, his condescen-
    sion abruptly forgotten. 'And did you see Keridil Toln in
    person?'
    
    'From a distance only. He came out of the Castle to
    speak and give Aeoris's blessing to the crowd.'
    
    'Gods!' Drachea took a mouthful of wine, hardly
    noticing what he was doing. 'And to think that I missed
    such an event! My parents made the journey, of course,
    but I was ill with a fever and had to remain at home.' He
    licked his lips. 'So you saw it all ... and did you cross
    the causeway to the Castle itself?'
    
    'Yes ... for a short while.'
    
    'Aeoris!' Drachea made a sign before his heart to
    show that he meant no disrespect to the highest of the
    gods. 'It must have been the experience of a lifetime!
    And what of the Initiates themselves? Doubtless you
    saw some of them - but I don't imagine you actually met
    any one of their number, did you?'
    
    Cyllan's suspicions were at last confirmed. Drachea's
    
    one burning ambition was to join the ranks of the Circle,
    so that he could satisfy his craving and learn the truth
    behind the secrets which obsessed him. And she knew,
    too, why he was so determined that she should read his
    future. He wanted to believe that his ambition would be
    fulfilled, and her word as a seer would be enough to fuel
    the fire inside him.
    
    'Cyllan!' She was startled as he grasped her arm and
    shook it. 'Listen to me! I said, did you meet any of the
    Initiates?'
    
    A discomforting juxtaposition of images flickered
    through Cyllan's mind as she stared back. Drachea's
    face, young, untrammelled, filled with a sense of his own
    importance; and another face, gaunt, self-contained,
    the eyes betraying knowledge and emotions far beyond
    physical years ...
    
    She said huskily, 'I met one man ... a high Adept.'
    
    Then the Adepts don't keep themselves to them-
    selves? I'd heard - ah, but rumours grow like weeds! I
    must go there and see for myself. I would have done long
    since, but it needs so much time!' He clenched his fists
    together in frustration, then abruptly his expression
    changed. 'Have you been back to the Peninsula since
    those celebrations?'
    
    'No. We spent a month in Empty Province and since
    then have been making our way South.'
    
    'Then you won't know the truth or otherwise of these
    newest rumours that are being whispered.'
    
    'New rumours?' Cyllan was alert. 'I've heard nothing.'
    
    'No ... I doubt you would have. They began in West
    High Land and Chaun, and now they're spreading here
    as well. No one seems to know the facts, but they say,'
    and Drachea paused for emphasis, 'that there's some-
    thing wrong at the Castle. No word has been received
    from anyone there for some while now, and no one
    knows anyone who has visited the Castle from outside
    since last Moon-conjunction.'
    
    A peculiar sensation clutched at the pit of Cyllan's
    stomach. She couldn't explain the feeling or put a name
    to it; it was as if deep down within her some dormant,
    
    animal sense was stirring. Keeping a tight rein on herself
    she said again, 'I've heard nothing. What do people say
    might be amiss?'
    
    'That's just it - no one knows. There was a tale from
    West High Land recently about some dangerous wrong-
    doer apprehended at the Sisterhood Cot there, and
    there's talk of a connection with events at the Castle, but
    beyond that everything's speculation. It seems that the
    Initiates have decided to shut themselves off altogether
    from the rest of the world, but no one knows why.' He
    clasped his hands together and frowned at them. 'I've
    been looking for clues and omens, but can see nothing
    that makes any sense. The only strange thing to have
    happened here is an unusual number of Warps.'
    
    Cyllan shivered involuntarily at his mention of the
    word Warp. Every man, woman and child in the entire
    land was justly terrified of the weird supernatural storms
    that came wailing out of the North at unpredictable
    intervals. No one had ever dared to face the pulsating
    skies and demonic, shrieking voices of a Warp out in the
    open - the brave or crazed few who had ever done so had
    vanished without trace. Not even the wisest scholars
    knew where the Warps came from or what drove them;
    legend had it they were the last legacy of the forces of
    Chaos, left behind when the followers of Aeoris swept
    the Old Ones to destruction and restored the rule of
    Order.
    
    But whatever the power behind the Warps might be -
    and it was something that sensible folk preferred not to
    dwell on - Drachea was right when he said that the
    incidence of Warps had been increasing of late. Only
    five days ago, crossing the fertile plains that divided Shu
    Province from Prospect, Kand Brialen's band had heard
    the most dreaded sound in the entire world - the thin,
    high wailing far away Northward that heralded the
    approach of the storm. Cyllan had had nightmares since
    then of the full-pelt ride to the nearest storm-haven -
    one of the long, narrow sheds that had been built for the
    safety of travellers along all the main drove roads, and of
    the seemingly endless torment inside that precarious
    
    shelter, lying with her face buried in her coat, blocking
    her ears against the howling chaos outside while the
    terrified livestock milled and bawled around her. It had
    been the third such experience since they left Empty
    Province . . .
    
    Even Drachea's easy composure had been shaken by
    the topic, and, aware that the atmosphere was growing
    uncomfortable, he gestured to the flagon that stood
    between them on the table.
    
    'You haven't touched your wine.'
    
    'Oh ... oh, yes; thank you.' Cyllan wasn't con-
    centrating; she had shaken off the ugly recollection, but
    a disturbance still remained. The animal instinct was
    nagging at her again . . .
    
    'As for this mystery at the Castle,' Drachea continued,
    'it's my belief that the Initiates have their own reasons
    which others might do well not to question. Although if,
    when you read your stones, you should see an omen there
    that might tell us something . . . ?' He looked at her
    hopefully, and she shook her head with some vehemence.
    
    'No! I wouldn't dare -I wouldn't presume to try to see
    into such things. I'll read for you, Drachea - but I'll go
    no further.'
    
    He shrugged his careless shrug. 'Very well, then. Let's
    not waste any more time - show me what the charlatan
    could not!'
    
    Cyllan felt in her belt-pouch and pulled out a handful
    of small, smooth stones of varying shapes. Ideally, she
    needed sand as a base on which to cast the pebbles, but
    she had worked without it before and doubtless could do
    so again.
    
    Drachea leaned forward, staring intently at the stones
    as though trying to divine something from them without
    her help. And suddenly, as she gathered them in her
    palm ready for the first cast, Cyllan stopped. Something
    was tugging insistently at her mind, a warning, as clear as
    if it had been spoken aloud in her ear.
    
    Whatever happened, she must not read the stones for
    Drachea Rannak!
    
    'What is it?' Drachea's voice broke querulously in on
    
    her, and she started violently, staring at him as though
    she had never seen him before. 'Come now, Cyllan -
    either you're a fortune-reader, or you're not! If you've
    been wasting my time - '
    
    'I haven't!' She rose unsteadily to her feet. 'But I can't
    read for you, Drachea - I can't!'
    
    He rose too, suddenly angry. 'Why not, in the name of
    seven hells?'
    
    'Because I dare not! Oh, gods, I can't explain; it's
    a feeling, a fear - ' and suddenly the words were
    out before she could stop them. 'Because I know in
    my bones that something terrible is about to happen to
    you!'
    
    He was stunned. Very slowly, he sat down again, and
    his face was ashen. ' You - know . . . ?'
    
    She nodded. 'Please, don't ask me anything more. I
    shouldn't have spoken - doubtless I'm wrong; I have no
    real talent, and - '
    
    'No.' She had been moving away from the table and
    suddenly his hand shot out and gripped her arm pain-
    fully. 'Sit down! If there's something afoot then by all
    the gods you're going to tell me what it is!'
    
    One or two of the tavern's other customers were
    watching them by now, grinning with amusement and no
    doubt putting their own interpretation on the argument.
    Anxious not to draw further attention to herself, Cyllan
    reluctantly sat.
    
    'Now, tell me!' Drachea commanded.
    
    The stones felt like hot coals in her hand. Reflexively,
    she let them fall, and they scattered on the table in a
    disturbingly explicit pattern. Drachea stared at them
    and frowned. 'What does it mean?'
    
    Cyllan, too, was looking at the stones and her heart
    thumped. She didn't know this pattern, and yet it
    seemed to speak to her, call to her. A faint tingling
    sensation assailed the nape of her neck and she shivered.
    'I - don't know -' she began to say, then gasped as an
    image flashed across her mental vision, so quickly that
    she could barely grasp it. A star with seven points,
    radiating indescribable colours -
    
    'No!' she heard herself hiss vehemently. 'I can't do it!
    I won't!'
    
    'Damn you, you will!' Drachea countered furiously.
    'I'm not about to be made a fool of by some outland
    peasant! Tell me what you see in those stones, or I'll
    have you before my father for trying to hex me!'
    
    The threat was real enough. Cyllan looked at the
    stones once more, and suddenly their pattern crys-
    tallised in her mind. She knew, with an unerring instinct,
    what they meant - and Drachea's arguments had no
    power to sway her.
    
    Abruptly, she swept up the stones and deposited them
    back in her pouch, rising to her feet again.
    
    'You must do as you think fit,' she said quietly, and
    turned to leave.
    
    'Cyllan!' Drachea shouted after her, and when she
    didn't hesitate she heard the scrape of wood on stone
    and his footsteps coming after her. He caught up with
    her just before she reached the door. 'Cyllan, what do
    you think you're doing? I won't have this! You promised
    to read for me, and - '
    
    'Let me go!' She twisted free as he tried to catch her
    arm and pull her back, but as she made for the tavern
    entrance she collided with a tall, burly merchant-sailor
    who was hastening in with his three companions.
    
    'Look what you're doing!' the man snapped, pushing
    her aside. She mumbled an apology and hurried on,
    Drachea following, but the sailor called out again. 'Hey
    - you two! Where in the name of all the devils of
    darkness d'you think you're going?'
    
    They stared uncomprehendingly at him, and he
    jerked a thumb towards the door, where more people
    were hurrying in. 'Haven't you got a quarter-gravine of
    sense between you? There's a Warp coming! Whole
    place is in an uproar - market day, and a whore-
    spawned Warp decides to descend on us! As if storms in
    Summerisle Straits weren't enough -' He stamped
    irritably towards the counter, shouting for a drink.
    
    Cyllan's face had drained to a grey pallor. At the
    sailor's mention of the Warp she felt as if her stomach
    
    had turned to ice inside her. A terrible fear had taken
    hold of her reason and was growing with every moment
    - she was safe in the tavern, but she didn't feel safe. And
    if she had interpreted the stones' portent rightly -
    
    Drachea, meanwhile, had moved to the door and was
    looking out. Everywhere people were running for shel-
    ter; somewhere a child wailed in fright. Beyond the
    crowding roofs of the houses in this narrow street the sky
    was no more than a thin band of brilliance, but already
    the brilliance was clouding, tarnished with sickly
    shadows that marched across the blue. And over the
    noise of rushing feet and shouting voices came an eerie,
    thin wailing, like a chorus of hellhound souls in torment.
    
    'Gods!' Drachea stared at the fast-changing sky with a
    morbid fascination. 'Cyllan, look! Look at it!'
    
    Their quarrel was forgotten, and Cyllan was suddenly
    afraid for his safety. 'Drachea, don't! she pleaded.
    'Come in! It's dangerous!'
    
    'Not yet, it isn't. We've a few minutes more before it'll
    be on us. Look - ' and then in an instant his expression
    changed and his voice with it, rising in incredulous hor-
    ror. 'Oh, by Aeoris, look at that!'
    
    He had caught hold of her, and dragged her forward
    so that she faced the door. Outside the street was des-
    erted and shutters were being slammed at all the win-
    dows. Drachea was pointing down the length of the alley
    to where it ran out into Shu-Nhadek harbour, and his
    hand shook violently.
    
    'Look!'
    
    Cyllan looked, and blind terror overcame all reason.
    At the end of the street a solitary figure stood like a
    statue. Some shroud-like garment hid its frame, but the
    cruel, fine-boned face was clear enough, and the halo of
    gold hair, shot through with coruscating light. A dark,
    misty aura shimmered around it, and even as she
    watched it raised one long-fingered hand, and
    beckoned.
    
    She had seen that nightmare image before . . . Cyllan
    tried to step back, away from the hypnotic figure and its
    commanding hand, but couldn't move. Her will was
    
    weakening; she was overcome by an insane desire to
    step through the tavern door, out into the street, to obey
    the summons. Beside her she heard Drachea whisper
    'what is it?' in the voice of a terrified child, and she shook
    her head, unable even to grope for an answer.
    
    The figure beckoned again, and it was as if invisible
    strings pulled at Cyllan's limbs. She fought the compul-
    sion with all her strength, but her left foot slid forward,
    propelling her . . .
    
    'Cyllan, what are you doing?' Drachea cried out.
    'Come back!'
    
    She couldn't go back. The call was too strong, swamp-
    ing fear and self-preservation. And from the grim appa-
    rition's heart a ghastly light flickered to life and grew,
    flowering into a harshly brilliant star that blotted out all
    but the slowly beckoning hand.
    
    'Cyllan!' Drachea's voice was a scream of protest as
    she suddenly broke free and plunged forward, out of the
    tavern. Not stopping to think, he raced after her - and
    the shimmering apparition vanished.
    
    Cyllan gave an animal shriek that echoed the length of
    the alley, and skidded to a halt so that Drachea can-
    noned into her. He shook her as though she was a rag
    doll, yelling to make her understand.
    
    'Cyllan, the Warp! It's coming! In the name of all
    that's holy, move!' As he shouted the final words he spun
    her round, meaning to drag her if necessary back to the
    safety of the tavern before it was too late. He turned -
    
    The wall of darkness hit them full on as it swept the
    length of the street with the speed and ferocity of a tidal
    wave. Drachea heard the voice of the Warp rise to a
    howling crescendo of triumph, and glimpsed a
    maelstrom of twisted forms and shapes that hurtled at
    him out of nowhere. For an instant he felt Cyllan's hand
    gripped in his own; then a hammer blow of agony
    seemed to smash every bone in his body - and with it
    came searing, white-hot oblivion.
    
    Chapter 2
    
    The shock of swallowing something that burned her
    throat and lungs brought Cyllan violently back to con-
    sciousness. She tried to scream, but choked as her
    mouth and nose filled again with the burning stuff. For a
    nightmarish moment she thought she was dead, plunged
    into some green and black hell that roared in her ears
    and through which her body twisted and turned help-
    lessly - but then realisation struck her returning senses.
    She was drowning!
    
    With a savage self-preservation instinct she jack-
    knifed her body and struck in the one direction from
    which a faint light glimmered. If she had chosen
    wrongly, she would be dead within minutes - but sec-
    onds later her head broke clear of the water and she was
    lifted on the swell of a black wave, spluttering and
    gasping as she dragged air into her lungs.
    
    She was in the sea - and it was night! The insanity of
    the fact numbed her momentarily as she trod water,
    struggling to stay afloat. Overhead the sky was a vast
    bowl of darkness tinged with nacreous green, and around
    her restless waves humped threateningly, monstrous sil-
    houettes that tossed and carried her willy-nilly on their
    swell. There was no land, no Moons - and no Warp.
    
    Shocked and confused, she didn't see the breaker
    until it bore down on her, plunging her underwater
    again. Kicking out, she fought back to the surface. She
    must rally her mind to survival, or she'd drown like a rat
    in a bucket! But how could she survive? There was no
    shore, no direction - she had been hurled somehow
    through the Warp, thrown into this unimaginable night-
    mare -
    
    And then she heard a cry. It was faint, but not far
    away, as though someone were calling from an invisible
    safe haven. Cyllan turned, striking out in the direction
    from which the sound had come and thankful for the salt
    water which gave her buoyancy - and a moment later
    she saw him.
    
    He was clinging to a spar of wood and almost sub-
    merged by the waves that battered him relentlessly.
    Drachea! Memory of the last seconds before the Warp
    struck surged back - he had been trying to pull her
    towards the tavern; they had been hit together -
    
    'Drachea!' Her voice was weak as she tried to cry out
    to him, and he didn't hear. Saving her breath for swim-
    ming she propelled herself towards him, aided by a wave
    that rose on a cross-current and swept her almost to his
    side. She caught him under the arms, holding him
    against the pull of the sea, and instantly he panicked and
    began to struggle.
    
    'Drachea!' she screamed in his ear. 'It's Cyllan! We're
    alive, we're alive!'
    
    He took no notice, but continued to writhe in her grip,
    hitting out at her with flailing hands. She had to stop
    him, or he'd drown them both - reaching out, she
    snatched the spar to which he'd been clinging. It was
    waterlogged, but small enough for her to heft, and clum-
    sily she brought it down on his skull. He slumped, and
    Cyllan hauled with all her remaining strength as his body
    began to slip beneath the waves.
    
    Turning on to her back, she dragged Drachea's inert
    form behind her and began to kick out. The water held
    her up - but she couldn't sustain this struggle for long.
    Like all Eastern coast-dwellers Cyllan had learned in
    childhood to swim like a fish, but her strength was
    ebbing fast; the water was ice cold, already numbing her
    hands and feet, and with the added burden she could
    make only painfully slow headway.
    
    And if she found no landfall? a small voice whispered
    in her head. What then?
    
    Then she and Drachea would drown, as surely as the
    Sun would rise tomorrow. She might increase her own
    
    chances if she let him go and preserved all her energy for
    herself - but she couldn't. It would be tantamount to
    murder; she couldn't abandon him now.
    
    She took a firmer grip on her limp burden and strug-
    gled on, battling against the tide which, capriciously,
    seemed to change the direction of its pull every few
    moments, as though a dozen different currents battled
    for supremacy. The roar of the sea was a ceaseless
    dinning in her ears, wearing her down; the icy drag of the
    water seemed to grow greater with every kick and her
    limbs were slowly losing all sensation as the cold pene-
    trated to her marrow. And soon the constant surge and
    fade of the swell, as she tried to keep a rhythm to her
    swimming, became dangerously hypnotic. Strange,
    dreamlike images flowed across her inner vision, until
    she thought she saw the prow of a boat looming out of
    the darkness towards her; she raised one arm and
    shouted, then her mouth and nostrils filled with stinging
    salt water as, losing way, she slipped under. Instantly the
    shock snatched her out of the dream, but it was all she
    could do to drag Drachea's dead weight back to the
    surface. She gulped air, sobbing with terror and relief in
    equal measure, and when her streaming eyes cleared she
    realised that there had been no boat, no salvation; only
    the delusion of an exhausted mind.
    
    She was weakening. The mirage had almost killed
    her, and one more such mistake could be her last. And
    still there were no white crests on the waves to tell her
    she was nearing land; the vast, implacable ocean
    stretched endlessly around her and she visualised a sud-
    den, terrible image of herself and Drachea bobbing like
    tiny, insignificant flotsam on a gigantic expanse of
    nothing. She forced the thought away, knowing that if it
    took hold it would sap the last of her will to survive. But
    that will couldn't sustain her for much longer.
    
    Without warning, a heavy black swell borne on a
    vicious cross-current slapped her sideways, and this time
    she couldn't regain her momentum. Drachea's body was
    pulling her down, and her limbs were almost completely
    numb. In an instant of hideous clarity Cyllan faced the
    
    knowledge that she was defeated. She had tried but she
    had no more resources of strength, and even without her
    burden she'd no longer be capable of saving herself. The
    hungry sea had won, as part of her had known it must.
    She was going to die ...
    
    And then, in a dazed corner of her mind, she remem-
    bered the fanaani . . .
    
    The chance was so slender that she almost abandoned
    it. It would be better, surely it would be better, to give
    herself up to the inevitable and let the cold, surging
    depths take her now, rather than prolong the agony with
    a hope that couldn't be fulfilled. But an echo of her
    desire to survive still remained, enough to make her
    failing senses fight back in a final, desperate attempt to
    live. She struggled to focus her mind, rally her will,
    feeble though it was.
    
    Help me . . . The silent telepathic plea flowed from
    deep within her. In the name of all the gods, please help
    me ...
    
    The sea surged around her, its booming voice mock-
    ing her desperation. If her call went unheard, she'd be
    dead within minutes . . .
    
    Help me . . . please help me . . .
    
    Suddenly she felt it - the first faint stirring of another
    presence in her mind, a detached curiosity as to the
    nature of this strange creature that struggled through the
    water with its unconscious burden. Cyllan redoubled her
    efforts to call, and the presence grew stronger, closing
    in.
    
    When she heard the first bittersweet harmony of the
    fanaani's song she almost cried aloud with joy. The
    silver notes echoed against the sea's roar, rising and
    falling, calling to her, and a moment later she felt some-
    thing sleek and alive brush by her legs.
    
    The first one rose beside her, its blunt-nosed, catlike
    face only inches away from her own. The limpid brown
    eyes gazed sorrowfully into hers, and the fanaan- bigger
    than she was, brindle-furred and almost phosphorescent
    in the darkness - twitched its short whiskers and
    whiffled, blowing fishy breath into her face. Then
    
    another joined it, and from below she felt a third rising,
    taking Drachea's weight on its back and supporting him.
    
    Cyllan twisted in the water and clutched at the heavily
    muscled shoulder of the sea-mammal beside her. The
    fanaan lifted its head and called in a sweet, plaintive
    voice, and the second creature moved in so that between
    them they held her, bearing her up against the swelling
    waves. She glimpsed Drachea being carried likewise
    between two more, and her exhausted mind gave silent
    and fervent thanks. Her last desperate plea had been
    answered - these strange, rare, telepathic beings had
    answered her call and, in their enigmatic way, had
    chosen to help her. They had come from the gods alone
    knew where, to aid an alien being in distress, and the
    debt she owed was one that could never be adequately
    repaid.
    
    The first fanaan called again, and its companions
    joined in the chillingly beautiful song. Exhaustion
    washed over Cyllan as the creatures surged forward, and
    the eldritch singing of her saviours tumbled into a
    miasma of bizarre sea-dreams as she slid thankfully into
    unconsciousness.
    
    She woke, to find herself lying face-down on shingle.
    The world was still again - in the background the sea still
    beat and boomed relentlessly, but the rocking of the
    cold tide had ceased. She had been brought to shore -
    and the fanaani were gone.
    
    Slowly, Cyllan pulled herself up until she was kneeling
    on the hard shale. Water streamed from her hair and
    clothes, and her limbs shivered involuntarily with the
    saturating cold. It was still night - a white sea-mist
    permeated the darkness and made phantoms out of the
    jagged rocks that surrounded her. At her back, the
    shingle sloped away to a dully roaring tideline, strewn
    with jetsam that the sea had rejected. Before her -
    
    Before her, a black granite wall rose sheer into the
    sky, reflecting no light. The shore stretched dismally
    away to either side, offering no sanctuary, and when she
    struggled to focus her eyes upward she saw only the cliff,
    
    towering beyond the boundaries of vision. The fanaani
    had brought her to land - but a cruel, harsh land that
    bore no resemblance to anything she knew.
    
    Something moved nearby, rattling the shingle, and
    Cyllan turned in shock. Five paces away, Drachea Ran-
    nak sat with his back propped against the rock face. He
    was staring at her, but his eyes were glazed and she was
    sure he didn't recognise her. Shock . . . the ordeal had
    proved too much for him . . . but at least he, too, lived.
    
    Fighting the frozen aching in her marrow, Cyllan
    crawled towards him. 'Drachea . . . Drachea, we're
    alive . . . '
    
    He continued to stare at her, looking like a puppet
    whose strings had been abruptly cut. 'Alive . . . ' he
    repeated.
    
    'Yes, alive! The fanaani saved us - I called, and they
    came, and . . . ' She shook her head, coughing. 'We're
    alive.'
    
    There was silence for a moment but for the ceaseless
    noise of the sea. Then Drachea said dully, 'Where?'
    
    'I don't know . . . ' His reason had warped, she was
    certain. He was unable to face the reality of their peril
    and something within him had snapped, and she only
    hoped that he'd recover his wits before the cold over-
    came them both. Rallying herself, she added more vehe-
    mently, 'But wherever we are, Drachea, we're safe!
    We've survived - isn't that what matters?'
    
    'Who knows?' He smiled an oddly twisted smile with
    no humour. 'Maybe we're dead, and this is the afterlife.
    A shingle shore, an unending night, a cliff we can't
    climb. Hell, Cyllan. Isn't that what you saw in your
    stones? Isn't it?' Suddenly he lunged forward and
    grasped her shoulders, shaking her violently. For a
    moment she thought he would try to strangle her; then
    abruptly his grip loosened and he turned away, pressing
    his face against the cliff wall and curling up like a fright-
    ened and defiant child.
    
    'Go away,' he said indistinctly. 'If it wasn't for you, I'd
    be safe at home in Shu-Nhadek! Go away, and leave me
    alone!'
    
    If it wasn't for me, you'd be dead! Cyllan thought
    savagely, then quelled the thought as uncharitable and
    unworthy. Perhaps he was right - but for her, this night-
    mare would never have happened.
    
    She remembered then, for the first time, the appari-
    tion which had appeared as the Warp bore down on
    them in Shu-Nhadek. The hand, beckoning - a shudder
    racked her. That had been far more than a portent. And
    the stones . . . instinctively she put a hand to her belt-
    pouch and felt the familiar bulge of the pebbles there. So
    she hadn't lost them . . . although she was beginning to
    wonder if they were more of a curse than a blessing.
    
    Drachea was still hiding his face, and Cyllan realised
    that, if they were ever to escape from this hellish shore,
    she would have to take charge. Danger and privation
    were alien concepts to the son of the Margrave of Shu;
    she was better equipped to save them, if there was
    salvation to be found. Turning, she gazed out to sea. The
    mist had deepened, it seemed, in the few minutes since
    her rude awakening; beyond the first few lapping waves
    at the shingle's edge she could see nothing. She shivered
    with something besides cold. What lay beyond that
    mist? Familiar, known land, or ... nothing? There
    could be nowhere in the world so bleak, so barren, so
    devoid of hope . . .
    
    Nowhere, said a silent inner voice, but for one place
    
    It surely wasn't possible . . . Cyllan struggled to her
    feet as speculation threatened to flower into certainty,
    and craned to look up at the towering cliff. Vertigo made
    her feel sick; she quashed it determinedly and tried to
    see to the top of the rock face, backing away down the
    shingle slope until she was wading knee-deep in the sea.
    
    There was an end to the monstrous granite. She could
    glimpse a point where the rock abruptly cut off, and
    from here the perspective of the shore had changed
    enough for her to realise that the cliff was in fact a stack,
    rising out of the surrounding ocean.
    
    Her pulse quickened. If her suspicions were right,
    then she should be able to see the narrow arch of the
    
    causeway that connected this solitary stone pinnacle to
    the mainland. Straining her eyes through the mist-
    shrouded gloom, Cyllan stared . . .
    
    Nothing. The fog was too dense, or she was wrong and
    the nagging sense of familiarity which assailed her was a
    delusion.
    
    But whatever the truth of it, there had to be a way to
    scale that daunting face. To stay on this shore would be
    to give up, and, having survived this far, giving up was
    something Cyllan couldn't bear to consider. There must
    be a way - and perhaps with daylight to aid her, she
    could find it.
    
    Still unsure of herself, but a little heartened, she
    trudged back to where Drachea lay. He seemed to have
    fallen asleep - or lapsed back into unconsciousness -
    and his skin was disturbingly cold to the touch. Cyllan
    turned and began to look about her for something that
    would provide warmth until dawn. Seaweed - it stank
    abominably and was as wet as they were, but at least it
    might protect them from the worst of the Winter night's
    cold. Aware that her limbs were stiffening with fatigue
    and chill, she started to gather great armfuls of the stuff
    from where the sea had washed it, and soon had a pile of
    green-brown strands which she heaped over Drachea's
    still form. Then she lay down at his back, pressing close
    against him so that their remaining body heat might not
    be wasted, and, pulling some of the weed over herself,
    closed her eyes.
    
    Cyllan woke from a sleep racked with hideous night-
    mares, aware that something was wrong. The blanket of
    seaweed had done its work well enough, and some of the
    cold had eased from her bones; but when she tried to
    move, her body was so agonisingly stiff that it would
    barely obey her. And something was wrong . . .
    
    She raised her head, staring into the grey-green dark-
    ness. Mist still hung like an impenetrable curtain only a
    few paces away, and the sound of the sea seemed further
    off than before, muffled by the dense fog. The tide had
    gone out, leaving a newly washed expanse of shingle
    
    gleaming dully at the edge of the mist, which meant that
    she must have slept for some hours. Even in the
    extremes of Winter, nights weren't eternal. The Sun
    should have risen by now . . . but there was no trace of
    the dawn.
    
    An uneasy foreboding assailed Cyllan. There was no
    place in the world where the Sun didn't rise; and yet the
    night still held this shore fast. Everything felt too quiet,
    too still - as if beyond the mist there was nothing but a
    void . . .
    
    Shivering, she turned back to where Drachea lay
    beside her, and shook him. 'Drachea! Wake up!'
    
    He stirred reluctantly, and from the way he swore at
    her she realised that he believed himself in his bed at
    Shu-Nhadek and berating a servant for disturbing him.
    She shook him again.
    
    'Drachea!'
    
    Comprehension slowly dawned as Drachea opened
    his eyes. 'Cyllan?' he mumbled, then became aware of
    the damp shingle beneath him. 'Where are we?'
    
    'I wish I knew!'
    
    'What?'
    
    'Never mind.' She hadn't the energy to spare for an
    argument. 'Listen to me. I've explored as best I can, and
    it seems that we're on an island. There's no link with the
    mainland that I can find, so we have to seek a way of
    climbing the cliff.'
    
    Drachea struggled into a sitting position as clearer
    thought took over from his weariness, and pushed at the
    stinking heaps of seaweed that covered him. When he
    answered, his voice was petulant.
    
    'It's still the middle of the night! We're not going to
    die in the time between now and dawn! And when the
    Sun comes up, we'll be found! There must be people out
    looking for me now - my parents will have raised the
    alarm. So why should I waste my strength scaling a
    thrice-damned cliff to no good purpose?'
    
    Cyllan's mouth tightened angrily. Drachea, it
    seemed, had no true concept of the predicament they
    were in - accustomed to having his every wish granted,
    
    he blithely assumed that rescue was imminent. And so it
    might have been, were they still in the vicinity of Shu.
    But Cyllan knew better . . .
    
    She tried to make him understand. 'Drachea, listen to
    me! The tide has gone out - that means we've been here
    long enough for dawn to have broken, and yet it hasn't.'
    
    He frowned. 'What do you mean?'
    
    'I don't know - only that something's terribly wrong
    here. And another thing - we're not in Shu Province, or
    anywhere near it.'
    
    He tried to protest at that. 'But - '
    
    'Listen to me! Don't ask how I know - I do! I can feel
    it, Drachea, as surely as I've ever felt anything!' She
    paused, swallowing to catch her breath. 'If we're not to
    rot and die here on this shore, we must find a way to the
    top!'
    
    Drachea stared at her, unwilling to acknowledge the
    truth of her words. Then he said resentfully, 'I'm
    hungry.'
    
    Cyllan could have strangled him. He was wilfully
    refusing to face harsh reality, and although part of her
    pitied him — he had, after all, never known such straits in
    his life before - another part felt only frustrated disgust.
    
    Knowing that they could afford no more wasted time
    she rose and paced to the foot of the sheer cliff, laying
    her palms against the unyielding granite as though seek-
    ing to divine a path upwards. Luck and determination
    had brought them this far - unless the gods chose
    capriciously to abandon them now, there must be an
    answer. From behind her Drachea complained of stiff-
    ness and pain, and Cyllan lost her temper.
    
    Then move, damn you! Help me! I can't do every-
    thing alone, and you expect me to carry you as though I
    were your servant!'
    
    Drachea stared back at her in angry consternation,
    and Cyllan felt tears prick her eyes as the pent-up fear
    within her threatened to break through to the surface.
    She forced them back ferociously and took a grip on
    herself. She couldn't afford to lose self-control - to
    weaken now would bring disaster.
    
    'Wherever we are,' she said, clenching her teeth to
    stop them chattering, 'Shu Province is a world away.
    And we've no food and no shelter. If we stay here we'll
    die from cold or hunger or both.' She stared spec-
    ulatively up at the forbidding mass of the cliff wall. 'We
    have to find a way up.'
    
    Drachea hugged himself, shivering. 'If you don't
    know where we are, how can you be so sure that we
    won't be rescued?' he argued sullenly.
    
    'I can't be sure. But I'm not about to sit here and wait
    until I'm too weak to look for an alternative.' Cyllan had
    begun to trudge away from him; now she stopped and
    looked back. 'I'm going to look for a path. What you
    choose to do is your concern.'
    
    He gave her a withering, venomous glare and turned
    his back. She had walked two more paces when she
    heard him sigh and mutter an imprecation under his
    breath. Then, thrusting his pinched hands into the
    pockets of his jacket, he moved stiffly across the crunch-
    ing shingle to join her.
    
    It was Drachea who finally found the worn steps, carved
    unimaginable generations ago into the sheer rock, and
    winding up into the night. Centuries of erosion had worn
    them to a treacherous glass-like smoothness and their
    steepness was daunting, but Cyllan believed that, with
    good fortune on their side, they could make the climb
    without mishap.
    
    'It should be easier the higher we go,' she told
    Drachea, privately praying that she was right. 'Beyond
    where the sea can reach there should be less erosion and
    our passage will be safer.'
    
    He looked at the carved stairs dubiously. 'I can't
    imagine who could have carved them, or why. And they
    can't have been used in generations.'
    
    'But they have been used - that's what counts. If
    others have scaled them, so can we! And it means . . .'
    She looked up at the vast stack toppling out of the night
    towards them. 'It means that there must be something at
    the top. Sanctuary, Drachea . . . '
    
    He nodded, afraid but trying not to show it. They had
    subsided into a slightly uneasy truce, submerging their
    differences in the mutual need for survival, and now
    Drachea gestured at the worn steps. 'You go first. I'm
    more likely to catch you if you fall than you'd be to catch
    me.'
    
    The attempt at gallantry, gratifying though it was, was
    misplaced as Cyllan soon discovered. Drachea's head
    for heights was sound enough, but as they climbed the
    treacherous steps it became evident that his strength was
    rapidly deserting him. Shock, fatigue and hunger had
    taken their toll, and Cyllan- who was a good deal fitter -
    frequently had to pause to avoid leaving him far behind.
    To her, the climb was difficult but not impossibly so; she
    had taken equal risks in the past, scaling the giddying
    cliffs of the West High Land coast in the hope of glimps-
    ing the elusive fanaani, but with Drachea toiling pain-
    fully behind her she forced herself to hold back an
    instinct to climb faster, to reach the top of these terrible
    stairs before her will or her energy gave out.

    That, she thought, was the most daunting part of the
    climb. By now they must be at least six hundred feet
    above the sea, yet there was no sign of the vast cliff
    coming to an end. When she once dared to look up, she
    saw only the endless wall of granite rising beyond the
    limits of vision, offering no hope of reprieve.
    
    And when — if— they finally reached the summit, what
    then? As the ascent continued, Cyllan had been acutely
    aware of an unpleasant core of fear growing within her.
    That same animal instinct which had assailed her in the
    tavern at Shu, but greatly increased. Something awaited
    them at the top of the cliff . . . and she was afraid to
    discover what that something was.
    
    But there was no other choice. Hundreds of feet
    below lay a barren shore that offered no hope of rescue,
    and even a dreaded unknown held a better prospect than
    that. They must go on, and face whatever awaited them.
    
    A fit of coughing from below halted her then, and she
    looked cautiously back to see Drachea doubled over,
    clutching at a precarious handhold. Cyllan slid carefully
    
    back a pace or two and reached down to take his hand,
    helping him over a place where the granite steps had
    crumbled away. He bit his lip, holding his breath until he
    was up with her, and slowly, painfully, they continued
    on.
    
    Eventually, the climb dissolved into a mesmeric, wak-
    ing nightmare for Cyllan. Each upward step became a
    torment of fierily aching muscles, each inch of progress a
    small triumph in itself. She might have been climbing for
    the whole of her life, Drachea struggling in her wake,
    ever onward and up with no end in view. Sometimes she
    almost laughed aloud at the bizarre nature of it all - the
    unchanging rock, the unchanging sky, the unchanging,
    mourning note of the wind that froze her hands and
    threatened to prise her stiff fingers and toes away from
    their insecure holds. How long had they been climbing?
    Minutes? Hours? Days? The sky gave her no clue; still
    the night hung over them with neither Moon tracking
    across its arc to mark the passing of time. If this was
    insanity, it was like nothing she had ever imagined
    before ...
    
    'Aeoris!'
    
    The oath was out before she could stop it as, with no
    warning, the cliff-face ended and she sprawled on to
    soft, yielding turf. She had time for the shocking image
    of what confronted her to register in her brain before,
    remembering Drachea, she had turned and was reaching
    down to help him scramble the last few steps to safety.
    They lay gasping on the ground, the world seeming to
    swing giddily around them as both struggled for breath,
    and Cyllan thought she heard Drachea murmuring what
    sounded like a fervent prayer of thanksgiving through
    dry lips. At last, when she had strength enough, she
    roused him by taking his arm, and pointed, unable to
    speak.
    
    No more than a hundred paces away, the castle rose
    out of the ground as though it had grown from the living
    rock. Blacker than anything Cyllan could imagine, it
    towered into the night, dominated by four titanic spires
    which reached skyward like accusing fingers, and it
    
    seemed to absorb what little light fell on it, swallowing
    and crushing it. Above the sharply defined battlements,
    a crimson glow tinged the air as though within the
    castle's precincts some vast fire burned sullenly but
    steadily. And although the monstrous structure seemed
    changed beyond recognition, Cyllan knew it ...
    
    Drachea's hands clawed reflexively at the turf. 'What
    ... is that place?' he whispered.
    
    Cyllan felt her pulse pounding suffocatingly in her
    throat, so that speaking was a great effort.
    
    'You said that you wanted to visit the stronghold of
    the Circle,' she whispered harshly. 'Your wish has been
    granted, Drachea. That is the Castle of the Star
    Peninsula!'
    
    Drachea didn't reply. He was staring at the Castle,
    seemingly unable to credit the sight that confronted him.
    At last he managed to form words.
    
    'I didn't imagine . . . none of the stories said . . .
    that it would be like this!'
    
    A shiver racked Cyllan, and the fear redoubled. 'It
    isn't,' she murmured. 'Or at least ... it wasn't when I
    saw it. Something's wrong . . . '
    
    'The rumours - ' Drachea began.
    
    'Yes ... if the Initiates have shut themselves away -
    then how is it that we've broken through the barrier?'
    
    Unsteadily, Drachea rose to his feet. He still watched
    the distant Castle, as though fearing that if he dared to
    look away for a moment it would vanish. 'We must find
    out,' he said.
    
    She didn't want to go near it ... she was suddenly
    desperately afraid. But Drachea's reasoning couldn't be
    argued with. If they crossed the causeway, there was
    nothing but the Northern mountains for leagues. Two
    exhausted and hungry souls couldn't hope to survive the
    road through the pass in Winter. And even when she
    looked to where the causeway should have been, Cyllan
    could see nothing. Only the mist, hanging like a curtain,
    as though to mark an impassable barrier between
    the real world and this world of nightmare and
    illusion.
    
    She got to her feet, disturbed by the thought, and
    moved closer to Drachea. He glanced at her and
    attempted to smile. 'We go forward., or we stay here,' he
    said. 'Which is it to be?'
    
    'Forward . . . ' The word formed on her lips almost
    without her realising it.
    
    Slowly they began to walk towards the Castle that
    towered to meet them. Here even the wind was stilled,
    and the silence was eerie. As they approached the mas-
    sive entrance, Cyllan realised that there was no sign of
    life in the Castle. The great gates were shut, and the dull
    crimson radiance from within remained unchanging.
    The place seemed deserted . . .
    
    And how, she asked herself again, had they penetrated
    the barrier that held the Castle aloof? How had they
    broken through the Maze?
    
    'Drachea - ' She clutched his arm and pulled, abruptly
    attacked by an unhealthy doubt. 'Drachea, something's
    terribly amiss . . . '
    
    It was a feeble repetition of her old fear, but she could
    find no clearer way to give voice to her misgivings.
    Drachea, however, was not to be daunted. He shook her
    off irritably and began to walk faster, almost running
    down the final slope of the sward that brought him to the
    Castle entrance. Cyllan followed, and caught up with
    him as he pushed vainly at the huge gates.
    
    'Locked!' Drachea swung breathlessly round, leaning
    his back against the gates and pushing, but to no avail.
    'Damn them! I've not come through so much to be
    thwarted now!'
    
    'Drachea, no!' Cyllan protested, but it was too late.
    He had turned to face the entrance once more, and
    hammered ferociously with clenched fists on the wood of
    the gates, shouting in near-hysterical fury.
    
    'Open! Open, damn you all! Let us in!'
    
    For a moment nothing happened. Then - as much to
    Drachea's astonishment as Cyllan's - the massive gates
    creaked. Something clicked with a hollow, echoing
    sound . . . and slowly, slowly, the huge wooden
    structures swung slowly inward, silently and smoothly,
    
    spilling out a gloomy blood-red radiance that stained the
    sward.
    
    'Gods!' Drachea stepped back, staring with a mixture
    of awe and chagrin at the sight which the slowly swinging
    gates had revealed. Before them, framed by a dense
    black arch, lay the Castle courtyard, and they both took
    in the scene with disturbed amazement.
    
    The great courtyard was empty, and as silent as the
    grave. In the centre, reflecting the desolation, stood a
    derelict and dry fountain, its carved statues leering
    frozenly at them. The nightmarish crimson light which
    had shone above the black walls was greatly magnified
    here, but seemed to have no source; it simply existed,
    with no visible origin, and when Cyllan glanced uneasily
    at Drachea she saw that his skin was tinged a bloody hue
    by the glow.
    
    Softly, he whistled between his teeth, and Cyllan
    shivered. 'It feels - dead. Empty. As if there was no
    living soul here . . . '
    
    'Yes . . . ' Cautiously, Drachea stepped forward,
    moving under the silent black arch until he emerged into
    the courtyard with Cyllan at his heels. He breathed
    in deeply. 'There can be no doubt? This is the
    Castle . . . ?'
    
    'Oh, yes. There can be no doubt of it.'
    
    He nodded. 'Then the Initiates must be here. And
    whatever their purpose in sealing themselves off from
    the rest of the world, they surely can't deny us sanctuary
    now!' Eagerly he started across the deserted courtyard,
    but not before Cyllan had seen the flash of almost fever-
    ish anticipation in his eyes. Drachea had forgotten the
    Warp, the sea, the grim shore at the foot of the Castle
    stack- all that mattered to him now was the fact that fate
    had brought him to the stronghold of the Circle. Why
    and how he had come meant nothing- the old, obsessive
    ambition to be a part of that revered and select few had
    eclipsed all other considerations.
    
    He had already outpaced Cyllan, heading towards a
    flight of wide, shallow steps that led to an open set of
    double doors. She hastened after him, afraid of being
    
    left alone in this grim and disturbing place, and came up
    with him as he began to climb the flight.
    
    'Drachea, please wait!' she pleaded. 'We can't simply
    walk in; there may be reasons - '
    
    He interrupted her, dismissing her doubts impa-
    tiently. 'What would you prefer- that we should stay out
    here in the courtyard until someone finds us? Don't be a
    fool - there's nothing to be afraid of!'
    
    But there is, an inner voice protested. Still she couldn't
    shake off the foreboding - it was growing by the minute
    and she had to fight down a desire to turn and run back
    towards the gates and the seeming safety of the cliff-top.
    Quickly she looked over her shoulder - and with a
    sinking sensation realised that any attempt at flight
    would avail her nothing.
    
    Whatever silent, secret force had opened the gates to
    admit them to the Castle had now closed them again.
    They were trapped, like flies in a spider's web . .
    
    Cyllan felt sick. She didn't want to venture through
    the doorway into the Castle, but Drachea wouldn't lis-
    ten to her. He meant to investigate further whether she
    willed it or no - she could follow him, or remain here
    with only the dead, grinning gargoyles of the stilled
    fountain for company . . .
    
    Turning back, she saw that Drachea had already
    crossed the threshold of the doorway, and was standing
    in a corridor. The crimson light permeated even here,
    like a distant hellfire, and its glow made him look un-
    human. He glanced back, and snapped, 'Are you
    coming? Or must I seek out the Initiates alone?'
    
    Cyllan didn't answer, but with a pounding heart
    hastened to join him, feeling as though she were choos-
    ing the lesser of two tangible evils. Slowly they advanced
    into the Castle, their footfalls echoing eerily in the pro-
    found silence. Still nothing moved, no one emerged to
    welcome or castigate them . . . and then Drachea
    stopped at another heavy door which stood partly open.
    
    'A hall, or some such . . .' He touched the door and it
    swung back easily to admit them to a huge and lofty hall.
    Long, scrubbed tables stretched the length of the great
    
    room, and at the far end a vast, empty hearth gaped,
    polished copper fire-irons gleaming bloodily in the
    strange light. Above the massive mantel was a
    balustraded gallery, all but invisible in shadow, with
    heavy curtains hanging motionless to either side. The
    place was as empty and lifeless as the courtyard had
    been.
    
    This must be where the Adepts dine . . . ' Drachea
    said softly, and Cyllan echoed his following, unspoken
    thought.
    
    'But there's no one here ...'
    
    A sound, so faint it might have been imagination,
    flickered at the borders of awareness and was gone. A
    woman's distant laughter . . . Drachea paled. 'Did you
    hear - '
    
    'Yes, I heard. But there's no one here!'
    
    'There must be - the Castle of the Star Peninsula,
    abandoned and empty? It isn't possible!'
    
    Cyllan shook her head, trying to quell the nagging
    little inner voice which still assailed her, and which
    now asked, do you believe in ghosts . . . ? Drachea's
    steps seemed obscenely loud as he approached the near-
    est of the tables and laid his hands on it. This is real
    enough,' he said quietly. 'Unless I'm dreaming, or dead,
    I-'
    
    And he stopped as they both heard the unmistakable
    sound of a footfall in the gallery.
    
    For a moment they stared transfixed at the shadowed
    platform above the empty hearth. The curtains didn't
    move, and as the small sound died there was no further
    sign of life. But Drachea's face was suddenly
    triumphant.
    
    'You see!' he hissed. 'We're not alone - and I'm not
    dreaming! The Initiates are here, and they're aware of
    our presence!' He drew himself up, placing one palm to
    the opposite shoulder in a formal gesture, and called out
    loudly, 'Greetings to you! I am Drachea Rannak, Heir
    Margrave of Shu Province! Kindly show yourself!'
    
    Silence answered him. No further footfall, no move-
    ment. Cyllan's skin began to crawl and she moved to
    
    Drachea's side. The young man was frowning, non-
    plussed, and cleared his throat.
    
    'I said, kindly reveal yourself! We are wet and
    exhausted, and we demand the hospitality due to any
    tired traveller! Damn it, is this the Castle of the Star
    Peninsula, or - '
    
    'Drachea!' Cyllan cut in, clutching at him.
    
    He saw it a moment after her quicker senses had
    discerned the first movement. A shadow, which
    detached itself from the deeper darkness in the
    gallery, moved swiftly to the head of the staircase that
    spiralled down into the dining-hall, and began to
    descend.
    
    Drachea stepped back, bravado deserting him in the
    face of such a manifestation. The figure - for now it was
    discernible as human - reached the hall floor and stop-
    ped. Cyllan was horribly aware of its cold, impassive
    scrutiny, but it was still too deeply immersed in shadow
    for any feature to be visible. But whoever- whatever- it
    was, its appearance conjured an uneasy sense of
    recognition.
    
    A hand, white and thin, flicked impatiently at the
    darkness surrounding the apparition, and something
    black shifted and rippled. Cyllan realised that the figure
    was wearing a dark, high-collared cloak which swept the
    ground at its feet. Then a voice, with an edge to it that
    made her shiver, snapped harshly,
    
    'How in the name of the Seven Hells did you break
    through the barrier?'
    
    Drachea backed away, shocked by the venom in the
    figure's tone. But Cyllan stood rooted by a memory that
    crowded back into her mind, a memory which she had
    been striving to blot out. Her eyes widened as the tall,
    dark man moved and for the first time the crimson glow
    fell on him, illuminating his features.
    
    He had changed - gods, how he had changed! The
    flesh of his face was cadaverous, the bone-structure
    jagged and skeletal. But the unruly black hair that cas-
    caded over his shoulders was the same, and the dark-
    lashed green eyes still held their haunted intensity -
    
    though now they glittered with a cruel understanding
    that was far beyond her comprehension. He seemed
    more of a demon incarnate than a living man . . . but
    she knew him. And the momentary spark of recognition
    that flared in his look confirmed her certainty.
    Cyllan said unsteadily, 'Tarod ...'
    
    Chapter 3
    
    Tarod stared at the two bedraggled creatures who stood
    before him, the first human beings he had seen in - he
    mentally checked himself, distantly amused by the fact
    that a part of his mind still insisted on thinking in terms
    of time. That girl - memory stirred at the sight of her
    pale hair and the odd amber eyes, and a name came to
    his mind. He had forgotten her - but against all pos-
    sibility she was here in the Castle, where no foot save his
    own had walked since Keridil Toln's attempt to destroy
    him.
    
    The shock had caught him off guard, but now he was
    rallying his composure - although it took considerable
    effort in the face of what had happened. No human
    being should be capable of breaking through the barrier
    which held this Castle frozen in a Timeless limbo. His
    own power, great as it was, couldn't penetrate the form-
    less, dimensionless yet appallingly real warp of time and
    space that had trapped him here in his last, desperate
    effort to save his life and his soul; and whatever her
    psychic talents, Cyllan was no true sorceress. Yet she
    was here, as real as he was . . .
    
    He stepped forward, the movement implying a threat
    that made Drachea back away, and his cold stare flicked
    from one to the other. 'How did you break the barrier?'
    he demanded again. 'How did you reach the Castle?'
    
    Drachea, his confidence sapped, swallowed and made
    an attempt at a formal bow. 'Sir, I am Drachea Rannak,
    Heir Margrave of Shu Province,' he said, trying to wield
    the rank as a defensive weapon. 'We have been the
    victims of a bizarre accident which - '
    
    'I'm not interested in your name, your title or your
    
    circumstances!' Tarod snapped. 'Answer my question -
    how did you get here?'
    
    Stunned by the fact that any man, whatever his rank,
    should dare to treat a Margrave's son with such open
    contempt, Drachea opened his mouth to make a furious
    retort. But before he could speak, Cyllan said quickly,
    'We came from the sea.'
    
    Tarod turned to stare at her and she looked back, not
    flinching. She was afraid of him, bewildered by the
    shocking changes which he seemed to have undergone,
    and aware that to anger him could be dangerous; but she
    wouldn't give ground. And abruptly some of the pecu-
    liar light faded from Tarod's eyes.
    
    'From the sea?' he repeated with a gentler curiosity.
    
    Cyllan nodded. 'It was the Warp - we were in Shu-
    Nhadek . . . ' She faltered, realising how impossible the
    story must sound even to an Initiate, and before she
    could stumble on Tarod forestalled her by reaching out
    and taking a strand of her hair. He squeezed it between
    his fingers; it felt stiff and sticky with salt, and the strands
    refused to separate.
    
    'You're barely dried.' A small spark of charity was
    fighting its way through the mixture of shock, suspicion
    and the glimmerings of an uneasy understanding in his
    mind. A Warp . . . his own horrific experience as a
    child, which had brought him into the Castle's embrace
    in the first place, came sharply to memory. He, too, had
    survived a Warp, only to find that it had transported him
    halfway across the world. It was possible, surely it was
    possible, that if the Warps could transcend space they
    could also transcend time?
    
    Suddenly, he demanded, 'What season is it?'
    
    'Season . . . ?' Cyllan was nonplussed. 'Why- almost
    Spring. The Quarter-Day is in fifteen days from now.'
    
    Winter had yet to take full hold when the changes had
    taken place here . . . had years passed beyond the time-
    barrier, or merely weeks? Tarod had no chance to spec-
    ulate, for Drachea abruptly spoke up.
    
    'Sir, I must protest! We've arrived here through no
    fault of our own; we are exhausted; damn it, we're lucky
    
    to be alive! We ask the simple courtesies due to anyone
    in distress, and you seem to consider it more important
    to establish the season! Surely the weather beyond these
    walls is quite sufficient to -
    
    He stopped as Tarod looked at him with con-
    temptuous hostility. Whatever he might be - Initiate or

    no - the man was insane; there could be no other expla-
    nation. And the thought of what an insane Adept might
    be capable of was daunting. Drachea swallowed and
    went on, trying to sound calm but uncomfortably aware
    of the tremor in his voice. 'I mean no offence - but if I
    might be granted an interview with the High Initiate - '
    
    Tarod's answering smile was faintly ironic. 'I'm afraid
    that's impossible. The High Initiate isn't here.'
    
    Then whoever is in charge in his stead - ' Drachea
    persisted.
    
    Tarod had taken an immediate dislike to the self-
    important youth, and the prospect of trying to explain
    the truth to him was one he didn't relish. Even Cyllan,
    with her broader perceptions, would find the facts hard
    to accept.
    
    'There is no one "in charge", as you put it,' he told
    Drachea. 'And this isn't the moment for explanations.
    You've both suffered an ordeal, and your needs have
    been neglected - as you took pains to point out. Before
    anything else is considered, you should bath and rest.'
    
    'Well. . .' Drachea was mollified. 'I'd be grateful for
    that! If there are servants to spare - '
    
    Tarod shook his head. 'There are no servants, not
    now. I'm afraid you must make do with what I can offer.'
    And, seeing that the young man still didn't comprehend,
    he added, 'There is no one else in the Castle.'
    
    Drachea was stunned. 'But - '
    
    'You'll have the answers you want soon enough,'
    Tarod said in a voice that brooked no argument. He
    waited until Drachea subsided, then gestured towards
    the far end of the hall. 'The Castle's facilities are this
    way. Follow me.'
    
    Cyllan tried to catch his eye as he led them across the
    room, but failed. She fell into step beside Drachea, her
    
    thoughts whirling. From two brief meetings she could
    hardly say that she knew the black-haired Adept well,
    but an unerring intuition told her that he had changed in
    far more ways than mere physical appearance indicated
    - and that was to say nothing of the changes which had
    apparently taken place at the Castle itself.
    
    Where were the Circle Initiates? What had happened to
    this community? Questions crowded her brain, and even
    her wildest flights of imagination provided no answers
    that made any sense. She glanced at Drachea, saw his
    tense, troubled expression, and surreptitiously tucked
    her hand into his. It was something she would never
    have had the temerity to do under normal circum-
    stances, but these circumstances were very far from
    normal. Drachea, rather than being offended, seemed
    to take comfort from the small contact, and squeezed
    her fingers in an attempt at reassurance.
    
    Tarod led them through silent corridors that echoed
    hollowly to the sound of their feet. The Castle's North
    wing was largely devoted to both private and communal
    living accommodation, but there wasn't the smallest sign
    of life in any of the passages or rooms. No voices carried
    on the still air, no one emerged from a doorway to hurry
    by on some errand. The entire Castle was eerily, fright-
    eningly dead.
    
    At last their route took them down a flight of steep
    stairs that descended into the Castle's foundations. A
    pale glimmer showed from below, and they emerged
    suddenly on to a broad shelf overlooking a network of
    artificial pools. Cubicles had been constructed to
    provide privacy, and the entire chamber was faintly lit
    by softly shimmering reflections from the water.
    
    Tarod turned to them and smiled slightly. 'Not as
    sophisticated as the baths of Shu Province, I'll grant, but
    you'll find the water warm and refreshing. When you've
    done, I will be in the dining-hall.'
    
    Drachea glanced swiftly at Cyllan, then gave Tarod a
    curt nod and hastened away along the shelf towards one of
    the further cubicles, as though anxious to put as great a
    distance between himself and his host as possible.
    
    Cyllan gazed at the glass-smooth surface of the water,
    only now fully aware of how exhausted she was in the
    wake of her ordeal. The thought of being clean, of being
    able to sleep on something other than shingle or granite,
    made her want to pinch herself to be sure she wasn't
    dreaming. She made to strip off her wet and dirty
    clothes, then stopped as she realised that Tarod hadn't
    moved, but was still standing behind her.
    
    Slowly she turned to face him. Drachea was by now

    out of earshot, and there were a hundred questions she
    wanted to ask. But her nerve failed her, for although the
    tall Adept was watching her she had the discomfiting
    feeling that his thoughts were an unimaginable distance
    away. She shivered, and the movement caught his atten-
    tion, seeming to bring him back to reality. He said:
    
    'I'm sorry, Cyllan - I delay you.'
    
    'You remember my name . . . ' She was surprised,
    and irrationally gratified; it was the first time he had
    addressed her personally.
    
    He smiled. 'My memory hasn't failed me yet. And you
    - you recognised me. I was flattered.'
    
    She flushed, sensing irony and not wanting to guess at
    the reason for it. 'I'm sorry.'
    
    'Sorry? For what?'
    
    'For intervening in something that isn't our concern. I
    realise we're not welcome here; that our arrival has been
    . . . inopportune. We won't impose on you longer than
    necessary.'
    
    'Your friend Drachea might not be so obliging.'
    
    She looked up quickly, almost angrily. 'He's not my
    friend.'
    
    'A Margrave's son doesn't associate with a drover-girl
    from choice, is that it?' He saw her face cloud, and
    realised with faint surprise that she was stung by his
    words. The slight had been intended against Drachea,
    and to take the edge from the remark he added, 'Then
    he must be even more of a fool than he seems.'
    
    Some of the hurt faded, but Cyllan was still defensive.
    'We'll go as soon as we can,' she said. 'When we've
    rested.'
    
    'Ah. As to that ...' Tarod sighed. 'I can't explain
    fully, Cyllan; not here and now.' His mouth twisted
    briefly as if his own words had reminded him of some
    private and none too pleasant joke. 'But there's one fact
    that in all conscience I can't keep from you.' In all
    conscience? He had almost forgotten what conscience
    meant . . . 'Now that you have come here,' he con-
    tinued, 'you can't leave.'
    
    She stared at him, not comprehending. 'Can't? But -'
    
    'I mean that it isn't possible. You are, effectively,
    trapped here, and even I haven't the power to change
    matters. I'm sorry.' The last words were chilly, and
    Cyllan felt herself turn cold inside as the animal forebod-
    ing she had felt before awoke yet again. Something
    wrong ... so hideously wrong that it was beyond her
    understanding . . .
    
    Mustering all her courage, she spoke with slow delib-
    eration. 'Tarod - if what you're saying is true, then
    something terrible must have happened here.' Intuition
    made the nape of her neck tingle, and she knew that, as
    happened on rare occasions, it was guiding her surely.
    'Something has happened to you,' she stated.
    
    Tarod knew that she implied far more than she was
    saying. For an instant his gaze filled with such venom
    that she recoiled. Then he took a grip on himself, and
    shook his head. 'You're too perceptive for your own
    good, girl. But if you're wise, you'll make no more
    presumptions. Whatever answers you think you've
    found, they're less than the truth!' Abruptly he turned
    away, and with that movement an invisible but tangible
    barrier seemed to descend between them.
    
    'You'll find robes on a rack at the end of the shelf,' he
    said coldly. 'Make use of anything you please.'
    
    She tried to call after him as he walked away, but the
    words died on her tongue. His footsteps echoed from the
    cavern roof, and the last she saw of him was a black
    shadow that moments later was swallowed by the dark-
    ness on the stairs.
    
    She didn't understand. For a few brief moments
    the impassive mask had relaxed a little; then he had
    
    deliberately and almost contemptuously withdrawn,
    shutting her off as though she were beneath his
    notice.
    
    Which perhaps she was . . . slowly, Cyllan peeled off
    her salt-stiffened shirt and trousers, and sat down on the
    edge of the shelf to let her legs dangle in the water. It was
    surprisingly warm, bringing a stinging, fiery ache to her
    bruised and lacerated feet, and she let herself gently
    down into the quiet depths until she was immersed to her
    shoulders. Her own face, pinched and pale, stared sol-
    emnly back from the mirror-like surface of the pool, and
    not so much as a single ripple spread out to break the
    calm.
    
    She had to forget, as best she could, the confusion and
    fear that were trying to eat at her. She was too tired for
    coherent thought; Tarod's strangeness and the mystery
    surrounding the Castle were too much for her exhausted
    mind. She craved sleep, craved the relative sanity of a
    new day. Then, and only then, could she begin to take
    stock of the predicament she was in, and try as best she
    could to find the answers to her questions.
    
    The water was a soothing balm to aching muscles.
    Cyllan took a breath, then ducked under the smooth
    surface, letting the warmth of the pool suffuse through
    flesh and bone to bring its own form of comfort.
    
    She was lying not on familiar hard ground, but in a bed.
    Her head was cradled by pillows, softer than anything
    she'd ever experienced . . . Cyllan emerged from a
    chasm of sleep, and at first thought she must be dream-
    ing one of the hurtful and unfulfillable dreams of
    another, better life which often plagued her in her tent.
    Then, gradually, memory returned . . .
    
    She had found the rack of bathing-robes when she
    emerged from the pool, and had found Drachea, who
    was waiting for her, wrapped in a similar garment sev-
    eral sizes too large for him. His eyes were haunted and
    he had tried to launch into a flood of questions, protests,
    arguments; but sheer fatigue had the better of them
    both, and they lapsed into silence.
    
    Ascending the stairs seemed more arduous than the
    long toil up the face of the stack. Twice Drachea faltered
    and might have slumped and slept where he stood, but
    for Cyllan's hand which gripped his and urged him on.
    She herself felt sick and feverish with exhaustion, and
    her perceptions sank into a nightmarish miasma, cloud-
    ing awareness. She vaguely remembered seeing Tarod
    again - in her confusion he seemed to have taken on the
    air of some dusty and foreboding spirit rather than a
    living man - and she recalled pleading to be allowed to
    sleep. A hand had touched her forehead - Tarod's or
    Drachea's, she didn't know - then there were blurred
    recollections of more stairs, a long corridor, a door
    which seemed to open without a hand to touch it, and a
    high-ceilinged room furnished with dark draperies. She
    felt a surface that yielded beneath her, then sweet obliv-
    ion claimed her consciousness.
    
    Now though, the tiredness had washed away, and as
    she opened her amber eyes she was instantly alert. The
    bed in which she lay occupied one corner of the room,
    and the gory light from the courtyard, filtering
    through the one window, cast a dim, blood-red sheen
    over the shadowed furnishings. The room's grim un-
    familiarity put Cyllan on guard in spite of her physical
    comfort - that, and an instinct which told her she wasn't
    alone . . .
    
    Very cautiously she turned her head - then uttered a
    sigh of relief as she saw Drachea, half hidden by shadow,
    sitting on the window-ledge.
    
    'Cyllan . . . ?' He rose and came hesitantly towards
    her, and she saw that he had exchanged the robe for a
    shirt, jacket and trousers which weren't his own. 'I've
    been waiting for you to wake.'
    
    She sat up, shaking off the last remnants of sleep, and
    looked quickly around, fearing that other presences
    stood silent and invisible in the bedchamber. Her senses
    discerned nothing untoward . . .
    
    'Here,' Drachea said, dropping a shapeless bundle on
    the bed. 'I found a chest with all manner of garments in
    it. I brought these for you.'
    
    'Thank you . . .' Wondering at his disregard for what
    was, after all, a theft of someone else's property, she
    none the less shook the clothes out and fingered the
    material. Wool - and fine wool at that; a world away
    from the rough fabrics she was used to. But they had still
    been designed for a man . . .
    
    Cyllan pushed down a small and foolish sense of
    insult, and looked at Drachea again. 'How long have I
    slept?' she asked, not quite knowing why she felt the
    need to whisper.
    
    Drachea scowled. 'As well ask the High Margrave as
    ask me - I can barely remember anything since I emer-
    ged from those damned baths! I woke some while ago
    and came to find you. I couldn't make you stir, so I
    waited.' He glanced over his shoulder towards the heav-
    ily curtained window, and shivered. 'And the gods alone
    know how long I've been sitting here. We must have
    slept for hours, but - I looked outside just now. There's
    still not the smallest glimmer of light in the sky. Just as
    before; no sign of the dawn. It's as though the whole
    world has stopped.'
    
    Cyllan looked in the direction of the window again.
    The peculiar crimson hellfire still hung beyond the glass,
    but there was no paler hint of daylight to redeem it.
    
    Drachea shivered, and helped himself to one of the
    blankets from Cyllan's bed. The room wasn't cold, but
    he felt the need of it to stave off an inner chill. 'And as
    for our host, or whatever he chooses to style himself - '
    Suddenly his voice sharpened. 'You recognised him,
    didn't you? And he knew your name. Who is he?'
    
    His tone verged on the accusing, and Cyllan won-
    dered if, in a dark recess of his imagination, Drachea
    suspected her of being involved in some complex plot of
    which he was the victim.
    
    'His name is Tarod,' she said. 'He's the Initiate I met
    . . . when I was here before.'
    
    'An Initiate . . . What's his status?'
    
    'I don't know. I hardly know him, Drachea! All I
    remember is that he's a high Adept; seventh rank, I
    believe.'
    
    Drachea was taken aback. 'That's the highest of all!'
    Chagrined, he remembered his own attempt to treat the
    Adept with disdain, and the memory made him break
    out into a cold sweat. If the half of what he had heard
    about the Circle was true, the man could have destroyed
    him with little more than a look. 'But - where are the
    rest of the Circle?' he demanded. 'All the other Castle
    inhabitants?'
    
    'I don't know, any more than you! Gods, Drachea, all
    I do know - sense - is that something's terribly wrong! I
    felt it when we arrived, I tried to tell you then, but you
    were so intent on gaining entrance to the Castle - '
    
    'And what would you have preferred to do? Sit out-
    side on the stack like some importunate beggar, and wait
    for the wind to strip the skin from your bones? Damn
    you, if- ' And Drachea abruptly took a grip on himself,
    realising that he had been leaning over her as though
    about to strike out in angry frustration. His face
    coloured. 'I'm sorry,' he said with an effort. 'We shoul-
    dn't quarrel. It only makes matters worse.' He sat down
    on the end of the bed. 'Besides, our circumstances
    hardly give us cause for alarm. We're safe from the sea,
    sheltered, rested. There's sure to be an explanation for
    the Castle's desertion - and it can be no great distance to
    the nearest village. From there I can despatch a mes-
    senger to Shu-Nhadek - ' The smile that had spread
    across his face abruptly died as he saw Cyllan's stricken
    expression. 'What is it?' he demanded. 'What's wrong?'
    
    Tarod told me - ' She couldn't finish.
    
    Suspicion filled Drachea's eyes, and behind it lay a
    dawning premonition. 'What did he tell you?'
    
    She couldn't hide it from him. If she didn't tell him
    now, Tarod soon would. 'We can't leave the Castle,' she
    said quietly.
    
    'What?'
    
    Afraid that this time he would be unable to control his
    temper, she went on hastily. 'Drachea, please don't ask
    me to explain, because I can't. I know only what Tarod
    told me - that it's impossible for us to leave. He said . . .
    we are trapped.'
    
    Silence hung as sharp as a knife blade in the room,
    until Drachea explosively broke it.
    
    'Damn him!' He hurled himself off the bed, paced the
    floor like a caged cat. This is insane! The Castle of the Star
    Peninsula - the Circle's own stronghold - empty; one
    Adept who claims that we're prisoners here - it's insane!'
    
    Cyllan was on the verge of tears; a state that had been
    rare throughout her harsh life. She could understand
    Drachea's fury, but the instinct which had guided her
    with such alarming clarity thus far told her that no
    amount of ranting and raving would alter their predica-
    ment. And although she couldn't begin to comprehend
    the truth behind Tarod's cold revelation, she didn't
    doubt for a moment that it was true.
    
    Drachea came to rest at last with his hands pressed flat
    against the door. He was breathing heavily, trying to
    control his anger.
    
    'Where is he?' he said through clenched teeth. 'Adept
    or no, I'll have this out, and now! He can't treat an Heir
    Margrave in this careless fashion - there must be
    searchers looking for me, my parents will be wild with
    distress! He can't do it!' He thumped his fists impotently
    against the unyielding wood, then a little of the rage
    drained from him and he turned to look searingly at
    Cyllan.
    
    'Come with me or stay as you please - I'm going to
    find your Initiate friend and remind him of his
    responsibilities!'
    
    Despair flooded Cyllan. Drachea was reacting like a
    thwarted child, and in his current mood she shuddered
    at the thought of the conflict that might ensue. But,
    remembering Tarod's distant coldness, she reminded
    herself that, petulant or no, the Margrave's son was her
    only sure ally.
    
    She slid from the bed, reached for the clothes Drachea
    had brought her, and hastily began to dress.
    
    Finding Tarod proved to be less easy than they had
    anticipated. Drachea strode through the empty, echoing
    corridors of the Castle, stopping to fling open doors,
    
    twice shouting furiously in his frustration, but there was
    no answering footstep, no sign of movement. Cyllan
    caught up and followed him, trying to ignore the leaden
    weight that seemed to have settled in her stomach. Her
    unease was increasing with each moment, and she was
    torn between hoping that Tarod would choose to show
    himself before Drachea's frail hold on his temper finally
    snapped, and dreading what might happen once the two
    met face to face.
    
    And last they found themselves at the double doors
    which led down the wide, sweeping steps into the court-
    yard. Cyllan stared at the dead scene before them, the
    relentless black walls tinged with a gory crimson cast
    from the unnatural glow that permeated everywhere -
    then a flicker of motion at the edge of vision alerted her.
    
    Tarod's tall figure emerged from a doorway set into
    the foot of the Castle's Northernmost spire. Instinctively
    Cyllan looked up to where the gargantuan tower loomed
    into the night sky, and immediately had to fight back an
    attack of vertigo. Far, far above, at the spire's summit, a
    faint glow burned in a tiny window . . .
    
    'Adept Tarod!' Drachea's voice brought her back to
    earth and she turned her head to see him swaggering
    down the steps to intercept Tarod's path. 'I've been
    looking for you!'
    
    Tarod stopped and regarded the younger man dispas-
    sionately. 'Indeed,' he said.
    
    This time, Drachea's anger was enough to overcome
    awe. He halted three steps from the bottom, so that their
    eyes met on an equal level, and said angrily, 'Yes,
    indeed! And I think that an explanation is long overdue!
    I have just been told that I am, effectively, a prisoner
    here - and I demand to know what you mean by such an
    impertinence!'
    
    Tarod glanced briefly at Cyllan, who flushed. Then he
    folded his arms and regarded Drachea as though he were
    some unknown species.
    
    'I told Cyllan nothing but the truth,' he said with cool
    disinterest. 'And as your uninvited presence here is
    none of my doing, so the fact that you must stay is
    
    something I can't influence. Believe me, you don't
    regret it any more than I do!'
    
    Drachea was far from satisfied. 'This is outrageous!
    I'd remind you that I'm not some peasant whose absence
    counts for nothing! My clan will be searching for me, the
    militia will have been alerted - if I'm not found, then I
    warn you, there will be severe consequences!'
    
    Tarod pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb
    and forefinger, and sighed with irritation. 'Very well. If
    you wish to leave - if you believe you can do so - then
    go. I'm not your jailer, and the gates aren't locked.'
    
    Drachea had been on the verge of a fresh tirade, but
    now he stopped, nonplussed. He looked at Cyllan and
    frowned.
    
    'Well?' he said, gesturing towards the Castle gates.
    
    'No, Drachea. It's pointless.' She shook her head,
    knowing in her bones what would happen; knowing,
    too, that there was nothing to gain from trying to con-
    vince Drachea. He had to find out for himself.
    
    He gave her a scathing glare, and strode across the
    courtyard. Cyllan hoped that Tarod might turn to her,
    say something to dismantle the icy wall that he seemed
    to have built around himself, but he didn't move.
    Drachea reached the gates and began to wrestle with
    them; they swung easily enough on vast, well-kept
    hinges, and he started out -
    
    And stopped. Even at this distance Cyllan could share
    the appalled fear that swamped him as he stared out
    beyond the Castle, at nothing.
    
    She could see it for herself as the great gate swung
    noiselessly back. Not fog, not even darkness, but a void,
    so unutterably empty that it made her feel sick just to
    look at it. Drachea uttered a single, inarticulate cry and
    stumbled back. As he released his hold on the gate it
    closed once more, of its own volition, and slammed into
    place with a dull boom that made Cyllan jump.
    
    The Heir Margrave returned slowly to where they
    stood waiting. His face was the colour of putty, and his
    hands shook as though he had a fever. At last he stop-
    ped, at a safe distance from Tarod.
    
    'What is it?' he grated through grey lips.
    
    Tarod smiled with more than a trace of malice. 'Didn't
    you feel the inclination to step through and find out?'
    
    'Damn you, there's nothing out there! It's like - it's
    like the darkness of all the Seven Hells! Not even the
    stack to be seen! Cyllan -' he appealed to her. 'When we
    came here - there was a world beyond! The beach, the
    rock - it wasn't illusion?'
    
    'No . . . ' Yet there had been the mist; and the terrible
    feeling that the real world lay somewhere out of reach. . .
    
    Drachea turned again to Tarod and almost pleaded.
    'What does this mean?'
    
    Unmoved, Tarod regarded him coldly. 'I've told you
    that you can't leave the Castle. Do you now believe me?'
    
    'Yes
    
    'And will you, then, believe that I can't change
    matters?'
    
    'I - ' Drachea hesitated, then burst out, 'But you're a
    High Adept of the Circle!'
    
    Tarod's eyes narrowed. 'I was.'
    
    'Was? Then have you lost your power?' The words
    were a fear-driven challenge. Tarod didn't answer, but
    instead his left hand moved slightly. Cyllan was just able
    to glimpse something on his index finger before his form
    was blurred by a dark aura that seemed to flow out from
    within him, swallowing even the grim red light. The air
    turned bitterly cold as Tarod raised his hand higher,
    holding it, palm upward, towards Drachea.
    
    What Drachea saw, Cyllan would never know and
    preferred not to speculate. But his eyes stared, starting
    almost from their sockets, and his jaw dropped in a
    rictus of sick terror. He tried to speak, but could only
    utter a tormented moan - then he sank to his knees on
    the steps, doubled over and retching with blind, helpless
    fear.
    
    'Stand up.' Tarod's voice rang harshly, and the dark
    aura winked out of existence. Cyllan stared at the tall
    Adept, horrified by the sheer inhumanity of what he had
    done - and by the magnitude of the power he had
    commanded with such careless ease. Now, the only hint
    
    of what had gone before was an echo of something
    unholy in Tarod's green eyes . . . but she wouldn't
    forget it easily.
    
    Drachea staggered to his feet and turned his head
    away. 'Damn you - '
    
    Tarod interrupted him, speaking very softly. 'You
    see, I have power, Drachea. But even my skills aren't
    sufficient to break down the barrier and allow you your
    freedom. Now do you begin to understand?'
    
    Drachea could only nod, and Tarod inclined his head
    in acknowledgement. 'Very well. Then you shall have
    your explanation.' He turned to look at Cyllan. 'He'll
    need help to reach the dining-hall. And perhaps you can
    make him understand that I had no desire to harm him.
    He simply had to be shown.'
    
    Was he trying to justify himself, Cyllan wondered? If
    he regretted his behaviour towards Drachea, his voice
    showed no sign of it. She licked dry lips, nodded, then
    tried to take Drachea's arm. He shook her off angrily
    and turned his back, walking with rigid dignity ahead of
    them towards the double doors.
    
    The remote, dusty shadows of the Castle's great dining-
    hall were beginning to grow unpleasantly familiar to
    Cyllan. Entering, she had to suppress an instinctive
    shiver at the sight of the long, empty tables, the gaping
    fireplace, the heavy curtains that hung without a trace of
    a draught to stir them. The Castle seemed to mock the
    life which had once filled it.
    
    Tarod moved to the fireplace, while Drachea stopped
    at one of the tables, staring down at the wood and
    seeming to find something in the grain to absorb his
    interest. His face was still an unhealthy grey in the wake
    of Tarod's unpleasant demonstration in the courtyard,
    and his eyes smouldered with hatred. Cyllan realised
    that the shock of that experience had gone deep, and she
    wondered how much more he could withstand. With so
    much damage already done, any further strain could
    send him over the thin dividing line between sanity and
    madness.
    
    Tarod's voice cut across her thoughts. 'Sit down,
    Drachea. Your pride is commendable, but it seems
    pointless now.' Their eyes met, clashed, then Tarod
    added, 'Perhaps my demonstration was precipitate . . .
    if so, I'm sorry.'
    
    Drachea stared back with wordless fury before

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

    twist of Fate had brought them through the barrier
    between Time and no-Time, in the hope that it might
    provide him with a desperately needed clue to his own
    dilemma; but in return he was bound to explain the truth
    of that dilemma to them. Or at least, as much of the truth
    as would suit his own purposes . . .
    
    It all hinged on a question of trust. Tarod had learned,
    through bitter experience, that to trust even those who
    professed to be closest to him was a dangerous and self-
    destructive game. And if Cyllan and Drachea were to
    discover the full facts behind his story, he could rely on
    their enmity but on little else. Already the seeds were
    sown - his angry reaction to Drachea's challenge in the
    courtyard had been no more than a catalyst that trig-
    gered the young man's already unstable emotions, but it
    had spawned a fear that was fast growing into deep
    hatred. Drachea's good opinion was of no interest
    to Tarod; but it would be as well to alienate him no
    further.
    
    Cyllan was another matter. Her thoughts were a
    
    closed book to him, yet his feelings towards her were
    kinder. She had a rare inner strength that he could
    acknowledge and appreciate . . . but even she, if faced
    with the full truth, was unlikely to prove a willing ally.
    And impinging on the detached disinterest with which
    he viewed her opinion or her eventual fate was a worm
    of reluctance to take any steps which might do her harm.
    The old debt, which he had never repaid, seemed to call
    to a sense of honour and conscience that he had all but
    forgotten, and the sensation was uncomfortably alien.
    
    The safest course, he felt, was to compromise - to tell
    them as much of the truth as they needed to know in
    order to be of use to him, whilst side-stepping the full
    story. It would be easy enough - even the arrogant
    young Heir Margrave would be unlikely to dare ques-
    tion the Circle's ways.
    
    He spoke, so abruptly that Drachea jumped. 'I prom-
    ised you an explanation, and I don't break my word. But
    first, I must know how you came to the Castle.'
    
    'Must?' Drachea echoed. 'I think you're in no position
    to make demands of us! When I consider the cavalier
    treatment I have received since - ' And he stopped as
    Cyllan, who had seen the flash of irritation in Tarod's
    eyes, ground her heel hard against his instep.
    
    'Drachea, I believe we owe it to Tarod to tell our story
    first,' she said, praying that he wouldn't be so foolish as
    to lose his temper. 'After all, we are the intruders here.'
    
    Tarod glanced at her, apparently amused. 'I appreci-
    ate your consideration, Cyllan, but it's not a question of
    courtesy,' he said. 'Some accident brought you to the
    Castle, and you want to leave. I believe, as I've told you,
    that that's impossible - but it may be that something in
    your story will prove me wrong.' He looked at Drachea
    again. 'Does that satisfy the Heir Margrave?'
    
    Drachea shrugged irritably. 'Very well; it's reason
    enough. And as Cyllan is so anxious to please you, she
    might as well speak for us both!'
    
    Cyllan glanced at Tarod, who nodded encourage-
    ment. And so she began to tell of the Warp and its
    aftermath in as much detail as she could recall. But
    
    trying to describe the apparition that had appeared in
    the street outside the White Barque Tavern, she fal-
    tered, and Tarod frowned.
    
    'A human figure? Did you recognise it?'
    
    'I . . . ' She looked up at him, her eyes troubled. 'I
    thought I did, but . . . now I don't know, and I can't
    visualise it. It's as if the memory has been - blotted out,
    somehow.' She looked to Drachea for help, but he only
    shook his head.
    
    Frustrated, Tarod gestured for her to continue, listen-
    ing carefully as she explained how they had survived the
    Warp only to find themselves in the middle of the North-
    ern sea, with the day turned shockingly to night.
    
    'I thought we'd both drown before we could reach
    land,' Cyllan said, 'and so I called to the fanaani for
    help.' She swallowed. 'If they hadn't answered, we
    would have died then.' She looked up again, and Tarod
    knew that she was remembering a Summer day in West
    High Land, when she had led him down a treacherous
    cliff-face to show him where the Spindrift Root could be
    found. They had seen the fanaani then, heard their
    bittersweet singing ... he pushed the memory aside; it
    no longer interested him.
    
    'Go on with your story,' he said.
    
    She bit her lip, and without any further show of emotion
    recounted the rest of the tale, to the moment when she and
    Drachea had finally reached the top of the stack and found
    themselves facing the Castle of the Star Peninsula.
    
    There's no more to tell,' she said finally. 'We entered
    the Castle, and we thought it deserted . . . until we met
    you.'
    
    Tarod said nothing. He seemed to be lost in thought,
    and finally Drachea couldn't stand the ensuing silence.
    He twisted around on the bench and brought one fist
    down on the table-top.
    
    The Castle of the Star Peninsula, deserted!' he said
    savagely. 'No Circle, no High Initiate - only one Adept
    who tells us that the outside world is beyond our reach,
    and gives no answers to our questions that make any
    sense! A seemingly endless night, with no sign of the
    
    dawn - it's insanity? He stood up. Now that the first
    words were out, they had opened a floodgate. 'I'm not
    dreaming,' he went on, his voice growing harsher, 'and
    I'm not dead - my heart still beats, and even the Seven
    Hells can't be like this place! Besides,' he pointed at
    Cyllan, 'she knew you - she recognised you. You live -
    therefore we must be alive also.'
    
    'Oh, yes; I live.' Tarod stared at his own left hand.
    'After a fashion.'
    
    Drachea tensed. 'What d'you mean, after a fashion?'
    
    'I mean that I'm as alive as anything can be, in a world
    where Time doesn't exist.'
    
    Drachea had been pacing alongside the table, but
    stopped in his tracks. 'What?'
    
    Tarod gestured towards one of the tall windows. 'As
    you so astutely remarked, dawn hasn't broken. Nor will
    it break. Tell me; are you hungry?'
    
    Nonplussed by the apparently irrelevant remark,
    Drachea shook his head angrily. 'No, damn it! I've got
    more important matters on my mind than - '
    
    'When did you last eat?' Tarod interrupted.
    
    Drachea suddenly understood the implication, and
    his face paled. 'In Shu-Nhadek . . . '
    
    'Yet you feel no hunger. Hunger needs Time to
    develop, and there is no Time here. No hours, no change
    from day to night; nothing.'
    
    Very slowly, as though doubting his ability to co-ordi-
    nate his movements, Drachea sat down. Now his com-
    plexion was ashen and he found his voice only with great
    difficulty.
    
    'You're telling me . . . seriously telling me . . . that
    Time itself has ceased to exist?'
    
    'In this Castle, yes. We are in limbo. The world out-
    side continues, but here . . . ' He shrugged. 'You've
    seen it for yourself.'
    
    'But . . . how did it happen?' Drachea was torn
    between disbelief and a terrible fascination with a mys-
    tery beyond his understanding. After the initial outburst
    he had himself under control, only a faint tremor in his
    voice betraying any emotion.
    
    Tarod studied his left hand again. 'Time was
    banished.'
    
    'Banished? You mean that someone - but who, in the
    name of the gods? Who could have done such a thing?'
    
    'I did.'
    
    There was silence. Drachea, wide-eyed, was trying to
    assimilate the idea of a power so titanic that it could halt
    Time - and the concept that a single man, however
    skilled, could wield it. Tarod watched him, outwardly
    impassive but inwardly apprehensive, waiting to see
    how he would finally respond - until the tension was
    broken by Cyllan.
    
    She said, simply, 'Why, Tarod?'
    
    He turned to look at her, and had the discomfiting
    feeling that, against his private predictions, she was
    prepared to believe him. Suddenly he laughed, coldly.
    
    'You accept the word of an Initiate for something
    that, to any right-minded citizen, should surely seem
    impossible,' he said. 'Does the Circle really have so
    much influence?' Cyllan flushed, and the laughter faded
    to a humourless smile. 'I meant no slight. But I hadn't
    anticipated such unquestioning belief.'
    
    A bench grated against the floor as Drachea moved to
    sit beside Cyllan once more. His gaze didn't leave
    Tarod's face, and his expression was an odd mixture of
    uncertainty, wariness and curiosity. When he spoke, his
    voice was steadier than it had been.
    
    'Let us say, Adept Tarod, that we do accept the truth
    of your story - so far as it goes. I don't claim knowledge
    of the Circle's capabilities, and maybe an Initiate can
    wield a power that's capable of stopping Time. But
    you've not answered Cyllan's question. And besides - if
    you could banish Time, for whatever purpose, why can
    you not recall it again?'
    
    Tarod sighed. 'There is a stone; a gem,' he said
    quietly. 'I used it as a focus to summon the necessary
    power for my work. When Time ceased to exist, I lost
    the stone . . . and without it I can't alter this
    predicament.'
    
    'Where is the stone now?' Cyllan asked.
    
    'In another part of the Castle - a chamber that,
    because of certain anomalies brought about by the
    changes here, I can no longer enter.'
    
    Drachea had been fidgeting with his hands, twisting
    the fingers together. Without looking up, he said, 'This -
    work you speak of. It was a Circle matter?'
    
    Tarod hesitated briefly, then: 'Yes.'
    
    'Then where are your fellow Initiates now?'
    
    'To my knowledge, they're neither in your world nor
    in whatever dead dimension this Castle inhabits,' Tarod
    told him. If Drachea chose to misinterpret what he
    heard, he wasn't about to correct him.
    
    The young man nodded. Then this- circumstance- is
    the result of a Circle working which went wrong?'
    
    Tarod resisted the temptation to smile at Drachea's
    further unwitting irony. 'It is.'
    
    Then it seems that, like it or not, we now share your
    predicament. And unless you can retrieve this gem you
    spoke of, we have no hope of reprieve.'
    
    Tarod inclined his head, but his eyes gave away
    nothing.
    
    'Yet if we have somehow managed to break through
    this barrier - albeit unintentionally - it surely follows that
    it's possible to reverse the process?' Drachea persisted.
    
    'I wouldn't deny that. But my own efforts have thus
    far achieved nothing.' Tarod smiled a small, chilly smile.
    'Of course, it may be that your skills can succeed where
    mine have failed.'
    
    Tarod's sarcasm bit home, and Drachea gave him an
    angry glance. 'I wouldn't presume to suggest it, Adept.
    But it strikes me that we'd be better occupied in at least
    trying to solve this conundrum, if the only alternative is
    to wait apathetically for eternity!'
    
    Tarod saw the motive behind Drachea's words, and it
    confirmed his belief that the young man would prove
    troublesome. Hiding his annoyance, he said indif-
    ferently, 'Perhaps.'
    
    'Certainly it's worth further investigation.'
    
    'Indeed it is.' Tarod rose. Then maybe you'd care to
    consider the problem at your leisure.' He smiled thinly.
    
    'After all, we don't have the constraints of Time to
    hinder us.'
    
    'No . . . ' Drachea's confident mask slipped and he
    glanced uneasily around him at the empty hall.
    
    'And now, if you'll forgive me . . . ' Tarod looked at
    Cyllan, then away. 'I think there's little more we can say
    to each other at this stage.'
    
    Drachea might have argued, but Cyllan gave him a
    warning glance and he subsided, making the best of the
    dismissal. 'Come, Cyllan. We've taken up too much of
    the Adept's time - ' he checked himself. 'A slip of the
    tongue - old concepts still linger.' He bowed, not
    entirely courteously. 'We'll take our leave of you.'
    
    Tarod watched them go, and when they were out of sight
    he made a small, impatient gesture. The hall doors swung
    noiselessly shut, and he subsided on to the nearest bench.
    
    Drachea's efforts to dissemble had been clumsy and
    amateurish; but his attitude was clear enough. The
    young man's suspicions were aroused, and that could
    prove irritating. There was little he could do to upset
    Tarod's plans, embryonic as they yet were, but his intru-
    sion was an annoying complication none the less.
    
    Tarod sighed, aware that it wasn't worth the trouble
    of taking any action at this stage. If Drachea proved too
    tiresome, dealing with him could be an enjoyable if brief
    diversion . . .
    
    He rose, crossed the hall. The doors opened once
    more to allow him through, and he walked to the main
    entrance. Cyllan and Drachea were nowhere in sight,
    doubtless making their way to one of the Castle's empty
    rooms, to confer. Tarod laughed shortly and softly, and
    the sound gave back a peculiar echo that might almost
    have been another, alien voice. Then he turned out of
    the door and down the courtyard steps towards the
    Northern spire.
    
    Chapter 4
    
    Drachea stalked into Cyllan's chamber, leaving her to
    close the door behind them both. As she followed him
    into the room, he said, 'Well?'
    
    Cyllan recognised the challenge in his eyes and in his
    voice, and turned away, torn between conflicting feel-
    ings. Every instinct warned her against trusting Tarod
    without question; yet she and Drachea were uneasy
    allies at best, and, irrationally, his attitude now put her
    on the defensive.
    
    'I don't know,' she said.
    
    'You don't know?' Drachea's voice was laced with
    incredulous contempt. 'You're not telling me that
    you're prepared to take the word of that - that
    tyrant?'
    
    Cyllan's eyes flashed angrily. 'I said no such thing! But
    neither am I willing to condemn out of hand without
    more knowledge!'
    
    'Then you're more of a fool than I thought you.' He
    raked her with a searing glance in which she saw the
    echoes of the wide gulf between them. The fact that she
    was unwilling to accept his judgement as superior to her
    own infuriated him; and he paced across the room,
    tension radiating from every muscle.
    
    'First, he launches an unjustified and unprovoked
    attack on me - is that the behaviour of an Adept? And
    then he tells us a story of some Circle ritual that went
    wrong; as unlikely a tale as ever I've heard! He's lying to
    us; I'm certain of it!'
    
    Cyllan moved to the window and stared out across the
    gloomy, silent courtyard. 'There's one fact we can't
    escape, Drachea,' she said with an edge to her voice.
    
    'We're trapped here. Whatever your view of Tarod, you
    can't deny that he spoke the truth in that regard.'
    
    'Can't I?' Drachea retorted savagely. 'For all we
    know, he could have his own reasons for holding us
    prisoner. The son of a Province Margrave would do well
    as a hostage, if his captor had sufficient motive - '
    
    Cyllan swung round. 'A hostage?' she echoed,
    astonished by the conceit of the idea. 'What need would
    a high Adept have of a hostage?'
    
    'Damn it, how should I know?' Drachea shouted. 'It
    makes as much sense as anything else here! And besides
    
    - ' His expression worked into a sneer, 'I have only his
    word - and yours - that he's an Adept at all.'
    
    That's ridiculous - '
    
    'Is it? Or arc you so jealous of your claim to comrade-
    ship with such an exalted figure that you'll hear no word
    against him?'
    
    Cyllan bit back the furious retort that came to her lips
    as she realised, with chagrin, that Drachea had made a
    fair point. She was prejudiced—old memories had a hold
    on her still. And that could set a dangerous precedent
    
    Think about it,' Drachea said obsessively, starting to
    pace again. The Castle of the Star Peninsula trapped in
    some unimaginable dimension, beyond the reach of
    Time. Very well, I grant the point you made; that much
    we can perhaps believe. The Circle gone - dead, fled, in
    limbo; we don't know. One man remaining, who implies
    
    - implies, mark you; he was careful to admit nothing
    directly, but allowed me to draw my own conclusions -
    that it's all the result of some hideous accident, and that
    he has no power to right matters. And we are expected
    to believe him?' He snorted. 'I'd as soon trust a snake!'
    
    Cyllan's sense of justice protested at the sweeping
    condemnation, but she bit her tongue. 'What, then, do
    you think is the truth?' she asked.
    
    Drachea shook his head. 'Aeoris alone knows the
    answer to that!' Reflexively he made the White God's
    sign as a mark of respect, then continued, 'You remember
    my telling you of the rumours rife in Shu? No word from
    
    the Castle, and a garbled tale of some trouble or danger
    in West High Land. This is the root of those rumours; it
    must be! There's something evil afoot - I feel it - and I
    feel, too, that it's of Tarod's making.'
    
    Although deep down a part of her rebelled, Cyllan
    couldn't in all conscience argue with him. Too much of
    what he said rang uncomfortably true - and she, too,
    sensed the pervading threat of something dark and
    unholy that haunted the Castle. But if some black pur-
    pose lay behind Tarod's actions, she couldn't begin to
    imagine what that purpose might be.
    
    Involuntarily, her gaze roamed to where old, dis-
    carded clothes lay on the window-ledge. The pouch
    containing her precious pebbles was among them; and it
    was possible, even here, that the old skills might work
    and allow her to uncover some clue to the mystery. But
    immediately, an inner voice said vehemently, no! She
    couldn't do it - a primal and irresistible fear stood in her
    path. She didn't have the courage, for fear of what she
    might see . . .
    
    Drachea, unaware of her dilemma, was staring mood-
    ily out of the window, and suddenly he said, 'He spoke
    of a jewel . . . '
    
    Cyllan looked up. 'A jewel? Yes, I recall it.'
    
    'A focus for the power that halted Time, he said. And
    it's lost - or at least, wherever it is, he can't reach it. And
    he needs it.'
    
    She laughed mirthlessly. 'We need it too, Drachea, if
    we're ever to leave this place!'
    
    'Do we?' He hunched his shoulders like some bird of
    ill omen. 'Or is that, too, a lie? We don't know what that
    stone is or what it can do. If he retrieves it, with or
    without our aid, who's to say what the consequences
    might be? The return of Time, and with it freedom - or
    something else; something too hideous to imagine?' He
    faced her, eyes ablaze. 'Are you willing to take that risk?
    Because I, for one, am not!'
    
    She didn't answer him, and he crossed the room,
    brushing her out of his path. 'Damn him!' he said
    explosively. 'If he thinks that I'll sit meekly by, awaiting
    
    my fate at his hands, he's wrong! The Castle might be
    abandoned, but its occupants haven't disappeared
    entirely without trace.' He indicated his own borrowed
    clothing. 'There must be clues- documents, records, the
    gods alone know what else. And I'll find them - Aeoris
    help me, I'll find the answers to this mystery, and I'll
    thwart him!' He whirled. 'Well? Are you coming with
    me, or d'you prefer to skulk here?'
    
    His stare reflected the half-pitying, half-con-
    temptuous attitude of a high-ranking citizen towards the
    gutter-born, and Cyllan's pride rebelled against his
    arrogance. 'No,' she replied with an icy edge to her
    voice. 'I'd prefer to skulk here, as you term it!'
    
    'Do as you please.' Drachea strode to the door and
    pulled it open. On the threshold he looked back, but she
    had turned her head away, and he went out into the
    corridor, leaving the door to slam ferociously behind
    him.
    
    When Drachea had gone, Cyllan shut her eyes tightly
    against the wave of bitter resentment that threatened to
    overtake every other thought. Drachea's manner
    towards her was an insult - and she had to admit that it
    also hurt. The comradeship, the sense of fighting on the
    same side, that she might have hoped for in these straits
    was absent - instead, they seemed to be constantly at
    loggerheads. Drachea's attitude had stung her pride to
    the core, and the same pride made her want to retaliate
    in some way; show him that she was more than an
    ignorant and worthless nonentity.
    
    She opened her eyes, and looked at the pouch of
    stones. The clues Drachea was so confident of finding
    were more likely to be found through a seer's craft than
    through any haphazard physical exploration ... if she
    could summon the courage to try.
    
    Obscure fears crowded her brain, arguing violently
    against the idea; this time, Cyllan forced them firmly
    into submission. She had never been a coward; she
    wasn't hampered by the superstitious terrors of ordinary
    folk. What had she to be afraid of? Clenching her hands
    
    into determined fists, she moved towards the window-
    ledge.
    
    Her old clothes were sticky with dried salt, the leather
    pouch stiff and cracking. Cyllan shook the stones out
    into her palm and sat cross-legged on the floor. A
    familiar tingling sensation assailed the nape of her
    neck, a sure sign that her psychic senses were awaken-
    ing; and the suddenness of it took her aback. It was
    almost as though some outside power were pulling at
    her, like a strung marionette. She closed her eyes, and
    instantly a darkness clouded her inner vision, a dense
    blackness which told her that her consciousness was
    giving way to something far deeper. The pebbles burned
    like ice crystals in her cupped hands; she focused the
    darkness, concentrated, pushing back the wave of sick
    fear . . .
    
    A tattoo of small, harsh sounds broke the silence as
    the stones scattered from her hands on to the floor, and
    Cyllan rocked back with a gasp. The psychic surge had
    come quickly, and its sheer strength astounded her. The
    room seemed to dip and recede momentarily as she
    opened her eyes, then her vision righted, and she looked
    down at the pattern the stones had formed.
    
    The largest pebble of all lay in the pattern's exact
    centre. Around it, the others spiralled outwards to form
    seven uneven arms. The design was familiar - horribly
    familiar— and yet she couldn't place it, couldn't remem-ber
    
    'Cyllan.'
    
    She cried out with shock and almost bit through her
    tongue as the strange, silver-edged voice spoke her
    name from empty air. And at the same instant she felt a
    terrible premonition; the grim certainty that something
    stood behind her, in the room, watching . . .
    
    Her throat was so constricted that she could barely
    breathe. And the room's contours were changing, losing
    their solidity, growing alien and fearsome . . . Odd
    colours flickered at the borders of her perception, and
    she felt a chill which pervaded the air, sank into her
    bones . . . Savagely, struggling against the threat of
    
    blind terror, Cyllan forced her muscles to obey her and
    turned her head.
    
    The room was empty. Too empty ... as though the
    real world had winked out of existence, stranding her in
    a half dimension of trickery and phantasm. And despite
    what her eyes told her, she could still sense the presence
    of another intelligence in the chamber. It watched her;
    she felt that it laughed at her inability to see . . . and she
    sensed a cold, sharp knife-edge of evil . . .
    
    A single clap of sound, so loud that it went beyond the
    threshold of hearing, smashed into her head. Through a
    daze of pain she saw the door to her room begin to
    undulate, warping into impossible shapes. An aura
    appeared around it like some nightmarish halo, wild
    colours agitating furiously and all but blinding her.
    Something was approaching; she felt it - something that
    could crush her out of existence as a careless child might
    crush an insect underfoot.
    
    With no warning the door disintegrated, and in its
    place was black light. Cyllan fought desperately against
    the terror of what she knew must be an appallingly
    powerful hallucination, but no amount of reason could
    combat the image of the not-quite-human figure which
    was slowly forming in the heart of the light, or the long,
    thin hand which reached out slowly, compellingly
    towards her.
    
    Cyllan screamed, and knew that no sound escaped her
    lips. Every muscle in her body locked into a rictus, and a
    single, vast spasm racked her from head to foot before
    she fell helplessly, unconscious, to sprawl among her
    scattered stones on the floor.
    
    Drachea's heart was beating uncomfortably fast as he
    made his way down the wide sweep of the Castle's main
    staircase. He was excited at the prospect before him,
    pleased with his decision to take positive action rather
    than passively awaiting developments; and yet the plea-
    sure was heavily laced with apprehension which grew as
    he ventured further from the sanctuary of Cyllan's
    room.
    
    Reaching the foot of the stairs he hesitated, looking
    carefully about to make sure there was no sign of Tarod.
    Beyond the half-open doors the courtyard showed dim
    and uninviting, the blood-red glow intensified by the
    contrasting blackness of walls and flagstones, and
    Drachea's courage began to slip. He wished - though
    nothing would have induced him to admit it to her - that
    Cyllan had accompanied him. He had dismissed her
    refusal carelessly, telling himself he had no need of help,
    but here alone in the gloomy silence the Castle felt

    threatening, an enemy only waiting for the right
    moment to strike at him.
    
    He was also anxious above all to avoid another
    encounter with Tarod. No amount of bravado could
    eclipse his fundamental fear of the Adept, and he imag-
    ined that Tarod wouldn't look kindly on his attempt to
    unravel the Castle's secrets. Memory of what had hap-
    pened in the courtyard turned his stomach momentarily
    to water; with it came a resurgence of hatred, and when
    the sweating terror passed Drachea felt better, buoyed

    up by the anger which was beginning to germinate into a
    desire for revenge. Damn Cyllan - if she chose to skulk
    in that musty room, so be it! He'd find the answers he
    needed, and show her that a Margrave's son had no need
    of a peasant-drover to champion him.
    
    He stepped outside, and glanced up at the Northern
    spire, jagged against the featureless pewter sky. The
    light in the topmost slit of a window was no longer
    visible, but Drachea suspected that Tarod was up in that
    room. All well and good - his own destination lay
    elsewhere, and the thought that he was unlikely to cross
    the Adept's path bolstered his confidence.
    
    To the right of the steps which led down into the
    courtyard was a colonnaded walk, with a door at the far
    end. Odd, Drachea thought, that another way in to the
    Castle should exist so close to the main entry ... it
    suggested some ulterior purpose.
    
    With a further, quick glance towards the spire he ran
    down the steps and along the walkway to the door. It
    opened easily when he lifted the latch, and he felt
    
    disappointed - surely, if it led somewhere significant,
    greater care would have been taken to protect it?
    Expecting perhaps nothing more than a storeroom,
    Drachea peered through - and saw a long, narrow cor-
    ridor that led away, on a downward slope, seemingly
    into the bowels of the Castle. For the first twenty paces
    or so the crimson glow permeated, illuminating ancient
    stains of damp . . . then the passage was swallowed by
    darkness.
    
    The thought of venturing into the black unknown
    beyond the door was enough, at first, to sap Drachea's
    resolve. If Cyllan had been with him -
    
    No, he told himself. He had no need of her. His eyes
    would grow accustomed to the darkness soon enough,
    and if, as he suspected, this passage led him closer to
    some of the Castle's secrets, he might soon have a story
    to tell her that would open her eyes to the truth!
    
    Taking a deep breath - and disliking the old, musty
    smell that hung in the air- he stepped through the door,
    being careful to leave it wide open at his back. The floor
    of the passage was even enough, and as he advanced, his
    vision began gradually to adjust to the dark until he
    could just make out the dim contours of the walls ahead.
    They seemed to go on forever, and always downward
    ... he hesitated, then pressed on, fighting down his
    unease.
    
    The soft sound of his padding footsteps became
    almost mesmeric as he made his way further along the
    corridor. Now and again some trick of acoustics almost
    convinced him that he heard another footfall at his back,
    fractionally out of synchronisation with his own. Once
    he stopped, quickly; thought he heard the illusory steps
    shuffle to a halt behind him, and sweat broke out on his
    forehead and neck. But when he turned, there was
    nothing to be seen . . .
    
    Imagination. The mind played all manner of tricks
    under such circumstances as these. There could be no
    ghosts here . . . Drachea continued on, resisting the
    temptation to whistle aloud as a boost to his courage -
    and suddenly the passage ended at the top of a flight of
    
    steps. He paused, feeling his way cautiously on to the
    first tread, and again looked over his shoulder. Nothing
    untoward . . .
    
    The stairs wound steeply down, and Drachea sensed
    that he was nearing his goal. Then he felt a surge of
    excitement as he saw that, ahead of him, the stairs
    terminated at another door.
    
    It stood open, as though someone had walked care-
    lessly through it only moments before, and beyond it a
    trace of light faintly illuminated a large, vaulted room.
    Eagerly Drachea hastened through, and as he entered
    the vault he tripped over something lying on the floor,
    and went sprawling. He swore aloud - his voice echoed
    loudly, compounding the shock, and as he sat dazedly on
    the hard stone he realised what had brought him down.
    
    Books. Hundreds of them, scattered all over the
    flagstones. Wherever he looked, wherever he put his
    hands, there were tomes and manuscripts and rolled
    parchments, some whole, others split and separated.
    And in the faint glow that pervaded the room he could
    see shelves lining the walls, many of them broken, but a
    few still containing precariously balanced volumes
    which looked as though they might slip and crash down
    at the slightest provocation. It was as though some mad
    scholar had run riot in his own library . . .
    
    Of course - this was the Castle's library! As the rev-
    elation struck him, Drachea immediately forgot his orig-
    inal intention, stunned by the awesome fact that, by
    sheer fortuitous accident, he had literally stumbled on
    the greatest storehouse of arcane knowledge in the
    world. He reached out and picked up the nearest of the
    fallen books, wincing as several damaged leaves came
    loose and fluttered to the floor. All the Circle's secrets,
    its lore, its practices, revealed to his gaze with no one to
    forbid him ... It was more than he could ever have
    dared to dream of!
    
    Drachea opened the book at random and pored over
    it. The script was closely written and hard to make out in
    the poor light, but he deciphered enough to set his pulse
    racing. Initiation rites - the formulae were all here; the
    
    prayers, the incantations - he snatched up another vol-
    ume at random, turned the pages feverishly. This one
    was older, harder still to read ... he put it aside,
    reached for one of the scrolls. Parchment, this: the ink so
    faded that he judged it had been written centuries ago,
    before the process of pulping wood to make a finer
    medium had been invented and had replaced the use of
    animal skin . . . almost reverently, Drachea placed it with
    the first tome, then stood up, looking wildly about him.
    
    He could spend a lifetime here. He could study year
    after year, until he was grey with age, and still never
    slake his thirst for occult knowledge. Envy of the Initi-
    ates who had free run of this unbelievable place filled
    him - and then he checked himself, almost laughing at
    his own absurdity. He had the run of the library now -
    there was no Circle to stand in his way! Only one man,
    and however high an Adept he might be, there were
    ways and means to outwit him. Even if Tarod used the
    library for his own purposes, he wouldn't miss a few
    volumes from among the chaos. And in the sanctuary of
    one of the Castle's upper rooms, Drachea could absorb
    this fabulous knowledge at his leisure.
    
    Cyllan was forgotten; their predicament was forgot-
    ten. Drachea began to search through the books, gather-
    ing up those which seemed to hold the most promise,
    until he had as many as he could carry. He straightened,
    face flushed with exertion and excitement - and froze as
    he heard the sound of footsteps from beyond the vault.
    
    Several books fell from his arms to the floor, and the
    noise they made brought him out in a cold sweat. The
    footfalls were coming from the stairway beyond, slow,
    measured, echoing faintly. Tarod - it had to be!
    Drachea's triumph crumbled before the thought of what
    the Adept might do to him if he discovered his presence
    here, and frantically he looked around for a hiding
    place. At first the library seemed to hold no hope - then
    he saw a door, low and insignificant, half hidden in an
    alcove between two rows of shelves. The books forgotten,
    he ran towards it... and as he reached it the footsteps
    faded away into silence.
    
    Drachea stopped, feeling the icy crawl of gooseflesh
    on his skin. Human footfalls didn't simply die away like
    that. Someone had been approaching, had almost
    reached the bottom of the stairs - they couldn't just
    vanish!
    
    Eyes wide, he looked towards the stairs, dimly visible
    beyond the vault entrance. No shadow moved, and the
    silence was absolute. Fear began to flower into panic,
    and he found himself involuntarily backing away, until
    he collided with the small door. It sprang open, making
    him yell with shock, and he stumbled through.
    
    He was in a long, narrow passage which sloped steeply
    down before him. The faint light that filtered throughout
    the vault was stronger, as if its source lay somewhere in
    that corridor, and a violent shudder racked Drachea, a
    twisting terror that he couldn't name, but which eclipsed
    all other sensation.
    
    Something lurked at the invisible end of the passage.
    He felt it, a palpable presence . . . and it was slowly
    moving towards him. A soft sound, like an echo of not
    quite human laughter, seemed to reverberate in his head
    and he backed away, aware of bile rising in his throat
    and striving to force it back. He could see nothing, but
    he knew it was there ... a presence, a monstrously evil
    presence . . .
    
    The faintest of breaths brushed past his face, and
    Drachea's self-control snapped. Whatever might await
    him on the stairs, it was as nothing compared to the
    unknown horror beyond this door - and he ran like a
    hunted animal, hurling himself across the vault and
    through the arched doorway. On the stairs he fell,
    scrambled to his feet, raced on and upward, while blind
    panic overcame all else. Nothing stood in his way, no
    one appeared suddenly from the shadows to confront
    him, and at last he burst out into the comparative bril-
    liance of the courtyard, collapsing with a bone-jarring
    momentum that scraped the skin from his knees and
    hands.
    
    Drachea rolled over and staggered to his feet, leaning
    against one of the pillars of the colonnade for support
    
    while he fought to get his breath back. The empty court-
    yard felt bleaker and more menacing than ever; shadows
    beyond the reach of the blood-red glow seemed to his
    overworked imagination to form lurking, threatening
    shapes. He shuddered, shutting his eyes against
    unwanted images, and forced himself to gulp stale air
    into his lungs. His pulse began to slow, and eventually he
    opened his eyes again, feeling in better control.
    
    He'd made a fool of himself. There had been no one
    on the vault stairs, and nothing in the corridor beyond
    the small door. He had allowed imagination to run away
    with him, and had panicked at an illusion . . . Drachea
    looked over his shoulder to the entrance through which
    he had come. The thought of returning didn't appeal,
    despite the lure of the books; and with an angry gesture
    in the door's direction he started back to the Castle's
    main entrance. Inside, and halfway to the stairs, he
    stopped. To return to Cyllan with nothing to report
    would be to admit failure, and therefore demean himself
    - something against which he rebelled violently. He
    wouldn't return to the library, as yet (and he dismissed
    the small inner voice which suggested he was afraid to
    return there alone). The Castle must hold many more
    revelations - there were other, and doubtless better,
    places to search for the answers he wanted.
    
    With a swift, furtive glance around to ensure he was
    alone, Drachea hastened away along one of the Castle's
    seemingly endless corridors.
    
    It was sheer fortuitous coincidence which brought
    Drachea at length to the suite of rooms on the ground
    floor of the North and centremost wing. He had reached
    them by a circuitous route, doubling back time and again
    through the warren of passages that threaded
    throughout the Castle, and he was tired, frustrated and
    disheartened when he came upon the studded door with
    its highly polished surface. But as soon as he lifted the
    latch and looked in, he knew he'd stumbled on more
    than merely another empty chamber.
    The room was dominated by a large table with a
    
    carved and padded chair set tidily behind it. A pile of
    papers had been neatly stacked on the table as though
    awaiting imminent attention; an inkstand and several
    pens lay beside them. And Drachea's gaze alighted on
    something else. A seal, half hidden behind the inkstand
    
    He closed the door softly behind him and crossed to
    the table. As his hand reached out towards the seal he
    hesitated, assailed suddenly by a feeling that he was
    trespassing on strictly forbidden ground. If this room
    was what he thought it was, then merely to touch that
    seal would be little short of blasphemy. Yet he had to
    know . . .
    
    Mouth dry, Drachea steeled himself and snatched up
    the seal. The emblem on it reflected bloodily in the
    crimson glow, and he saw that it was a lightning-flash,
    bisecting a double circle.
    
    The seal of the High Initiate himself . . . Reverently,
    and a little fearfully, Drachea laid it back in its place and
    stared about him at the room, feeling suddenly awed.
    This must be - or have been - Keridil Toln's study . . .
    he shivered. He had never seen the High Initiate, but his
    half-imagined ghost seemed to hover in the room,
    watching from whatever unimaginable limbo he now
    inhabited.
    
    Slowly Drachea turned, taking in every detail of the
    shadowy chamber. Everything was perfectly in place, as
    though Keridil Toln had left his room for the last time
    with some premonition of what was to happen. The chill
    that hung in the air was more than physical . . .
    
    He turned his back abruptly to the gaping fireplace,
    which for some inexplicable reason made him doubly
    nervous, and approached the table again. Three shallow
    drawers were set beneath the polished surface on one
    side, and tentatively Drachea tried each in turn. If rec-
    ords of recent events existed, this was surely where they
    would be lodged ...
    
    The first two drawers yielded nothing but sheaves of
    everyday records - tithe lists in the main, and of little
    interest. The third drawer wouldn't yield at first, and
    
    Drachea thought it to be locked - until, abruptly, it
    came free with such force that it fell out of its housing,
    scattering its contents to the floor.
    
    Drachea snatched up one of the papers at random -
    and his heart missed a beat painfully as one word, one
    name, caught his eye. Tarod.
    
    He all but ran to the window, holding the paper up
    against the glass to make the best of what little light
    there was. The paper, he now saw, was a formal docu-
    ment, signed and sealed by the High Initiate and wit-
    nessed by six elders of the Council of Adepts.
    
    It was an execution order.
    
    Drachea put a hand to his mouth, feeling sick with a
    mingling of excitement and horror as the first echoes of
    the truth sounded in his head. His suspicions had been
    right . . .
    
    He tucked the document inside his jacket and fever-
    ishly set about gathering up the other scattered papers.
    At last he found what he had hoped and prayed for - a
    report, written in the same careful and well-formed
    hand as the execution order; and intended solely for the
    eyes of senior Councillors. With it was an opened letter,
    and he recognised the seal of the Sisterhood of Aeoris,
    intertwined with the fish symbol of West High Land
    Province.
    
    West High Land, where the rumours of trouble had
    begun . . . Drachea lowered himself into the carved
    chair, no longer caring whether it belonged to the High
    Initiate or Aeoris himself. Reading was difficult in the
    gloom, but he no longer trusted his legs to support him.
    Silently, avidly, he scanned the letter first. The Lady
    Kael Amion . . . she was Senior at West High Land, it
    seemed; the dispatch she had sent to Keridil Toln was of
    the utmost urgency, and concerned an Initiate and one
    of her own novices. Yes, it began to make sense . . . but
    he needed more; much more.
    
    Drachea's hand was unsteady as he picked up the
    report. He read it in its entirety, only the occasional
    rustle of a new page breaking the room's bleak silence.
    And when he had finished he stood up and, with a
    
    deliberation that suggested he wasn't quite in control of
    his limbs, hid the papers carefully with the first docu-
    ment inside his coat. His face was ashen as he turned to
    look again at the fireplace and the flagged floor in front
    of the hearth. A morbid fascination urged him to go
    closer, to study that part of the floor for signs that would
    prove what he had read beyond doubt; but he couldn't.
    And the High Initiate's words rang too icily true for
    there to be any shadow of disbelief.
    
    He had to show what he had found to Cyllan. He had
    to prove to her that he was right - far more right, in fact,
    that he had ever dreamed. And above all, he needed to
    share the burden of his fear.
    
    Drachea replaced the fallen drawer, straightened the
    seal so that it aligned neatly once more with the pens and
    the inkstand on the High Initiate's table. He closed the
    door of the study quietly behind him and made the sign
    of Aeoris before his heart before turning and hurrying
    back towards the main stairs.
    
    Chapter 5
    
    Tarod's acute senses were alerted by the first inkling of
    something untoward that pervaded his mind. It was as
    though a faint breath of wind had disturbed an utterly
    still day, presaging some change; and it disturbed him on
    a deeper level than he cared to admit.
    
    He rose from the battered, hide-covered chair where
    he had been sitting, and moved silently to the window
    which looked out from the spire's summit over the sick-
    ening drop to the courtyard. Nothing moved there; and
    the sky that seemed to loom so chillingly close to the
    window was still empty and dead. But, somewhere in the
    Castle, something was amiss . . .
    
    A sudden sharp sensation in his left hand surprised
    him; a once familiar feeling which he had almost forgot-
    ten. He glanced at his fingers, at the ruined base of the
    ring which once had held his soul-stone, then flexed the
    hand thoughtfully. Fear was beyond him, but whatever
    it was that had come to disturb the Castle's deathly quiet
    would have struck panic into a mortal man.
    
    Behind him on a small table, amid a clutter of books
    and manuscripts which he had idly gleaned from the
    library vault, stood a sconce containing a single, partly
    burned candle. Tarod moved his left hand over it and a
    pale, nacreous green flame sprang into being. Holding
    his fingers in the flame he coaxed it, drawing it upward
    and outward, watching it respond to his mental com-
    mand until it formed a perfect if sickly halo. The light
    reflected on his face, highlighting gaunt shadows, and
    his eyes narrowed as he looked into the elemental fire
    and beyond it, seeking the source of the disturbance.
    
    He found the source, and, again, it troubled him. At a
    
    single sharp gesture the green fire vanished, and as the
    small room sank once more into darkness Tarod turned
    towards the door. A peculiar compulsion was urging him
    to leave the spire, where he spent so much of his exist-
    ence, and seek out the root of the strange and unex-
    pected shift. He crossed the room, ignoring the jumble
    of scattered artefacts that made it chaotic, and which he
    never took the trouble to clear. He was as indifferent to
    his own comfort as to anything else; but something was
    challenging that indifference, and his curiosity was
    aroused.

    Beyond the door, black stone stairs spiralled down
    into crimson-tinged darkness. The door closed softly
    behind him, seemingly of its own accord; then Tarod's
    dark shape faded and merged with the shadows, leaving
    only a brief after-image.
    
    Cyllan hadn't barred her door. Tarod's hand on the latch
    met with no resistance, and he let the door swing open
    gently and slowly. For a moment he thought the room
    empty; then he saw her - and an old, dead memory
    lurched deep within him, momentarily breaking through
    his guard.
    
    Cyllan lay sprawled on the floor, her head twisted at
    an ugly angle and one arm flung crookedly out. She
    looked like a broken doll, and the image she presented
    was instantly superimposed in Tarod's mind by another
    image, another woman. Themila Gan Lin, who since
    childhood had been his dear friend and mentor, lying on
    the floor of the Council Chamber, her life bleeding away
    from the wound inflicted by Rhiman Han's sword . . .
    
    It had been pure accident, a moment of hot-headed
    confusion which had ended in tragedy. Themila hadn't
    had an enemy in the world; the small, elderly historian
    had been like a second mother to many of the younger
    Initiates, and especially so to Tarod when he came,
    clanless and injured, to the Castle. Yet she had died -
    and with her death the whole savage chain of events had
    been unleashed. Cyllan's huddled, broken attitude
    recalled the dying Themila, and Tarod was shocked to
    
    realise that the memory brought back all the pain of her
    loss, as though from a great distance his lost humanity
    was striving to reassert itself.
    
    He crossed the room, ignoring the pebbles which
    slipped and scattered under his feet, and knelt beside the
    girl. She was alive, and there was no outward sign of
    injury; but neither was there any clue as to what had
    struck her down. Tarod's immediate thought was of
    Drachea, but he dismissed the idea, sensing something
    afoot that Drachea couldn't even comprehend, let alone
    influence. The atmosphere of this room was subtly
    changed, charged . . . some power independent of his
    own had been at work, and he couldn't begin to guess at
    its source.
    
    But the motivating force was a less urgent consider-
    ation. Tarod lifted Cyllan, surprised by her lightness,
    and carried her to the bed, taking care to lay her down
    gently. She stirred, mumbled something unintelligible
    then lapsed into stillness once more, and he stood back,
    looking at her. Something had stirred briefly within him,
    conjured by the juxtaposition of Cyllan and Themila in
    his thoughts, and now, though he tried to dismiss it as
    meaningless, another, older part of him was fighting
    back. Ghosts of the past had never troubled him before;
    the past was lost and could never be regained. The
    manner in which he had thwarted Keridil and the Circle
    had seen to that when it rendered him soulless and
    immortal . . . yet something stirred, and he couldn't
    banish it.
    
    On impulse, he sat down on the edge of the bed and
    smoothed Cyllan's tangled hair away from her face. Her

    lip trembled in response, and her eyelids fluttered spas-
    modically. One hand reached up blindly and Tarod took
    hold of it, offering her a physical link with consciousness
    as she began to awake.
    
    'Drachea . . . ?' Her voice was weak and hesitant.
    
    'Not Drachea.'
    
    Her eyes snapped open and she swore aloud in shock,
    a drover's oath that Tarod had never heard uttered in
    the Castle. She pulled away from him like a cornered
    
    animal, and he released her hand, the expression on his
    face hardening into a thin, humourless smile.
    
    'You've suffered no ill effect from your ordeal, I see.'
    
    'I - I'm sorry. I didn't intend . . . ' She shut her eyes
    again, overwhelmed by confusion. She had been trying
    to read the stones - something had come, something from
    outside; and she'd been so afraid - Uneasily she forced
    herself to look at Tarod once more, her eyes hunted. She
    feared him too, but at least his was a physical presence,
    an anchor to hold her back from the edge of the
    nightmare.
    
    'I was trying to read the stones. . .' She had to find an
    outlet for the unformed terror, but her tongue couldn't
    cope with more than a simple statement.
    
    Tarod asked, more gently, 'What did you see?'
    
    'Something came through the door . . . ' she whis-
    pered. He waited, but she offered no further explana-
    tion; and the few words she had spoken disquieted him.
    Something through the door . . . Either Cyllan had
    hallucinated, or she had unwittingly tapped a force that
    shouldn't have been able to exist in the Castle, unless he
    himself had deliberately conjured it. Another, alien
    presence? It surely wasn't possible . . .
    
    Cyllan's voice intruded abruptly on his thoughts. 'I
    thought,' she said slowly, deliberately, 'that you were
    responsible.'
    
    Tarod's eyes lit angrily. 'You think I have nothing
    better to do than divert myself by frightening unde-
    fended women. I thank you for the compliment!'
    
    She was unsure of her ground, yet now that the night-
    marish memory was giving way to reason she could see
    no other answer. 'Who was responsible, then?' she
    countered. 'Drachea? I doubt it!'
    
    Her determined aggression amused Tarod. She
    wasn't afraid of him, and for some inexplicable reason
    he found that pleasing. He laughed, and Cyllan turned
    away sharply.
    
    'Mock me if it entertains you,' she said, 'but I've seen
    no other power here save yours. And you don't seem
    overly concerned how you use it!'
    
    Tarod sighed as the momentary amusement gave way
    to irritation. 'Believe what you like,' he retorted coldly.
    'I'm not interested in your opinion of me, and I assure
    you I had no hand in whatever happened to you. If I'd
    anything to gain from - ' And he stopped, suddenly
    furious as he realised what he was saying. 'Damn you,
    why should I justify myself in your eyes? If you choose to
    bring suffering on your own head by dabbling out of
    your depth, it's no concern of mine!'
    
    Cyllan didn't reply, but rolled over and hid her face in
    the pillow, her attitude radiating mute resentment.
    Exasperated, Tarod reached out and took hold of her.
    'Look at me, Cyllan.' She resisted and he gripped her
    chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. 'I said, look at me!'
    
    She stared back, angry and hurt and defiant at once,
    and he said softly, venomously, 'Don't pit yourself
    against me. I'd take no pleasure in harming you, but
    whether you prosper or perish is of no moment to me
    whatever.' He raised his free hand, the fingers curling in
    a casual, graceful gesture that nonetheless chilled Cyllan
    to the core - then abruptly lowered it again. It would be
    so simple to inspire in her a terror beside which her
    hallucination would pale to nothing; but there seemed
    no point. He could sense the fear in her now, although
    she did her best to hide it, and suddenly he was disgusted
    with himself. She was irrelevant; the idea of wasting
    energy on her was too petty to be worth contemplating-
    and yet he had been on the brink of striking at her as
    though reacting to some personal slight.
    
    He released her, and she drew back quickly, hunching
    against the wall. Irritated, Tarod rose- but before either
    of them could speak, the door of the bedchamber was
    flung open and Drachea burst in.
    
    'Cyllan! Look what-' And he stopped, eyes widening
    as he saw Tarod.
    
    Tarod bowed slightly to him, conveying devastating
    contempt in the apparently careless gesture. 'Heir Mar-
    grave - I trust your explorations have proved fruitful?'
    His gaze alit on the heavy book Drachea carried in his
    hands, then moved, amused, to the young man's face.
    
    Drachea paled, and Tarod crossed the room to lift the
    volume easily from his fingers and study the cover.
    
    'Very diverting.' He flicked a page or two, then
    graciously handed the book back. 'If you have
    difficulty understanding its content, I'm at your
    disposal.'
    
    Two spots of livid colour flamed into life on Drachea's
    cheeks and he made as if to retort angrily; but a brief
    movement of Tarod's hand triggered a force that sent
    him reeling backwards. His spine connected painfully
    with the wall; and by the time he regained breath and
    balance, the Adept had gone.
    
    Drachea stared speechless at the still-quivering door,
    then in a violent movement swung round and hurled the
    book ferociously across the room. The ancient binding
    split in half and pages scattered across the floor.
    
    'Curse him, what in the name of all the hells did he
    want here?' The question was a savage demand; Tarod
    had humiliated Drachea in Cyllan's presence, and he
    was using her as a scapegoat for his anger. Sensing the
    underlying accusation, Cyllan flared back.
    
    'I don't know what he wanted - I didn't have the
    chance to ask him! Something happened while you were
    away; something that -'
    
    He interrupted her, dismissing what she had been
    about to tell him as of no consequence. 'Never mind
    that! I've more important matters at hand.' Fumbling
    inside his jacket, he brought out the bundled papers
    from the High Initiate's study. 'Tarod might well sneer
    at a book from the Castle library, but if he knew I was in
    possession of these he'd sing to a different tune! Look -
    look at them!' He thrust the sheaf towards her chal-
    lengingly. 'I've learned the truth about your Adept
    friend, Cyllan. Go on - read for yourself!'
    
    Cyllan made no move to take the papers. The after-
    math of shock, coupled with Drachea's disinterest in
    her experience and the tension of the brush with Tarod,
    had put her on a knife-edge, and she only glared at
    him.
    
    'By all that's sacred,' Drachea snapped, 'this is no
    
    time to be childish! These documents are vital - for
    Aeoris's sake, will you read them!'
    
    Cyllan's lips whitened and she said harshly, 'And
    where do you think that I learned to read?'
    
    He stared at her nonplussed. 'You mean . . . you've
    had no schooling?'
    
    'No. I can't read, and I can't write. Is that such a
    surprise to you? My clan didn't send me to a tutor-I was
    too busy learning to gut fish and herd cattle!'
    
    She felt mortified, hating herself for having had to
    admit to her own failing. Drachea continued to stare at
    her with an expression that might have been disdain or
    pity; she couldn't tell which. Then he made a sharp,
    dismissive gesture.
    
    'Damn it, what does it matter? If you can't read them
    for yourself, I'll read the documents to you - but you
    must listen!' He snatched at her arm, pulling her with
    him across the room. 'You've got to realise what's truly
    happened here - what Tarod has done, and what he is!'
    
    The urgency in his voice made her quell her resent-
    ment. If he had discovered something vital, then any
    quarrels and tensions between them should be forgot-
    ten, and as he subsided on to the bed she sat beside him,
    peering over his shoulder at the papers.
    
    'This,' Drachea said, brandishing what she took to be
    a letter, 'was written by the Lady Kael Amion, Senior of
    the West High Land Sisterhood Cot - and I don't believe
    anyone would call her word into doubt. Listen; she says
    "My dear Keridil — I have entrusted this letter to the hand
    of my colleague, Sister Erminet Rowald. Your report
    came as a great shock to me, and I can only thank Aeoris
    that in His wisdom He has seen fit to thwart the fugitive
    Tarod, who was apprehended at my own Cot last eve-
    ning. Novice Sashka Veyyil — whose circumstances you
    are, of course, already aware of- was blessed with the
    moral courage to realise her duty, and it is because of her
    swift action that we are able to deliver this man into your
    safe keeping. It is a sad day for Circle and Sisterhood
    alike when such evil is uncovered, but with Light and
    Law to guide us we shall prevail. Charity commands that
    
    I should pray for a condemned man's soul; I would
    therefore be obliged if you will apprise me of the date set
    for Tarod's execution -"
    
    Cyllan interrupted, her voice low and incredulous.
    'Execution . . . ?'
    
    Drachea laughed sharply. 'Oh, yes! And there's
    more; far more.' He set the letter aside, picked up
    another document. 'It's here - in Keridil Toln's own
    hand! This is the High Initiate's report of the trial and
    planned execution of our good friend Tarod!'
    
    Cyllan stared at the papers, stunned. The writing was
    meaningless to her, and she railed against her own defi-
    ciency. Something within her protested that Drachea
    must be wrong; that the Circle could never have cause to
    condemn one of their own . . .
    
    'But Tarod's a high Adept,' she said uneasily. 'That
    much we know is true.'
    
    'Adept he may be. But what man is it who carries his
    soul in a gemstone?'
    
    'What?'
    
    'It's nothing less than the truth. Tarod's no ordinary
    mortal; he never has been. The High Initiate discovered
    his real identity.' Drachea paused for dramatic effect,
    then added: 'Tarod is not human!'
    
    Cyllan felt a deep-rooted shudder rack her, as though
    some inexplicable and indecipherable premonition were
    at work. 'Then . . . what is he?'
    
    Drachea looked nervously about the room, as though
    convinced that some unholy presence was watching
    them. The shadows were still and silent, and, before
    courage could fail him, he whispered, 'Chaos.'
    
    The word sent knives through Cyllan's nerves, and
    instinctively she made the sign of Aeoris before her
    face. Every instinct rebelled against the concept - it
    was an impossibility. And Tarod, one of Aeoris's own
    servants -
    
    'Chaos is dead . . . ' She barely recognised her voice.
    'It - it can't be true, Drachea. It can't!'
    
    'When I was a child,' Drachea said, 'I once heard an
    Adept speak at a Summer Quarter-Day celebration. He
    
    exhorted us always to keep faith with the cause for which
    the gods came to this world and fought the last great
    battle against the Old Ones. He warned us always to be
    vigilant, lest Chaos should one day return. And now
    ... it would seem that his exhortation was well
    founded.'
    
    'But Aeoris himself banished Chaos!' Cyllan pro-
    tested. To suggest that the dark powers might defy the
    gods - ' She shuddered. 'It smacks of blasphemy.'
    
    Then you call the High Initiate a liar?' Drachea coun-
    tered. As her eyes widened, he went on, 'Keridil Toln
    knew. He discovered what Tarod truly is, and set out to
    destroy him.' Again he glanced around the room, then
    added darkly, 'It seems that he failed.'
    
    Cyllan stood up and went to the window, staring out at
    the now disquietingly familiar vista of the hellfire-lit
    night. Unwillingly, she found her gaze drawn to the
    Northern spire. No light burned there, and she looked
    away.
    
    Chaos. She couldn't make herself believe it. All that
    time ago on the cliffs of West High Land, she had met a
    man, not a demon. And yet she remembered her terror
    when she had woken in this room to find Tarod's hand
    gripping hers. He had claimed to know nothing of the
    nightmare which had assailed her; now though, her
    doubts were swelling into a fearful certainty that only he
    could have been responsible. An insane part of her

    wanted to give Tarod the benefit of the doubt; but she
    knew that to do so could put herself and Drachea into
    unimaginable danger. She couldn't take the risk.
    
    Turning back towards the bed she said quietly, 'Read
    me the papers, Drachea. Please. I want-I want to know
    all that they say.'
    
    And so, while she sat silent beside him, Drachea read
    the High Initiate's detailed report. The story began to
    form a frighteningly cohesive picture; Tarod's near-
    death from an overdose of the Spindrift narcotic, the
    taking of the old High Initiate, Jehrek Banamen Toln's
    life; the encounter with Yandros, Lord of Chaos, and
    the revelation that the gemstone of Tarod's ring was the
    
    repository for a life-essence created by the Chaotic
    powers . . . and there was far more, as Tarod and the
    High Initiate began to clash. But finally the document
    posed its own mystery, ending merely with Keridil
    Toln's statement, undated, that 'on this night, the being
    called Tarod will die'.
    
    There was utter silence when Drachea stopped speak-
    ing. Cyllan's finger traced the wax seal at the foot of the
    execution order - he had read it to her, and its stark
    simplicity was somehow the ugliest condemnation of all.
    She felt the contours of the High Initiate's symbol, the
    double circle with its bisecting lightning-flash, and at last
    said, softly,
    
    'But he didn't die . . . '
    
    Drachea gave her a look that was impossible to inter-
    pret. 'No ... he thwarted them. By halting Time itself.
    Gods!' The thought made him shiver, then he collected
    himself and managed to summon a faint smile. 'But it
    was an empty victory, wasn't it? When the trap was
    sprung, he too was caught in its jaws, and now he can't
    escape.'
    
    Cyllan hugged herself uneasily and said, 'Unless he
    should regain the stone he spoke of, and use it to call
    back Time.'
    
    'Yes - and now we know the true nature of that gem!
    A soul, born of Chaos ... it doesn't bear thinking
    about.' He stood up, strode across the room. 'Just imag-
    ine what the consequences of his retrieving that stone
    could be! Without it, he's powerful enough - as I can
    attest. The Circle have already failed to defeat him once
    - can you envisage what he might be capable of, if that
    stone were in his possession once more?'
    
    Cyllan could, and shied away from the thought. But
    she couldn't escape the other consideration that haunted
    her, and to which she could find no answer.
    
    She said, hesitantly, 'And yet without the stone, we
    are as trapped as Tarod. We can't leave, and even he
    hasn't the power to release us.'
    
    'If he should choose to,' Drachea put in darkly.
    
    Cyllan smiled with irony as she recalled Tarod's words
    
    to her. 'Why should he not? He's not interested in us -
    and we're of no use to him.'
    
    'Aren't we?'
    
    She frowned. 'What do you mean?'
    
    'I mean that we might be able to succeed in retrieving
    that gem where he has failed. There's something - some
    power - preventing him from getting his hands on it. But
    if we're not bound by that same power, then we're
    invaluable to Tarod.' Drachea paused, thinking. 'We
    broke through the barrier that separates the Castle from
    the rest of the world. We don't know how it happened,
    and neither does he - you saw how shocked he was at our
    arrival. If we can reach that stone, he'll use us to do so.
    And then . . . ' He let the sentence hang unfinished.
    
    Cyllan looked again towards the blood-red light
    beyond the window. The thought of what might happen
    once the stone was in Tarod's possession was terrifying;
    yet without it, there could be no hope of escape. Eter-
    nity, spent in a world enclosed by four black walls,
    companioned only by Drachea and by a man who was no
    mortal man at all, but owed his origins to something
    beyond her comprehension . . . never changing, never
    ageing, denied even the release of death. Suddenly she
    smiled thinly to herself. Was that prospect so much
    worse than the life she had known? At least here there
    was no hardship, no endless toil. Here, she wanted for
    nothing. Except, perhaps -
    
    Drachea broke abruptly into her reverie. There is a
    way,' he said, 'just one way to escape this place without
    playing into Tarod's hands. We must find the stone for
    ourselves, and use it.'
    
    Cyllan turned and stared at him. 'Find and use it?' she
    echoed, incredulous. 'Drachea, this is no child's bauble!
    If what is in those papers is true, then that gem is a thing
    of Chaos! Are you or I such great adepts that we would
    dare to use it, even if we could?'
    
    'We can at least try!' Drachea insisted stubbornly.
    'Have you a better plan? No, I see you've not! Look - '
    He darted to the bed and scooped up the scattered
    documents. 'The High Initiate speaks of a chamber
    
    called the Marble Hall. It seems to be the Circle's sanc-
    tum; the place where the most sacred rites are per-
    formed and the most sacred artefacts kept.' He grinned.
    'You'll recall that Tarod chose to be cryptic on the
    subject of the gem's whereabouts. It's my belief that if
    we can find the Marble Hall, we'll find that stone, too.'
    
    'A place that for some reason Tarod can't enter . . .'
    Cyllan mused. Drachea's theory seemed plausible.
    
    'Or won't. It may be that it's the one thing of which
    he's afraid - and that can only be to our advantage.'
    Drachea was riffling through the papers. 'There must

    surely be some hint here, some idea of the Marble Hall's
    location . . .no, nothing!' He threw the papers aside in
    frustration.
    
    'You found these,' Cyllan said, indicating the scat-
    tered pages. 'There must surely be other documents;
    something that will help us.'
    
    'Yes . . . either in the High Initiate's study, or better
    still, in the library.' Suddenly Drachea's eyes lit up.
    'Gods, Cyllan, the library - it's a treasure-house of
    knowledge, the arcane wisdom of centuries! I found it by
    chance, and the thought that it's there, open to me
    whenever and however I choose - ' He stopped as he saw
    that her expression hadn't changed. 'No, well - of
    course, to you it would mean little.'
    
    'Indeed,' she said with gentle acerbity.
    
    He had the good grace to blush. 'Naturally, I'm far
    more concerned with our plight and how to resolve it
    . . . but I'll wager anything that the library will provide
    what we need to begin our search. There must be histor-
    ical records that explain the Castle's layout.' He recalled
    his previous visit to the library, and the memory unset-
    tled him. Though nothing would induce him to admit to
    fear, he was determined not to return there alone.
    
    Cyllan glanced at the broken book on the floor.
    'Tarod already knows of your first visit to the library,'
    she reminded him. 'We must take care not to arouse his
    suspicions any further.'
    
    Drachea smiled condescendingly. 'What he doesn't
    know can't trouble him. Don't concern yourself with
    
    Tarod. He's not as invincible as he seems to think - and
    before long, I intend to prove that to him!'
    
    The two figures making their way through the courtyard
    were all but hidden by the vast shadows of the Castle
    wall, but even the smallest movement amid that dark
    stillness was enough to attract attention. Tarod stood by
    the window in his unlit room at the top of the spire, his
    face expressionless as he watched them creep cautiously
    along the colonnaded walk towards the vault door,
    Drachea leading and stopping every few paces to make a
    gesture that cautioned silence. Like as not he meant to
    show Cyllan the treasures he had unearthed in the
    library; and from there it seemed logical to anticipate
    that they would, eventually, discover the entrance to the
    Marble Hall. Tarod had refused to allow himself to
    speculate on whether or not they would be able to enter
    the Hall - the force that held the Castle in limbo had,
    somehow, shifted the peculiar chamber a fraction out of
    synchronisation, and he himself was barred from it as
    surely as if it hadn't existed. But Cyllan and Drachea had
    broken through one barrier ... it was possible that
    they could reach the Hall where he had failed.
    
    And if they did? Tarod didn't know what they would
    find, but of one fact he was certain - the Marble Hall
    held the crucial key to his hope of release. It was the sole
    gateway back to the disturbing astral planes through
    which he had travelled to find and halt the Pendulum of
    Time; and, too, it was the place where the Chaos stone -
    his own soul - was trapped.
    
    He looked out of the window again, and saw that the
    two distant figures had vanished, leaving the vault door-
    way ajar behind them. Briefly, an unaccustomed yet
    distantly familiar feeling assailed him; a sense of antic-
    ipation coupled with a formless pre-echo of fear. A very
    human sensation ... he smiled to himself. Imagination
    must be getting the better of him; human feelings lay in
    the buried past. Or at least, he had believed so ...
    
    Tarod swung suddenly away from the window, dislik-
    ing the unexpected turn his thoughts had taken. Since he
    
    had left Cyllan's room, unable to control the temptation
    to swat Drachea aside in the way he might swat an
    irritating insect as he left, the encounter had been prey-
    ing on his mind. He had little else to think of, but
    nonetheless he was unused to being troubled by such
    thoughts. The old memories awakened by finding Cyllan
    lying senseless on the floor refused to be quieted; and
    they were complicated by odd, random recollections
    that flashed unbidden into his head. The lightness of the
    girl when he had lifted her; the roughness of her skin
    when he took her hand to help her back to reality; even
    the way she had sworn like some hard-bitten merchant-
    sailor at the shock of finding him at her side. Though
    afraid of him, she had refused to be intimidated, and
    her spirit struck a chord somewhere within him. He
    had found himself wondering if, in spite of the indif-
    ference he professed to feel, he could trust her . . . and
    then the thought had been abruptly curtailed as he
    remembered another life, another girl in whom he'd
    placed trust.
    
    Sashka Veyyil had been everything Cyllan was not;
    beautiful, educated, assured of her place in the world.
    Theirs had been, he'd thought, an idyllic match - until
    she had callously betrayed him to safeguard her own
    standing, and advance her own cause. Sashka now lan-
    guished in limbo with the Castle inhabitants; Tarod's
    love for her had turned to searing contempt, and
    thought of her plight gave him a malevolent satisfaction.
    But, against all reason, Cyllan's presence in the Castle
    had harked back to those old times, stirred up something
    which should have been unable to exist.
    
    He was suddenly angry, both with himself and with
    the girl. The concern that had moved him when he found
    her unconscious was ashes, and that was how it should
    remain. She was nothing to him beyond a cipher that he
    might, with fortune on his side, use to further his own
    aims; and if she suffered in the process it was of no
    moment. To put faith in her would be madness - he
    would watch and wait, assess her value to him and make
    use of her. Beyond that, she was nothing.
    
    Picking up a book he had already read twice, Tarod
    sat down, ignoring the faint and distant voice that
    accused him of self-delusion. Such human failings were a
    thing of the past. And the past was dead.
    
    *****
    
    Cyllan stared in amazement at the thousands of books
    and manuscripts that littered the vault floor and lined
    the row upon row of shelves. Starting to move forward
    she stumbled over a huge, black-bound tome and hastily
    sidestepped it, overawed and afraid of damaging any of
    the precious volumes.
    
    Drachea had no such compunction. Now that he had a
    companion to bolster his courage, he had forgotten his
    first unnerving experience here and was rummaging
    among the books, picking out those which seemed to
    offer promise. Cyllan watched him, acutely aware of her
    own shortcomings - save for making some sense of a
    map, she had no part to play in the search for clues.
    Discomforted, she wandered to the far side of the vault
    where the light seemed a little better . . . then stopped,
    noticing a small, low door set deep in an alcove and
    invisible but from close quarters. Experimentally she

    touched it; it moved, a little stiffly at first, then the
    hinges unjammed and it swung fully open.
    
    'Drachea . . . '
    
    He answered with a dismissive grunt, but she
    persisted.
    
    'Drachea - look! There's another passage . . . '
    
    His head came up and he looked round - then froze.
    He recognised the door - it was the same one he had
    unwittingly and unwillingly discovered in his moment of
    panic here alone, and he didn't like to be reminded of
    that incident.
    
    'Doubtless it's unimportant,' he said carelessly.
    
    'I don't think so . . . ' Cyllan frowned. The narrow,
    palely illuminated corridor that sloped steeply away
    downwards intrigued her; intuition told her there was
    more to it than met the eye, and she took a few steps into
    
    the passage. The light increased; faint still, but
    unmistakably growing, as though some hidden source
    lay at the end of the corridor. She wanted to explore
    further.
    
    'Drachea -I think we should investigate. Perhaps I'm
    wrong, but - I think we should.'
    
    She heard Drachea curse impatiently under his
    breath, then his footsteps sounded across the flagstones
    and he came to join her.
    
    'Look,' she said quietly, pointing. The light . . . '
    
    He saw what she meant, and his curiosity was
    aroused. There was, after all, nothing to fear here - no
    lurking horrors, no demons, no phantoms, except those
    his own mind chose to create.
    
    'Very well,' he said, brushing her aside and taking
    the lead. 'If you're set on it, we'll find out where it
    leads!'
    
    He set off, walking fast and not waiting for her to keep
    up. Cyllan hurried after him - then, barely able to stop
    herself on the steep gradient, all but collided with him
    as, without any warning, he halted abruptly with an oath
    of surprise on his lips.
    
    The door that confronted them was made of metal,
    but it was no metal that either had ever seen before. It
    gleamed sullenly, like old and tarnished silver, yet the
    glow it gave off was sufficient to light the corridor and
    filter into the vault beyond. A peculiar, sourceless
    illumination . . . something about it made Cyllan's
    hackles rise, and she arrested her hand midway to the
    door, afraid to touch it.
    
    Drachea had forgotten his scepticism and stared at the
    door with burgeoning interest. 'The Marble Hall . . . '
    he said, half to himself.
    
    Cyllan glanced quickly at him. 'Do you think it could
    be?'
    
    'I don't know. But it would seem possible . . . even
    likely.' Licking dry lips, he reached out and gave the
    door an experimental push. A tingling sensation ran
    from his fingers through his hand and arm, and the door
    didn't move.
    
    Drachea withdrew his hand and shook it. 'Whatever
    lies beyond, it must be significant. This door's either
    locked or magically protected.'
    
    There's a keyhole,' Cyllan said, indicating a small slot
    in one side of the silver surface.
    
    'Yes . . . ' Drachea crouched, squinting but being
    careful not to touch the door again, then shook his head
    and stood up. 'It's impossible to see anything.' Resent-
    ment and frustration tinged his voice. 'But it is the
    Marble Hall - I feel it in my bones!'
    
    She didn't answer, but continued to gaze at the door.
    Her spine was prickling in the way she knew so well; as
    though something that lay just beyond the borders of
    psychic consciousness were awakening and crawling
    towards the surface. Her vision distorted momentarily,
    so that she saw the silver door as if from a great distance;
    the illusion passed quickly, but when her senses righted
    themselves she thought - no, imagined, she told herself

    - that she felt a presence on the other side. It lived, it was
    aware of them; she felt it waiting and watching . . .
    
    Perhaps Drachea, too, glimpsed something of the
    same sensation, for he backed away suddenly, and his
    face had lost its colour.
    
    'The key,' he said. 'There must be a key.'
    
    'You searched the High Initiate's study,' Cyllan
    reminded him. 'Was there nothing there that you might
    have overlooked?'
    
    'I don't know . . . it's possible. Though more likely,
    I'd suspect, that if this door leads where we think it does,
    the key's in Tarod's possession.' He smiled thinly. 'After
    all, if you were in his place wouldn't you take that
    precaution against your secret being uncovered?'
    
    It made sense, and if Drachea was right Cyllan didn't
    relish the thought of attempting to retrieve the key. Yet
    she wanted to open that door and see whatever lay
    beyond. Something about this mystery caught and
    pulled at her, and it had nothing to do with the enigmatic
    jewel. Something was calling to her, summoning her;
    and the desire to answer the summons was growing out
    of all proportion.
    
    Alarmed by the strength of her own feelings she
    moved away from the door, and thought that she heard,
    so faintly that it might have been illusion, a soft sigh that
    emanated from nowhere and drifted away along the
    corridor. She looked back, saw nothing, then realised
    that Drachea was as uneasy as she.
    
    'We should go,' she said softly.
    
    He nodded, trying to disguise his relief. 'We'll return.
    We'll find the key, somehow, and we'll return.'
    
    He took hold of her hand as they turned and made
    their way back towards the library, whether to reassure
    her or himself Cyllan didn't know. Reaching the vault,
    Drachea closed the small door carefully behind them,
    then gathered up the books he had collected.
    
    'I don't know if Tarod ever comes here, but I wouldn't
    relish the prospect of meeting him face to face.' His
    smiled was forced. 'It might be prudent not to linger.'
    
    What he had sensed beyond the silver door Cyllan
    didn't know, and doubted if he would tell her. She said
    nothing, only looked back once, speculatively, as they
    left the vault and started to climb the stairs.
    
    Chapter 6
    
    Gant Ambaril Rannak was trying to control his impa-
    tience and irritation, but it was a losing battle. He stood
    staring through the long window of his drawing-room,
    his mind not registering the sight of the gradually bur-
    geoning gardens, unpleasantly aware of the sound of his
    wife sobbing quietly in the background. Today was her
    birth-anniversary, and should have been an occasion for
    celebration. Instead, they were in the midst of a night-
    mare from which there seemed to be no awakening - the
    mystery of their eldest son's disappearance.
    
    There should have been news by now. The heir to a
    Margravate didn't simply vanish without trace. Some-
    one must have seen Drachea leave the market square
    with that damned drover-girl, and yet although he had
    used all his considerable resources to the full, Gant
    could find not one single witness to his son's fate. He
    had, at first, tried to face the possibility that the Warp
    which had struck Shu-Nhadek on that day had taken
    them both, but he knew his son, and his son wasn't such
    a fool as to let himself be caught out in such a grisly way.
    
    There was, of course, the theory that the drovers'
    leader had been behind the whole thing, setting up the
    girl to lure Drachea away and hold him to some form of
    ransom. Such crimes weren't unknown, and, with the
    increase in lawlessness over the past year or so, there
    were a good few ruffians who'd consider the prize well
    worth the risk. In the first throes of fury and anguish
    Gant had had the drover imprisoned and mercilessly
    interrogated, but it soon became apparent that Kand
    Brialen knew nothing of the affair. His horror at the
    occurrence was painfully genuine, and even if it
    
    stemmed solely from his fear of losing a wealthy cus-
    tomer rather than any concern for his own niece, Gant
    had grudgingly been forced to abandon his suspicions.
    
    And so, frantic for news and frustrated at every turn,
    Gant had applied all his considerable resources to what
    had been, thus far, an utterly fruitless search. The
    province militia under his command had unearthed
    nothing; the seers of the Sisterhood had exerted their
    skills to no avail . . . and now it seemed that even his
    last hope would fail him.
    
    He turned to where the heavily built man with the
    Initiate's gold insignia on his shoulder stood conferring
    in a lowered voice with the Lady Silve Bradow, Senior of
    the province's largest Sisterhood Cot. It was by sheer
    good fortune that Hestor Tay Armeth, a fourth-rank
    Adept of the Circle, had been staying at the Cot when
    Gant's messenger arrived to seek the Sisterhood's aid,
    and Lady Silve - who was newly promoted to her office
    and had never before had to deal personally with such a
    crisis - had looked immediately to Hestor for advice.
    
    But now it appeared that the Circle's representative
    was powerless to help. Far from offering the solution
    that Gant and his family craved, Hestor had thus far
    done little but prevaricate. The Margrave had a suspi-
    cion that there was more behind his dissembling than
    met the eye, but couldn't draw him, and his patience,
    goaded by the worry that ate at every fibre of his being,
    was running out.
    
    He turned on his heel, clearing his throat loudly to
    draw their attention. The Margravine sniffed and wiped
    her eyes, looking to her husband with tearful hope.
    
    'Adept.' Gant spoke politely, but with an edge.
    'You'll pardon my speaking bluntly, but this matter
    grows more urgent with every minute that passes! My
    son, the Heir Margrave, has disappeared, and all efforts
    to find him have failed. I turn to the Circle for help, as
    anyone might surely be entitled to do in such circum-
    stances - and yet it seems you can offer me nothing! I ask
    one simple question of you - can you aid me, or can you
    not?'
    
    Hestor and Lady Silve exchanged a glance, then the
    Sister-Senior clasped her hands and stared down at the
    thickly carpeted floor as Hestor replied.
    
    'Margrave, all I have said to you is that I can make no
    promises. There are complexities involved which - '
    
    Gant interrupted him. 'As I see it, sir, the only com-
    plexity is the mysterious nature of my son's disap-
    pearance! Surely, in this case, there's reason enough to
    send word to the High Initiate?' He licked his lips. 'I
    know Keridil Toln, as I knew his father Jehrek; and I'm
    certain that he would wish to be informed and to offer
    the Circle's resources.' Gant paused, wondering if
    Hestor would react to the gently implied threat; then,
    when the man appeared unmoved, he finished, 'Of
    course, if you would prefer to take the responsibility on
    your own shoulders . . . '
    
    The Adept smiled reservedly and without warmth. 'I
    wouldn't presume, Margrave. Naturally, I'll ensure that
    a message reaches the Castle; but of course these things
    take time, and time may not be on our side.'
    
    Gant hunched his shoulders gloomily. 'Nevertheless,
    it seems to be our only hope, as all else has failed.' He
    glanced at his wife. 'I've heard tell that experiments are
    being made in using hunting birds as messengers in cases
    of emergency. If we could use such a method, we could
    send word to the High Initiate far faster than any man
    could ride.'
    
    'I've heard something of it,' Hestor said cautiously.
    'Falconers in Empty Province have been using birds,
    and the idea is also being tried in Wishet. But as to its
    reliability - '
    
    'Damn it, surely it's worth the attempt?' Gant
    exploded, then with an effort brought his temper under
    control. 'Forgive me- but surely you can understand my
    feelings? The Lady Margravine is distracted with worry
    and grief - and if the Circle can't aid us, then there's
    nothing left!'
    
    For a moment Hestor looked away, then seemed to
    steel himself and met the Margrave's gaze once more.
    
    'You're quite right, of course, Margrave - I ask your
    
    pardon if I've seemed doubtful or reluctant. I can't claim
    to know how the Circle can help you . . . but there will
    be a way. You have my assurance.'
    
    Gant grunted. 'Then you'll inform the High Initiate?'
    
    'With all possible speed.'
    
    The Margravine sighed softly and her husband moved
    across the room to pat her shoulder with stiff affection.
    'There, my dear. You heard what the Adept said. We
    have the Circle to help us. If any power in the world can
    restore Drachea to us, they can.' He glanced at Hestor
    again. 'Though the occasion won't be as festive as nor-
    mal under the circumstances, we have a small family
    gathering at dinner to mark the Margravine's birth-
    anniversary. I'd consider it a pleasure if you and the
    Lady would join us.'
    
    Hestor bowed slightly. 'Thank you, Margrave, but I
    think I'd be neglecting my duty if I didn't set the Circle's
    investigation in train without any delay. I've promised to
    escort the Lady Silve back to her Cot, and then I must be
    on my way North.'
    
    Privately, Gant was relieved by their refusal. The
    anniversary meal would be an unhappy enough affair
    without the presence of strangers to add further con-
    straint. He rang for a servant to bring the visitors' horses
    to the front Of the house, and bade them a formal
    farewell at the door. As they clattered away in the
    direction of the drove-road, he watched them, frowning
    against the low-angling Sun and wishing that he could
    identify the new sense of unease that moved in him.
    Something was wrong. The Adept's assurances had
    been too glib, and he had the unshakable impression
    that the two of them were concealing something from
    him. Whether it directly concerned his son he couldn't
    tell; but instinct told him that it boded ill.
    
    The horses and their riders were out of sight, and a
    stray cloud moved across the Sun's face, casting a grim
    shadow over the grounds. Gant unclenched his hands,
    which he had been holding unconsciously rigid, then
    turned and, stooping like an old man, went back into the
    house.
    
    'I wish I'd not been forced to lie to him.' Hestor reined in
    to allow a lumbering wagon to pass on the narrow road.
    'It sets a bad precedent.'
    
    Lady Silve shook her head. 'You had no choice,
    th-Hestor.' The odd speech impediment that marred her
    words was a quirk she had had since childhood. 'We
    dared not, after all, th-tell him the truth.'
    
    The Adept sighed through clenched teeth. 'So what
    am I to do? Send a message to the Star Peninsula that
    can't be delivered? I pity the Margrave, I feel for him -I
    have children of my own - but I've far more urgent
    matters to worry about than the disappearance of a
    feckless youth who's probably living wild with some
    whore not half a day's ride from here!'
    
    Silve narrowed her eyes. 'That's not a sentiment that
    th-becomes you, Hestor.'
    
    'No ... no; I'm sorry; it was an unworthy thought.
    Put it down to the worry ... I can't stop thinking of my
    own family at the Castle, and wondering what's become
    of them . . . what's become of them all.'
    
    'There's still been no word?' she asked.
    
    The Adept shook his head. 'Nothing. And with each
    day that passes I fear more and more that something's
    terribly wrong. I've been over it in my mind time and
    again and I can't find an answer that makes any sense.
    If Keridil had some intention of sealing the Castle
    off from the world, we'd have known of it. Even if
    he couldn't reveal the purpose, he'd have given
    warning! But this . . . ' He shook his head again,
    helplessly.
    
    'Rumours are spreading rapidly,' Lady Silve said, her
    voice sombre. 'At first the speculation was th-confined
    to the Northern provinces, but now there are stories
    abroad th-everywhere. It won't be long before they
    reach the Margrave's ears.'
    
    'And all the while we sit helplessly by and await word
    from those who returned to the Peninsula.' Hestor shiv-
    ered. 'Part of me is afraid to hear the news they might
    bring, I'll willingly admit it.'
    
    They rode on in silence for a few minutes before Silve
    
    said diffidently, 'Do you have any - personal theories,
    Hestor? As to what might have th-occurred at the
    Castle?'
    
    The Adept didn't reply at first and she wondered if
    he'd heard the question. But as she was about to repeat
    it, he suddenly said, 'No, Lady, I haven't. Or at least
    . . . none that I dare allow to take root.'
    
    She nodded, and made the Sign of Aeoris over her
    breast. 'We must pray for guidance.'
    
    'Guidance?' Hestor echoed. 'I'm not sure, Lady; I'm
    not sure. Maybe we'd do better to pray to Aeoris for
    deliverance.'
    
    *****
    
    Cyllan lay on the wide bed in her room, fighting the
    weariness that was trying to break down her defences. In
    this timeless place such concepts as hunger and thirst
    and tiredness were, she knew, illusory, but events were
    taking their toll of her energy and she wished that she
    could have simply closed her eyes and slept a dreamless,
    untroubled sleep.
    
    But in truth, she was afraid to rest. Disturbing and
    unwanted thoughts were crowding into her mind, and
    however hard she tried she couldn't banish them. On
    their return from the library vault Drachea had hurried
    away to his own chamber with his precious hoard of
    books; she'd wished he would stay, but he had either not
    understood her hints or chosen to ignore them, and had
    left her alone.
    
    Cyllan didn't want to be alone with her thoughts. She
    needed a distraction to stop them from overtaking her
    and gaining a painful, clawlike hold; she felt defenceless
    against them, and reflected unhappily that even Tarod's
    company would have been preferable to this solitude.
    
    Tarod . . . she rolled over and sat up, angry and a
    little frightened by the fact that her chain of con-
    sciousness had led inexorably back to its starting point.
    Since she had awoken to find him here beside her she
    had had no chance to analyse her thoughts and feelings,
    
    but now they demanded attention. She had accused
    Tarod of perpetrating the psychic horror that attacked
    her in this room; he had sarcastically denied it, and -
    albeit without good reason - Cyllan found herself
    believing him.
    
    Or was she a not altogether unwilling victim of self-
    delusion? Drachea had accused her of prejudice, and
    she was honest enough to admit that it would be an easy
    enough trap to fall into. For many months she had
    carefully schooled herself to the certainty that her path
    and Tarod's would never cross again; their two brief
    meetings had been meaningless coincidence, and to
    hope for more - as, she admitted, she had done - was
    childish and stupid. But now they had crossed, in cir-
    cumstances which her wildest nightmares could never
    have conjured; and all the old memories were clashing
    painfully with the grim reality of the present. Tarod's
    coldness, his sometime malevolence, the sheer power he
    could command, appalled her . . . and then had come
    Drachea's revelation.
    
    She still couldn't believe it. Even with the High Initi-
    ate's own testimony before her, the thought that Tarod
    was no man but a thing of Chaos was too terrible to face.
    Those dark and ancient powers of evil were nothing
    more than an ancestral memory to Cyllan; but the mem-
    ory was deep-rooted, and somewhere, unimaginably far
    back over the generations, were the ghosts of her clan
    forefathers who had died fighting the monstrous forces
    of the Old Ones. She had learned and believed - as
    everyone learned and believed - that Chaos was dead.
    Now she was confronted with one who, on the word of
    the High Initiate himself, was the embodiment of that
    evil, incarnated from the hell of the remote past.
    
    And, worst of all, one whom she had once thought she
    could love . . .
    
    The one fact that she had been desperately avoiding,
    shying away from at every turn, was suddenly coldly and
    harshly clear in her mind, and the thought of it made her
    freeze inwardly. If the accusations were true, then she
    had fallen under the spell of a demonic power,
    
    something so monstrous as to be almost beyond con-
    ception. If the accusations were true . . .
    
    Cyllan told herself that she dared not allow her mind
    to follow that path. To weaken now, and to doubt, was
    the way to damnation. She had to believe, or she'd be
    lost.
    
    Unhappiness and confusion were eating at her like a
    disease, and her restlessness was a constant torment.
    She rose, paced across the room and then back, not
    knowing what she wanted, what she felt, what she could
    do. To confide in Drachea would only make matters
    worse; his interest in her well-being - as was becoming
    abundantly clear - extended only so far as it affected his
    own, with a small but patronising measure of common
    humanity to mitigate. Wryly, she reflected that were it
    not for the predicament which had thrown them forcibly
    together, he would have considered her utterly beneath
    his notice. Tarod's arrogance had at least some sub-
    stance beyond accident of birth . . .
    
    Abruptly furious with herself for making such com-
    parisons, she swung round, clenching her fists in sheer
    bitter frustration. She couldn't stay in this room, like
    some fragile flower awaiting rescue by her paramour -
    the idea, when applied to herself, made her want to
    laugh aloud. Drachea might choose to study books as an
    answer to their plight; she needed more direct and active
    means. And immediately she thought of the vault, and
    the silver door with its mystery.
    
    That place had chilled her, and yet it had fascinated
    her, too. Caution had thus far made her resist the lure of
    returning, but the lure was there all the same. As if
    something called, something that lay behind the door,
    waiting . . .
    
    She shivered. She had been enticed by such feelings
    before, and wouldn't care to repeat the experiences
    they'd brought. But she had to do something . . . and
    her frustration was strong enough to overcome fear.
    
    Suddenly decisive, Cyllan slipped out of her room into
    the gloomy passage. Drachea's door was firmly shut,
    and as she passed it she paused, listening; but no sound
    
    came from within. Silent as a cat, Cyllan hurried away
    towards the stairs.
    
    Strangely, she felt none of the nervousness she had
    anticipated as she descended the long flight of stairs to
    the library vault. Rather, she had a sense of returning
    home; an inexplicable tightness that baffled her. The
    vault was dark, the small door in the alcove as they had
    left it: cautiously she pushed it open, then stepped into
    the sloping passage. Her bare feet made no sound, and
    the only thing to break the utter quiet was the soft hush
    of her own breathing.
    
    The silver door awaited her, glowing, but the glow
    seemed somehow softened. Quite why she had come to
    stand before it again Cyllan didn't know; it was locked,
    she couldn't enter the chamber beyond . . . yet it had
    seemed the right, the only, thing to do. And now her
    instinct was at work again, urging her to touch, to try, to
    dare . . .
    
    Remembering the shock Drachea had received,
    Cyllan was reluctant to touch the peculiar metal surface;
    but knew she couldn't merely stand and stare. Slowly,
    she reached out . . .
    
    There was no shock. Her palm came to rest on the
    door and it felt warm; unyielding, but almost alive. She
    drew breath, exerted a gentle strength, pushed -
    
    Her head snapped back with a stunned reflex as an
    instantaneous and blinding flash of light slammed
    against her inner vision. A star - a seven-rayed star -
    then it was gone as shockingly as it had come, and she
    stared in astonishment as the silver door began, slowly
    and silently, to swing open.
    
    There was light, an eerie, nebulous coruscation of
    mist, shifting and shimmering and deceiving the eye.
    Through it Cyllan thought she could see slender pillars
    that reached to an invisible ceiling, but they too seemed
    to move and change with the ever changing light. It was
    as though she had opened a door on to a fable-world, a
    place of miraculous strangeness and soul-tearing
    beauty; and she bit her lip hard against an irrational
    
    surge of emotion. Slowly, not knowing if she dared
    advance or if her presence would sully this silent perfec-
    tion, she moved forward a pace, then another, until the
    mists enveloped her, their light playing on her skin and
    transforming her into some denizen of their own strange
    dimension.
    
    The Marble Hall . . . This could be no other place!
    Awed, Cyllan advanced, gazing in wonderment at the
    vast chamber which seemed to have no boundaries, at
    the fascinating patterns of the jewel-hued mosaic floor.
    It was a masterpiece, surpassing anything she could have
    imagined - surely, she told herself, surely it could not
    have been created by human hands!
    
    She was so entranced by the undreamed-of beauties of
    this magical place that all else was forgotten - until,
    through the shimmering curtains of light, she saw some-
    thing that jarred with the Hall's serenity. It loomed
    black, angular and ugly out of the mist, and as she drew
    nearer she saw that it was a great block of wood, roughly
    the length and breadth of a man, that stood waist-high
    like some crude altar. Pitted, scarred, clearly very
    ancient, it was cruelly out of place among such beauty,
    and something about it made Cyllan recoil. It seemed to
    reek of decay and death and despair, and she skirted
    widely round it, not wanting to move too close lest its
    aura should touch her too.
    
    And it was in changing her direction to avoid the black
    block that she came face to face with the statues.
    
    'Aeoris!' The oath was out before she could prevent it,
    and Cyllan made the Sign before her heart in hasty
    apology for such irreverence. Her eyes widened, barely
    able to take in the sight that confronted her.
    
    There were seven of them, towering figures which
    rose out of the mist like something from a nightmare.
    They were shaped like men, but gigantic; and the decep-
    tive light playing and shifting over them gave a terrible
    illusion of movement. They might at any moment have
    stepped down from their stone plinths and advanced,
    like giants, towards her.
    
    But it was an illusion . . . they were statues, nothing
    
    more. And yet, though she couldn't see them clearly,
    Cyllan felt a deep thrill of awed recognition. Seven
    statues . . . seven gods . . . this, then, was the most
    sacred sanctum, the Circle's own temple to Aeoris . . .
    
    Fearing to commit a sacrilege by daring to look more
    closely at such holy artefacts, Cyllan was yet unable to
    resist moving nearer to the statues. Throughout the land
    she had seen many religious celebrations, bowed before
    many images of the White Lords; but never before had
    she been privileged to gaze upon the face of Aeoris in
    such an exalted place. She drew closer to the towering
    figures, staring up through the mists like a transfixed
    child, to see the carven features of the seven gods.
    
    Disappointment filled her as she saw that the statues
    had no faces. The features of each one had been thor-
    oughly and systematically hacked away until no detail
    remained, and the sight of such desecration shocked
    Cyllan to the core. But the statues were incredibly
    ancient - the black stone was worn and pitted with the
    ravages of countless centuries, and she realised suddenly
    that this sacrilege might have taken place even before
    the first Initiates made the Castle their stronghold.
    Astounded by her discovery, she peered up again at the
    towering figures -
    
    And she stumbled back with a cry of shock.
    
    Slowly, superimposed on the ruined and jagged stone,
    faces were forming, manifesting fully even as she
    looked. Those faces gazed impassively down on her,
    serene and immortal. But the serenity was shot through
    with malevolence; the features, though beautiful as only
    gods could be, sharp-etched and cruel; the eyes ice-cold
    and filled with a proud evil. These were not the faces of
    Aeoris and his holy brethren! These were the antithesis
    of Light, bringers of darkness and mayhem . . . and she
    knew them!
    
    Cyllan's heart pounded agonisingly in her breast as
    she stared at the nearest of the statues - and she remem-
    bered a moment in Shu-Nhadek, just before the Warp
    had come shrieking through the town to snatch her and
    Drachea, when she had stared in fascinated horror at the
    
    grim, gaunt figure that beckoned like a nemesis from the
    street, outlined against the insane sky. That face - she
    could never forget that face!
    
    Stunned by shock, yet unable to find the compulsion
    to turn her head, she looked at the second figure which
    stood beside the first. And what she saw made her slam a
    fist against her mouth to stop herself from crying out
    aloud. If the first face had been familiar to her, then the
    second was infinitely more so - and in one horrifying
    instant it confirmed everything the High Initiate's testi-
    mony had revealed, and swept away all possible doubt.
    
    Cyllan turned, almost losing balance in her haste, and
    ran towards the silver door, now barely visible in the
    coruscating mist. Reaching it, she flung herself through
    and raced, sobbing for breath, up the steep slope to the
    vault. The vault door crashed behind her; she didn't
    hesitate, but stumbled over the scattered books towards
    the stairs -
    
    In the gloom a dark shape moved, materialising out of
    the shadows. Powerful hands grasped her wrists, spun
    her around - and Cyllan came face to face with Tarod.
    
    'No!' The word was a full-throated scream and, with
    the strength of panic, she twisted free and plunged
    towards the door. She had almost reached it when it
    slammed shut, and she cannoned into the unyielding
    wood with tremendous force. Tarod caught her as she
    reeled back, stunned, and Cyllan knew that she couldn't
    escape him. Sick with the dizzy aftermath of her colli-
    sion, she could offer no further resistance as Tarod
    swung her to face him. Her back was pinned against the
    door now, and all she could do was turn her head aside,
    every muscle in her body rigid.
    
    'Don't touch me,' she hissed through clenched teeth.
    
    He didn't reply; neither did his grip slacken. Cyllan
    shut her eyes, not knowing what he'd do to her and
    aware that she was powerless to fight him. Fear and hate
    surged in her, but she was impotent.
    
    'Cyllan . . . ' Tarod's voice was soft with menace.
    'You will answer me, and you'll tell me the truth. Where
    have you been?'
    
    She bit her lip until a bead of blood formed, shaking
    her head violently. She expected him to hurt her, but he
    didn't. Although the pressure of his fingers increased, he
    only said, almost gently, 'Tell me, Cyllan.'
    
    Startled by the tone she looked at him - and saw the
    iron-hardness in his green eyes. He had no need to harm
    her physically. He could destroy her sanity with a flick of
    his fingers if he chose to, and they both knew it. She
    struggled with her tongue, knowing she was defeated
    but striving not to show weakness.
    
    'I - ' The words came at last. 'Through the corridor
    . . . the silver door . . . '
    
    To the Marble Hall?'
    
    'Yes
    
    'And then?'
    
    The green eyes still held hers, and she didn't dare
    lie. 'I'd thought the door was locked, but ... it
    opened.'
    
    Tarod ran his tongue slowly over his lower lip. 'Yes,'
    he said softly, almost to himself, 'I thought so . . . ' To
    Cyllan's surprise he released her arms and turned away,
    walking slowly across the vault towards the alcove.
    Watching him, she began to edge one hand towards the
    latch of the door at her back. If she could open it silently,
    she might -
    
    'The door won't open,' Tarod said, without looking at
    her. 'It will stay closed until I release it.'
    
    Her cheeks were afire with shame at her own naivety
    when he turned to face her again. For a long moment he
    regarded her with detached interest, then he said,
    
    'Why are you so afraid to answer my questions?'
    
    'I'm not afraid.' She couldn't look at him; the memory
    of the statue's carved face was too strong.
    
    'Ah, but you are. Why? Do you fear reprisal?' He
    smiled, though it wasn't a kindly smile. 'I could hurt you,
    if it suited me to do so, or perhaps if you angered me.
    But I'd prefer otherwise.'
    
    The utter certainty that he could do precisely as he
    chose with her snapped Cyllan's self-control. She knew
    what he was; knew that she had nothing to lose, and
    
    something awoke in her that made her fatalistically care-
    less. If she was damned, then let the damnation be
    complete - she could at least hold to what little pride she
    had left.
    
    Her voice suddenly stronger, she spat back defiantly,
    'Would you? I doubt that!' She took a step towards him,
    shaking. 'Why don't you destroy me, Tarod? I'm
    nothing to you - I'm of no value!' One hand went to the
    collar of the shirt she wore, and in a single, violent
    movement she tore it, exposing her throat and the slight,
    pale swell of her breasts. 'Isn't this how a sacrifice should
    be prepared? You care nothing for human life- kill me!'
    
    Tarod didn't move. Instead, the cool expression on
    his face gave way to another smile, but this time there
    was a faint trace of warmth in it. Quietly, he said,
    'You're very courageous, Cyllan. But your courage is
    misplaced. I don't intend to harm you; it would be
    pointless, and I've no desire for it. So perhaps I care a
    little more for human life than you think.' He came
    towards her, and she stood rigid as he laid a hand lightly
    on her breast where the shirt was ripped. 'I ask only one
    thing of you - that you tell me what you found in the
    Marble Hall.'
    
    His touch was cool, but physical, human . . . Cyllan
    suddenly felt confused as warring impressions clashed in
    her head. She feared his wrath if he should discover what
    she had seen - but fear of what he still might do if she
    kept silent was stronger, and she whispered, 'The stat-
    ues . . . '
    
    'Ah . . . the statues.' Tarod nodded. 'Yes. And what
    else?'
    
    'There was a block of wood - a great black slab. I - it
    was a repellent thing.' Her fear was receding now; he
    seemed unmoved by the fact that she had seen those
    sculptured monstrosities, and though his lack of reaction
    puzzled her she was grateful for it. She had the temerity
    to look up at him, and saw that his eyes were narrowed
    and his expression set, as though mention of the block
    had revived some dark thought.
    
    'Repellent,' he repeated speculatively. 'I'm a little
    
    surprised at your choice of words, but . . . they're apt
    enough. And was there anything more?'
    
    'No,' she said. 'Nothing.'
    
    A pause. 'You're certain of that?'
    
    She remembered the stone, and Drachea's theory that
    it was hidden somewhere in the Marble Hall. She'd seen
    no sign of it ...
    
    She nodded. 'Yes. I'm certain.'
    
    Tarod tilted her face up, studied it intently, then
    relaxed. 'Very well; I see you're telling me the truth.'
    For some reason which Cyllan couldn't begin to guess at,
    he seemed gratified by the fact, though it would have
    been easy enough for him to wring the answer out of her
    had she lied. He stood motionless a little longer, then his
    hand moved from her breast to the torn fabric of her
    shirt, and he folded it gently back over her.
    
    'Cover yourself,' he said. 'And I'll hear no more talk
    of sacrifice. Go back to Drachea, and tell him what
    you've discovered.'
    
    She frowned. Tell him? But - '
    
    Tarod laughed, a harsh sound that contrasted sharply
    with his previous manner. 'Then tell him or not, as you
    please - it makes no difference to me! Drachea may like
    to play his childish games, but he's no threat. If he were,
    he'd no longer be alive.'
    
    The words were casual enough, their meaning all too
    clear. Cyllan had no answer; she merely nodded and
    turned away. This time the door opened at a touch;
    beyond, the long flight of stairs led up towards the
    courtyard.
    
    'I'll see you again,' Tarod said quietly as she set her
    foot on the first step. Whether or not his words implied a
    threat Cyllan didn't know, and didn't care to speculate.
    
    When Cyllan was gone, Tarod stood staring down at the
    scattered books around his feet. He felt sure that
    Drachea had raided the library for a second time, but
    neither knew nor cared what the young man might have
    unearthed in his searches. Even the greatest rituals were
    
    of little use in the hands of an amateur; Drachea was
    irrelevant - and Tarod had other matters on his mind.
    
    He walked towards the narrow door set in its alcove,
    and quietly opened it. The comparatively brilliant light
    from the passage beyond flowed over him, giving a
    ghastly tinge to his already pale face, and though he was
    tempted to tread the familiar way to the Marble Hall
    once more, he resisted the temptation. He could gain
    nothing by it - the Hall was, as always, barred to him.
    
    Yet Cyllan had been able to enter . . .
    
    It was what Tarod had suspected and, in one sense, it
    was a hope fulfilled. Somewhere in that place - on the
    physical plane or not, he didn't know - lay the single
    clear jewel that was the focus of everything; and now he
    knew that he could use Cyllan, as he had intended, to
    find it and restore it to him. Yet the knowledge brought
    only a desolate satisfaction. With the stone, he would be
    again what Fate had made him; a being whose origins lay
    not with humanity, but with Chaos. The ancient powers
    would be restored; no man could gainsay him; and he
    could, if he chose, abandon all pretence of mortality to
    rise again to the heights which he had once, in immortal
    form, commanded.
    
    Since the moment when he had broken through the
    final astral barrier to halt the Pendulum of Time, he had

    never once questioned that desire. It had been in him
    like a banked fire, only waiting for an opportunity to
    burst into flame. But now it seemed distant and unreal.
    The goal, suddenly so close, had lost its meaning.
    
    Once, he recalled, he had renounced the Chaos stone
    with all the passion of which he had, then, been capable.
    He had pledged himself to destroy it, even if it meant his
    own destruction, and when the Circle turned against him
    he'd fought them, sublimating his loyalty as an Initiate
    to the greater loyalty he owed to Aeoris and the White
    Lords. Since losing the stone, and his humanity with it,
    he had forgotten that desperate pledge, but it was haunt-
    ing him now where by rights it should be dead and
    buried.
    
    For the first time since his final defeat of the Circle,
    
    Tarod was beginning to question himself and his
    motives. He believed he had lost his humanity . . . but
    human emotions, far in the past and, he'd thought,
    unattainable, were calling to him again. Memories clam-
    oured in his mind where there had been only cold intel-
    lect; a sensation that he recognised as pain constricted
    him. It was as though a window had opened, allowing
    him to look back on a bright, once treasured world that
    he could no longer reach, and for the first time those
    memories hurt.
    
    He closed the door again, troubled and unsure
    whether the feeling within him was anger or sorrow.
    Briefly, when she had stood defiantly before him and
    challenged him to kill her, he had wanted to trust Cyllan
    with the full truth - but the old, ingrained cynicism held
    him back as he remembered Sashka, who had so manip-
    ulated his trust for her own purposes. Cyllan wasn't
    Sashka - the drover-girl, by comparison, was as trans-
    parent as a child, and even if she should prove duplicious
    she would still be no threat; yet a deep-rooted desire not
    to make the same mistake twice had stayed his tongue.
    That, and the certain knowledge that, were she to realise
    his true nature, she would turn against him as surely and
    as violently as the Circle had done. Though he refused to
    explore his reasons, he didn't want to count Cyllan as an
    enemy.
    
    Tarod was unaccustomed to indecisiveness, but now
    he felt adrift. Feelings were moving him where pre-
    viously there had been nothing; his path no longer
    seemed clear. For the first time he doubted his own
    motivation . . . and the doubt gave birth to the first
    faint stirrings of fear.
    
    Very gently he closed the door in the alcove, shutting
    off all but a faint filtering glow of light from the Marble
    Hall that seeped under the old wood. With an effort he
    put all the unhappy thoughts out of his mind - it was a
    technique he knew well, and had used on many
    occasions. His face was a mask, as impassively unread-
    able as carved stone, but his green eyes were unquiet as
    he walked out of the library.
    
    Chapter 7
    
    'It's the final proof!' Drachea clasped Cyllan's shoulders
    and spun her round the room excitedly. 'It's all the
    evidence we need, Cyllan! Gods - to think that the
    Marble Hall should yield such a find. The stone must be
    there - it must be!'
    
    Cyllan disentangled herself from his grasp, disquieted by
    his exuberance. 'Surely it's no cause for jubilation?' she said.
    'It's proof that we're facing a power we can't hope to combat!'
    
    Drachea dismissed her doubts with a careless wave.
    Tarod's not invincible. Without that jewel, as the High
    Initiate's testimony says, he can't call the forces of
    Chaos to his aid. And if we can find the stone, and
    restore it to the Circle - '
    
    Cyllan laughed, a short, sharp bark with little humour
    in it. 'And how are we to do that?' she demanded. 'How
    are we to call back Time?'
    
    Drachea smiled. 'It's not as impossible as you might
    think. I've been studying the books I brought from the
    library, and all the Circle's rites and rituals are there, in
    incredible detail. I'm convinced that I'll find the answer
    in one of those volumes.' His eyes lit up with a fanatical
    zeal. 'Just think, Cyllan - just think what might result if
    we can restore the Circle to the world, and deliver the
    perpetrator of this evil into their hands!'
    
    His use of the word we, Cyllan knew, meant nothing-
    in his imagination Drachea saw himself as the Circle's
    sole saviour; and doubtless envisaged receiving all
    honour and glory as a result. He was a fool, she thought,
    if he believed that the path to such an achievement
    would be easy; yet he was brimming with confidence,
    already convinced that he'd succeed.
    
    'Do you know,' he said, sobering a little when she
    didn't appear to share his excitement, 'that I discovered
    in one of those tomes the rite that the Circle must have
    intended to use to destroy Tarod.' Cyllan turned, and he
    went on, 'The wooden altar you saw - it's a very ancient
    artefact, rarely used. It's an execution block.'
    
    Cyllan's stomach contracted, and she understood why
    the black wood slab had carried such an ugly aura.
    Unbidden, an image flashed through her mind of how a
    man might look, stretched out on that pitted surface,
    awaiting the final fall of the knife or sword ... or
    something worse . . . and she shuddered.
    
    'Yes - it's not a pleasant ceremony,' Drachea told her,
    with an edge of relish that she found repellent. 'And it's
    used only in the most extreme circumstances. Doubt-
    less, when Tarod is in the Circle's hands once more,
    they'll conduct that rite where they failed before.'
    
    She couldn't stop herself; the words were uttered
    before she realised it, and her voice was angry. 'And you
    find such a prospect pleasing?''
    
    'Don't you?' Drachea frowned at her. 'This isn't a
    man we're dealing with - it's a denizen of Chaos! Damn
    it, would you rather see such a monster loose in the
    world?'
    
    I'd rather not see anyone die so barbarically, Cyllan
    thought, but held her tongue. She was discomforted by
    the fact that some inner compulsion had made her come
    to Tarod's defence, but told herself it was nothing more
    than Drachea's ghoulishness which had offended her.
    Nonetheless, the thought of Tarod's fate if Drachea
    should succeed- no, if she and Drachea should succeed,
    for surely their cause was the same - chilled her to the
    marrow.
    
    If Drachea was aware of her misgivings he chose to
    ignore them, too caught up in his own plans to heed
    anything else.
    
    'We must return to the Marble Hall,' he said
    decisively, 'and find that jewel. And we'd be wise not to
    delay in what we have to do.' He stood up again, hugging
    himself. 'I still have the High Initiate's papers in my
    
    possession. If Tarod were to discover them, I don't care
    to speculate about how he might react. I think it might
    be prudent to return them as quickly as possible.' He
    glanced towards the door. Though the Gods know I'd
    feel a good deal happier if I were armed before making
    any further sorties in this place.'
    
    'There must be weapons in the Castle,' Cyllan said,
    though she privately doubted that a blade would have
    any value against the dangers that lurked here. 'At the
    Inauguration festival there were tournaments - sword-
    fighting. I saw none of them, but I heard the tales. And
    Tarod used to carry a knife . . . '
    
    Drachea gave her an odd look, faintly tinged with
    suspicion, but only said, 'Very well. Then you must find
    those weapons. Try the Castle stables - in Shu-Nhadek,
    the militia keep their arms close by their horses, and it's
    a sound enough principle. Bring me a sword, light but
    well balanced.' He paused. 'That is, if you know how to
    judge a good blade.'
    
    Cyllan's eyes narrowed. Drachea had probably car-
    ried a sword only two or three times in his life, and then
    for ceremonial purposes. She had had a knife of her
    own, once; a wicked weapon with a curved blade and
    bone hilt. She had used it to slit open the face of one of
    her uncle's hirelings who'd thought he could take advan-

    tage of his master's drunken stupor to rape his niece and
    make his escape with three prize horses, and the man's
    yells had roused the entire camp. Kand Brialen had sent
    the would-be thief on his way with a broken arm and
    three cracked ribs - 'one for each good piece of horse-
    flesh' as he'd grimly put it - and had rewarded Cyllan's
    vigilance by giving her a quarter-gravine and selling her
    knife at the next town they reached.
    
    She said, 'I can judge well enough, Drachea. And I'll
    take a dagger for myself if there's anything suitable to be
    found.'
    
    He was slightly taken aback by her tone, but collected
    himself quickly with a shrug. Then let's not delay. I'll
    return the papers to their rightful place, and we'll meet
    again here when our errands are done.'
    
    Drachea was unwilling to admit to feeling frightened as
    he headed down the long corridor that led to the High
    Initiate's rooms, but the sick pounding of his heart gave
    the lie to it. With Keridil Toln's and now Cyllan's revela-
    tions fresh in his mind, the thought of meeting Tarod
    with these incriminating documents in his possession
    was almost enough to send him bolting back to the
    sanctuary of his room. He wished he'd given his task to
    Cyllan and gone himself in search of weapons; but it was
    too late for regret. And surely, he told himself, trying to
    bolster his failing nerve, in all the vastness of the Castle
    the odds against encountering the Adept weighed
    strongly in his favour.
    
    Part of the reasoning behind Drachea's decision to
    carry out this errand himself lay in the fact that he was
    growing more mistrustful of Cyllan. To begin with, he'd
    dismissed the obvious friction between them as nothing
    more than the natural outcome of the differences in their
    station - she was, after all, so far beneath him that in
    happier circumstances he wouldn't have associated with
    her at all - but now he wasn't so sure. She had met the
    Castle's dark master before; she seemed unwilling to
    condemn him for what he was - once or twice Drachea

    had deliberately tested her, and she'd leaped to Tarod's
    defence like a watchdog. When conflict finally came, as
    it must, he wondered whether she'd be so blinded to the
    truth that she wouldn't have the sense to fight on the side
    of justice.
    
    Still, Cyllan was a minor consideration. In the final
    extreme she was expendable, and he for one wouldn't
    particularly mourn her loss. Any debt he owed her
    Drachea now considered repaid in full - had he not
    helped her, guided her and instructed her in everything
    since their unwarranted arrival here? If his plans, which
    were admittedly embryonic as yet, worked, then she'd
    do well to realise that his wisdom was superior to hers!
    
    He had almost reached the end of the corridor, and
    unease gave way to relief as the High Initiate's door
    came in view. With the documents safely restored,
    Tarod could never discover that they had been disturbed
    
    and read; and any advantage, however trivial, was valu-
    able.
    
    He lifted the door-latch -
    
    'Well, my friend. Your excursions grow bolder.'
    
    Drachea spun round, jaw dropping in horror as he saw
    Tarod standing behind him.
    
    The tall Adept stepped forward, smiling, though the
    smile didn't deceive Drachea. Tarod's green eyes were
    alight with an unholy fire, and Drachea knew that he was
    in a very dangerous mood.
    
    'Such ambition doesn't become you, Drachea,' Tarod
    continued softly. 'It hints of a willingness to step into a
    dead man's shoes before the funeral has taken place.'
    
    'I was - I merely intended - ' Drachea struggled to
    find an answer that might sound plausible, and Tarod
    watched his efforts with chilly detachment. He didn't
    know what had motivated him to seek out the young
    man for the sole purpose of tormenting him - it was a
    hollow and pointless pursuit and even his dislike of
    Drachea wasn't enough to justify it. But he had been
    brooding; the brooding had led to anger, and the anger
    desired an outlet. It was Drachea's ill fortune that he was
    to hand and that Tarod had no compunction about using
    him as a scapegoat.
    
    But it seemed that Tarod's black mood had proved
    fortuitous - for he suddenly saw the sheaf of papers
    which Drachea was clumsily trying to hide. The topmost
    document bore the High Initiate's own seal . . .
    
    The fire smouldering in Tarod's mind began to flicker
    into a blaze, and he stretched out his left hand. 'I think,' he
    said, 'that you'd do well to show me what you have there.'
    
    Desperate, Drachea shook his head. 'It's nothing,' he
    replied carelessly, battling to keep himself from
    stammering.
    
    'Then you'll indulge my whim to see it.' Tarod's voice
    was merciless.
    
    Drachea tried to resist as the icy green eyes held his
    gaze locked, but he couldn't look away. Jerkily, and
    against his will, his hand came up, stretched out; and
    Tarod took the documents from him.
    
    One glance at the sheaf confirmed his suspicions. So
    Drachea knew . . . and doubtless Cyllan, too, had seen
    these pages. Little wonder she had been so afraid when he
    encountered her in the vault, with Keridil's testimony
    fresh in her mind ...
    
    He looked at Drachea again. The Heir Margrave was
    shaking as though he had the ague, and the guilty terror
    in his eyes, the contempt his attitude aroused, disgusted
    Tarod.
    
    'So,' he said softly, 'you consider yourself entitled to
    steal more than you can find in the library.'
    
    White-faced, Drachea swallowed and dissembled
    weakly. 'Cyllan discovered them, not I ... I - I didn't
    trouble to read them; I told her they were none of my
    concern . . . ' His voice trailed off as he saw Tarod's
    expression.
    
    'You're a liar.' And, incensed by Drachea's shameless
    perfidy, Tarod felt something within him snap. His eyes
    fired with loathing; he flung the papers aside, raised his
    left hand, gestured once.
    
    Something with the power of a horse's kick hurled
    Drachea off his feet, and he crashed against the High
    Initiate's door, which burst open. Sprawling across the
    threshold, Drachea tried in panic to struggle upright and
    run - but in doing so he caught Tarod's eye. Every
    muscle in his body locked rigid. He couldn't move,
    couldn't breathe; his mind fought against the inexorable
    will that held it, but he was helpless.
    
    Tarod smiled, and the smile made Drachea want to
    scream. The gaunt face was changing, eyes narrowing,
    burning with an inhuman light, the black hair like a
    shadow of utter darkness. In an instant of terrified reve-
    lation Drachea saw what Cyllan had seen in the graven
    face of the statue - the malevolence, the knowledge, the
    sheer power that lay behind the mask. He made a sound
    deep in his throat; inarticulate, pleading. Tarod's smile
    widened, and the fingers of his hand curled as though
    outlining an invisible symbol.
    
    The thrall that held Drachea broke, and he shrieked
    like a wounded animal, eyes starting out of their sockets
    
    and hands scrabbling for purchase on the floor. Tarod,
    seeing what he saw, acknowledged the nightmare with a
    laugh. The last time Drachea had crossed him, he had
    shown him but a brief glimpse of the horrors he could
    conjure if he chose. Now, the punishment was merciless.
    
    'No . . . n-no . . . ' It was the only word Drachea
    could form from a babbling, pleading stream of
    incoherence. He was crawling on hands and knees, as a
    mortally injured mouse might try to crawl away from a
    preying cat, and Tarod moved slowly, casually after
    him, holding the delusions and manipulating them so
    that Drachea's terrors deepened, pushing him towards
    the brink of insanity. He felt no true malice towards
    Drachea - contempt was too ingrained for that - and
    what he did now gave him no satisfaction. But some-
    thing had moved him; a fury he couldn't contain. An
    emotion that demanded its due.
    
    Drachea was sobbing, curling into a foetal huddle in
    the passage and seemingly trying to dig his nails into the
    wall, as though refuge lay that way. Tarod's hatred had
    reached its peak and, as abruptly as it had come, the rage
    was passing. He stared down at the hunched wreck at his
    feet. It would be so easy to kill him. A single movement,
    and it would be done . . . but there seemed no point.
    Better that Drachea lived on, and remembered . . .
    
    He stepped back. The last time he had lost all self-
    control, a man had died, and hideously; but that, like so
    much else that plagued him, was in the past. He had no
    such motivations now.
    
    Or did he?
    
    The thought wasn't one he liked to live with, and
    when he looked at Drachea again he felt something close
    to remorse. Tarod turned on his heel and stalked away
    along the corridor towards the main doors. Behind him
    as he went he could hear the demented sobbing pleas
    diminishing in the distance, and the sound left a bitter
    taste.
    
    The two swords and the light, slim-bladed dagger were
    all Cyllan had been able to find, but nonetheless she was
    
    pleased with her spoils. Drachea's theory that an ar-
    moury might lie next to the Castle stables had proved
    wrong, and after an unfruitful search she had taken to
    looking through individual rooms in the great building,
    where she had found what she needed. The experience
    of searching those chambers had been eerie; she felt like
    a desecrator as she rummaged among the personal
    belongings of men and women whose lives had been
    abruptly suspended and who now languished in a world
    beyond imagination, if they still existed at all; and it had
    taken all the self-will she could muster to begin the
    search. So many of the artefacts told their own poignant
    stories; a torn coat with a sewing needle and thread laid
    on it; two empty wine cups beside a rumpled bed; a sheaf
    of papers covered with simple drawings in a child's hand.
    It had been a sharp reminder that this Castle had once
    lived and breathed and rung to the sounds of its human
    inhabitants.
    
    She had ignored, though with difficulty, the clothes
    that she found in some of the rooms. Gowns and cloaks
    in rich fabrics, graceful and decorative shoes that she
    knew would have fitted her, jewellery . . . the choice
    was almost endless, had she been able to ignore her
    conscience and steal them. But instead she had reluc-
    tantly set them aside, and her fantasies with them, and
    concentrated on the task at hand.
    
    Her search had, thankfully, allowed her to stay on the
    upper floor of the Castle wing, where she knew there
    was less chance of encountering Tarod. She had taken
    two wrong turns on her way back towards her room, but
    the maze of passages was growing more familiar and
    there was little danger of becoming lost. She was cross-
    ing the broad landing where the main staircase ended
    when a faint sound caught her sharp ears, and she froze.
    Someone was moving; someone on the stairs . . .
    
    Holding her breath, Cyllan inched forward, keeping
    close against the wall. The sounds seemed to have stop-
    ped, and no shadows moved to betray an approaching
    figure. Gaining confidence she crossed to peer over the
    balcony rail . . .
    
    The swords and dagger fell from her grasp, making an
    echoing racket as they clattered across the floor. Cyllan
    ran, flying down the stairs until she reached the figure
    sprawled prone halfway down the flight.
    
    Drachea wasn't quite unconscious, but the last dregs
    of strength which had enabled him to crawl, inch by
    painful inch, from the High Initiate's door had finally
    run out. His hands were grasping feebly at the tread of
    the next stair, the nails split and bloodied as though he
    had been trying to claw his way through stone, and
    palsied shudders racked his body.
    
    'Drachea!' Cyllan tried to help him sit up, but he
    couldn't rally. Appalled, she turned him over. His eyes
    were tightly shut, face dead-white, and he seemed,
    incredibly, to be trying to laugh, though no sound came
    from between his bloodless lips.
    
    Sweet Aeoris, what had happened to him? He couldn't
    lie here - she had to get him to a bed! Crouching, Cyllan
    hooked her hands under Drachea's arms and pulled with
    all her strength. He moaned, but was too weak to strug-
    gle, and with a great effort Cyllan managed to drag his
    limp weight to the top of the stairs. Bent double and
    gasping for breath, she looked along the corridor. His
    room was nearer . . . Taking a deep breath she lifted
    Drachea again and struggled towards the distant door,
    praying meanwhile that he wasn't physically damaged
    and this unceremonious progress only making matters
    even worse.
    
    By the time she reached the chamber Drachea had
    lost consciousness, which was a mercy. Her muscles
    protested as she forced them into one last effort to lift
    him on to the bed. She made him as comfortable as she
    could, then studied him closely to see if she could find
    any clue to what had happened.
    
    Thankfully, there were no obvious signs of injury -
    though Cyllan was no healer, and knew how easily she
    might overlook some serious hurt. Nor could she even
    begin to guess how this had come about . . . but a
    terrible suspicion was eating at her mind.
    
    She straightened, trying to quell the dread that filled
    
    her. Whatever the truth, something had to be done for
    Drachea, or he could die. And the only one she could
    turn to might be the very one who was responsible for
    bringing him to this condition.
    
    She looked at him again, and knew she had no choice
    but to ask Tarod's help. The worst he would do, surely
    the worst he would do, was refuse . . .
    
    Quickly, before courage could desert her, she ran out
    of the room and back along the passage to the stairs. The
    swords and dagger still lay where they'd fallen; she
    hesitated, then snatched up the knife and thrust it into
    her belt. She couldn't conceal it, but it gave her a little
    confidence. Then she was running down the long stair-
    case towards the Castle's main door.
    
    The sight of the black steps winding up into utter dark-
    ness almost broke Cyllan's resolve when at last she stood
    at the foot of the titanic Northern spire. She had seen the
    dim light glowing in the narrow window at the summit,
    and knew that Tarod must be there - but the thought of
    climbing those endless stairs, through dark so intense
    that it was almost tangible, was horrifying. She steeled
    herself- it had to be done. Drachea needed help, and
    she was his only ally.
    
    And if Tarod refused to aid her? She'd thought of little
    else as she crossed the courtyard, but amid all the doubt
    and confusion was a spark of hope. Despite what she
    knew, despite the terror she'd felt at their last meeting,
    she thought she had, in the library, at last recognised a
    shadow of Tarod as she had once known him, and she
    clung tightly to that. He had treated her kindly, giving
    the lie to those who had condemned him, and she prayed
    that, if she could touch that same chord again, he would
    help her now.
    
    Or was she being a fool again? In her mind she could
    hear Drachea's voice condemning her for her gullibility,
    and hope gave way to uncertainty. If she was wrong . . .
    
    She drew breath, squaring her shoulders. If she was
    wrong, there was only one way to find out. She had to
    try.
    
    Determinedly ignoring the painful thumping of her
    heart, Cyllan set foot on the first stair.
    
    It seemed that the black spiral would never end. Cyllan
    had climbed and climbed, trying not to falter but every
    now and again forced to stop, to rest aching muscles and
    regain her breath. The stops grew more frequent; her
    legs felt as though they were on fire, and the long
    struggle through the terrible, unchanging dark took on
    the proportions of a nightmare. She couldn't go back -
    she didn't know how many steps lay behind her, but they
    must have numbered thousands; the thought of giving in
    now and turning to face them all again was more than
    she could bear. And yet, though she prayed to reach her
    goal, the stairs still wound on and on, ever upward, with
    no reprieve.
    
    Her foot slipped and she stumbled, sinking down on
    the cold black stone and sobbing with exhaustion. It
    couldn't be much further - unless she had unwittingly
    strayed into some twist of dimensions, some evil jest at
    her expense, the stairs must surely end somewhere . . .
    She pulled herself upright, hands pressed against the
    unforgiving wall, and willed her limbs to obey her. She
    couldn't falter now . . .
    
    And, unexpectedly, Cyllan found that the seventh
    step she climbed was the last.
    
    The unexpectedness of it shocked her out of her mes-
    merised state, and she reeled against the wall, having to
    exert all her remaining strength to keep her legs from
    buckling under her. She was on a dark, circular landing,
    and in the gloom could just discern the faint outlines of
    three doors. All were firmly closed, and Cyllan's flag-
    ging confidence fell still further. If she were wrong, and
    Tarod wasn't here . . . or if he refused to help her . . .
    
    She swallowed back the thoughts, and stumbled
    towards the nearest of the three doors. But before her
    hand could reach it, the furthest opened, and a chilly
    light spilled out, silhouetting a tall figure on the
    threshold.
    
    'Cyllan?' Tarod's voice was soft, faintly curious.
    'What brings you here?'
    
    She drew breath, but could hardly speak; the climb
    had finally taken its toll and she was exhausted.
    'Drachea . . .' she whispered dazedly. 'He's ill... hurt
    . . . I came -I came for help . . .'Suddenly she swayed,
    and Tarod stepped forward, taking her arm.
    
    'Drachea be damned -I think it's you who are in need
    of succour! Come; in here.'
    
    She leaned against him, unable to support herself, and
    he led her gently through the door. The light, poor as it
    was, blinded Cyllan after the grim darkness on the stairs.
    Through its dazzle she had an impression of a small and
    overcrowded chamber, then Tarod was helping her to a
    couch, and gratefully she let her limbs give way until she
    was half sitting, half lying among its cushions. Gradually
    her vision adjusted, and her breath returned, until she
    was able to look at Tarod where he sat watching her.
    
    'Are you recovered?' he asked.
    
    'Yes. . .yes, well enough.'She met his gaze.'Thank you.'
    
    He inclined his head slightly. 'So Drachea is unwell,
    and you took it upon yourself to climb this great height
    to find me? You're very loyal, Cyllan. I hope our young
    Heir Margrave appreciates his friends!'
    
    His tone stung her. 'Anyone would have done the
    same,' she said.
    
    'I doubt that. What ails him?'
    
    She shook her head. 'I don't know ... I found him,
    lying on the main stairs. He was all but unconscious, and
    he - he was in a terrible condition! I don't know what
    brought him to that pass, but he was - his eyes; his hands
    -' She struggled to find a way to explain, then stopped as
    she saw the expression on Tarod's face. He showed no
    sign of surprise, or even interest; and a faint, wry smile
    curved the corners of his mouth.
    
    He saw her scrutiny, the dawning realisation in her
    eyes, and said evenly, 'Drachea has a habit of bringing
    his own misfortunes on himself. And if he's fool enough
    to steal what doesn't belong to him, he should anticipate
    the consequences.'
    
    The gnawing suspicion flowered into sudden painful
    certainty in Cyllan's mind. Tarod must have caught
    Drachea as he tried to return the incriminating docu-
    ments to the High Initiate's study . . . Slowly she got to
    her feet. 'You . . .' Her throat was constricted. 'You did
    that to him . . . '
    
    Tarod looked back at her dispassionately. 'Yes. I did.'
    
    A part of her had known; yet to hear Tarod admit the
    truth so carelessly was still shocking. Doubt and con-
    fusion were suddenly swept away, and in their place she
    felt only disgust.
    
    'Gods!' She spat the word. 'You are monstrous!'
    
    Tarod sighed. 'Oh, indeed. A callous monster, wreak-
    ing havoc at will with the minds and bodies of innocent
    victims.' There was a harsh light in his eyes. 'You under-
    stand nothing!'
    
    'I understand,' she retorted, her voice shaking. 'I
    understand all too well what you are! To tell me, without
    qualm or conscience; to react as though it means
    nothing, to - to be proud of such a deed - '
    
    'Proud?' He was on his feet so fast that she
    instinctively shrank back. 'Very well - I'll complete the
    picture for you, as you obviously know me so com-
    pletely! I have no conscience, I have no ethic-I am what
    you see in your own mind, Cyllan. I like to bring torment
    to others for the pleasure it gives me; it's my sole pur-
    pose for living!' He took a grip on himself and added
    with tightly controlled ferocity, 'Does that satisfy you?'
    
    He was challenging her, daring her to stand against
    him, and a sense of rebellion in Cyllan goaded her not to
    give way.
    
    'Yes!' she flared back at him. 'It satisfies me, Tarod;
    for it proves to me that Drachea was right and I was
    wrong! You are evil - and I know from where your evil
    springs!' And she made the Sign of Aeoris, defiantly, in
    his face.
    
    Drachea had told her . . . Swift as a cat, Tarod's hand
    came up and caught hold of her wrist. His own anger was
    rising, so rapidly that he was barely in control of it. She
    knew - and like all the others she had condemned out of
    
    hand, as he had known she must. Suddenly in his mind's
    eye another face supplanted Cyllan's; patrician, beauti-
    ful, limpid eyes hiding the calculating and self-centred
    heart beneath. He wanted to hurt the soul behind that
    face, take the retribution that was long overdue . . .
    
    His vision cleared and he saw instead Cyllan's thin
    features and wide amber eyes. The beauty was gone; but
    not the pride. Cyllan had pride enough, but it was of a
    different order . . . and she had the courage to face him
    with what she knew, instead of wielding the blade from
    behind.
    
    She was motionless, watching him and wary, ready to
    spring free at the smallest opportunity. Tarod gave her
    no opportunity. His hold on her wrist tightened until the
    pain showed in her face, but she made no sound. He
    could have snapped her arm; he could have killed her
    with one flick of his fingers . . .
    
    'You think you know me,' he whispered savagely.
    'But you're wrong, Cyllan. You're wrong!'
    
    She twisted, trying to break free; he held her
    effortlessly, but had to battle to stem the tide of sheer,
    raw emotion that was rising in him. 'I'm not wrong!' Her
    voice was edged with pain, breath coming sharply. 'I
    know what you are!'
    
    'Do you?'
    
    'Yes! I saw the documents, Tarod - Drachea read
    them to me, and now I know why you took such a vicious
    retribution! You are a thing of Chaos!'
    
    A thing of Chaos. . . Her words drove home, and the
    barriers which had been holding back the tide broke.
    Tarod smiled again, and this time the smile made Cyllan
    feel sick with terror. She had gone too far ... he'd kill
    her; and a paralysis of fear locked her muscles rigid as
    she anticipated the final, fatal strike.
    
    But it didn't come. Instead Tarod laughed as though
    at some private joke. 'Chaos,' he said softly. 'No,
    Cyllan; this time you're not wrong.' He drew her
    towards him, until her body pressed hard against him
    and he could feel the rapid pulse of her heart. 'But you
    are . . . misguided.' His free hand rose, pushed back
    
    the pale hair from her face. Beads of sweat banded her
    brow and now he could feel her trembling. There was
    mayhem in his mind; he wanted to strike out, avenge
    himself; and yet there was more, far more, behind the
    compulsion.
    
    'I'm no demon . . . ' he told her with soft menace.
    'I'm man enough.' And before she could twist away, he
    bent his face to hers and kissed her. It was a vicious kiss,
    a taking and not an asking; and she fought back with a
    strength that surprised him, writhing and clawing in his
    grip. She was as lithe and sinuous as a cat, and her
    ferocious determination struck an answering chord in
    Tarod. His mouth found hers again, this time more
    sensuously. He was reeling from the sensations that
    were swamping him - vengeance was eclipsed by some-
    thing far stronger and more urgent, and all thoughts of
    Sashka were forgotten.
    
    She broke free, breathless, and their gazes locked
    briefly. Cyllan's amber eyes blazed - and then, so fast
    that she almost caught Tarod unawares, she whipped a
    dagger from her belt and brought it shearing up in a
    vicious arc.
    
    Acting on a reflex, Tarod swung her off balance as she
    struck, and the blade flashed by an inch from his shoul-
    der. His left hand locked on her right wrist and twisted it
    until she choked out an involuntary cry; he pressed
    once, with his thumb, and the knife spun from her grasp.
    
    She glared at him, breath rasping in her throat. She
    might be afraid, but she wasn't cowed; at the slightest
    provocation he knew she'd fight him like a wild animal,
    and the knowledge raised his adrenalin.
    
    'You use a knife well,' he said, the words clipped by
    the suffocating pounding of his heart. 'But I've been
    fighting longer than you - and I know how to defend
    myself!' He smiled, showing his teeth. 'Do you give me
    best, Cyllan?'
    
    She shook her head fiercely. 'No!'
    
    The green eyes that gazed into hers suddenly seemed
    to take fire, and Cyllan felt her will draining away before
    Tarod's implacable stare. She tried to resist, but she was
    
    weakening - an inner voice reminded her that she was
    battling no ordinary mortal, and the fear came surging
    back . . . but mingled with it was an echo of the old
    feelings which she had thought banished, an overwhelm-
    ing desire . . .
    
    'Cyllan . . . ' Tarod's voice was sibilant, persuasive,
    smashing through her defences. 'Have I no warmth? No
    life?'
    
    She tried to deny it, but the words wouldn't form. His
    hands on her skin were real, physical; and a long-dor-
    mant need within her answered with a power she
    couldn't combat. She gasped as his teeth grazed her
    shoulder and the shirt, already torn, fell away to expose
    her pale skin.
    
    Tarod ... no - please, no . . . ' The protest was cut
    off as she staggered back under a gentle but irresistible
    pressure. She stumbled against the couch, fell; felt the
    weight and the strength of Tarod's body as he crushed
    her. This time when he kissed her she couldn't stop
    herself from responding. Terror was giving way to long-
    ing, and she could no longer fight him; no longer wished
    to fight him.
    
    Tarod raised his head. The wild light in his eyes was
    suddenly muted by a look that Cyllan didn't dare try to
    interpret, and he shook his head, brushing a strand of his
    unruly black hair away from his face. The gesture was so
    human that confusion filled her again - whatever the
    Circle might say, whatever he might have done, he was
    surely no demon . . .
    
    'You're brave,' he said softly, 'And you're honest. . .
    you fight fairly. I could defeat you easily, Cyllan, and
    you couldn't stand against my desire . . . but I won't. I
    still have some sense of honour . . . and you don't want
    to deny me. Do you?' His hands were light and cool on
    her skin, pushing aside the encumbering garments. 'Do
    you?'
    
    Against her will Cyllan's body was responding to him,
    racking her with a long-suppressed, aching longing that
    made her want to cry and scream, to thrust him away and
    yet hold him to her, all at once. A moan broke from
    
    her throat, and involuntarily her lips formed a single
    word.
    
    'No . . .'
    
    She cried out at his hungry violence when he took her,
    but he silenced her with his mouth on hers, making her
    yield in spite of herself. And after the first resistance
    there was pleasure as well as pain; a fierce, shuddering
    release as her bare arms locked tightly around him, her
    head thrown back and teeth drawing blood from her
    lower lip. Once she fought him again; he quieted her and
    she became pliant beneath him once more.
    
    At last, all desire satiated, Tarod let his hands move
    slowly and gently over Cyllan's body, tracing the slight
    curve of her breasts. She lay passive in his arms and her
    eyes were tight shut, as though she was trying to deny the
    truth. Tears that she stubbornly refused to shed sparkled
    on her dark lashes, and a feeling that might have been
    remorse awoke in Tarod.
    
    He spoke her name, and her eyes opened, reflecting a
    mixture of uncertainty and accusation and shame. He
    wanted to say more, but suddenly couldn't. Instead, he
    raised his hand and made a gesture over her.
    
    Her eyes closed again and her breathing relaxed into
    the light, even rhythm of sleep. He wanted no recrimina-
    tions, not now . . . when her body relaxed and he knew
    that her consciousness had slipped away, Tarod drew
    her limp form towards him and kissed her, lightly, on
    one pale cheek. Then he reluctantly released her, rose
    and crossed the room to the narrow window, forcing
    back the thoughts that threatened to take hold and
    break through the barriers he had raised against their
    onslaught.
    
    Chapter 8
    
    Cyllan woke to sense the uneven contours of the couch
    beneath her, and the rough texture of something that
    felt like an animal pelt covering her naked skin. Her
    body was filled with a devastating, fiery ache; her mouth
    felt bruised . . . and her stomach contracted as the
    realisation came home to her: it hadn't been a dream. . .
    
    Apprehensively, she opened her eyes.
    
    There was barely any light in the room, but in the
    dimness she could see Tarod seated in a chair. He had
    dressed, and a heavy black cloak was flung around his
    shoulders as though to keep out the cold. The high collar
    shadowed his features, but she thought that he was
    staring out of the window.
    
    Cyllan's limbs began to shake as the full implications
    of what had happened went through her like a knife.
    Slowly, cautiously, she started to sit up, thinking to
    reach for the crumpled clothes that lay among the debris
    on the floor -
    
    Tarod's head turned, and she froze. Mingled emo-
    tions tumbled through her mind as they looked at one
    another; then she saw the coldness in his green eyes, and
    her reactions coalesced into an icy rush of bitter shame.
    Tarod's passion was gone, as though it had never been;
    the barriers between them were up again, and his face
    was like stone. She had let him seduce her as though she
    were a simpleton . . . and all she had earned was his
    contempt.
    
    Self-loathing swamped her, and with it a sick revul-
    sion as she remembered what he was. But she still had a
    vestige of pride, and it came to her aid. Tossing her head
    back, she pushed away the blanket that covered her- it
    
    was fur, and rich fur, but she hardly noticed - and stood
    up. Tarod rose too, and Cyllan took a step back.
    
    'Don't, Tarod.' Her voice was harsh. 'Don't come
    near me!'
    
    He hesitated, then made a gesture towards the floor
    which she interpreted as careless. 'As you wish. But you
    might have need of your clothing.'
    
    'It hardly matters now, does it?' She squared her thin
    shoulders, facing him defiantly. 'You've seen me,
    you've touched me; you've taken what you wanted from
    me. What have I left to hide from you?' To her fury, her
    voice was shaking with poorly suppressed emotion, and
    she knew she was on the verge of losing control.
    
    Tarod said calmly, 'I took nothing that you were
    unwilling to give.'
    
    'Ohh . . . ' She turned away, hating him because he'd
    spoken no less than the truth. 'Damn you! I came to you
    for help, and you - you - ' She couldn't say any more;
    her voice broke and it took every last ounce of her will
    power not to burst into tears. Crying, she told herself
    ferociously, was for children; she had learned long ago
    to suppress such emotion, and wouldn't allow it to best
    her now; especially not in the presence of a creature like
    Tarod. She covered her face with her hands, fighting the
    reaction with all her strength.
    
    Tarod slipped his coat off and cast it round her shoul-
    ders. She didn't protest, but nor would she face him,
    only shook her head violently when he tried to turn her
    around. He watched her reflectively as she struggled to
    bring herself under control. Aware of her origins, he
    hadn't expected her to be virgin, and the knowledge that
    no man had ever lain with her before had disconcerted
    him. Yet she had chosen to give herself- and however
    bitterly she might regret it now, nothing could change
    that.
    
    Cyllan had calmed at last, and savagely pushed her
    hair back out of her eyes. She stepped away from Tarod,
    then deliberately shrugged the cloak aside and let it fall.
    It was hard for her to gather her torn clothes and dress
    with any dignity, and he moved back to the window,
    
    gazing out across the courtyard to give her what grace he
    could. She tugged the ruined shirt across her breasts and
    hesitated, looking at him. His face was an inscrutable
    mask, eyes hooded and brooding, and any thought
    Cyllan might have had of making a move towards him
    died within her. She stared down at the knife he had
    wrested from her hand . . .
    
    'Take it, if it's of use to you,' Tarod said.
    
    She glared at him, and let the dagger lie where it had
    fallen, turning and walking towards the door. Hand
    halfway to the latch, she paused.
    
    'Will it open?' she asked icily. 'Or do you have some
    further sport in mind?'
    
    Tarod sighed, and the door swung noiselessly open
    before Cyllan could touch it. She ignored a wild, irra-
    tional pang of hurt that he was prepared to let her go so
    easily, and stepped out on to the dark landing. Then she
    turned, looked back.
    
    Tarod still watched her. 'It's a long way down to
    the courtyard,' he said. 'I could make the descent
    easier.'
    
    For answer, Cyllan spat deliberately on the floor. 'I
    want nothing from you!' she retorted ferociously. And
    she was gone, her pale figure swallowed by the darkness
    of the stairs.
    
    She heard the echoing crash as the door above her
    slammed, and the sound of it goaded her on, until she
    was taking the stairs precariously fast, wanting only to
    get away and not caring that she might fall and break her
    neck. Suddenly the walls to either side of her warped;
    the steps beneath her feet seemed to give way to a
    dizzying emptiness, and she cried out involuntarily as
    the blackness inverted into a dazzling white brilliance. It
    lasted only the space of a single heartbeat - then she was
    reeling against hard stone, and staring, shocked,
    through the open door at the spire's foot.
    
    Cyllan stumbled out into the Castle courtyard. Damn
    Tarod - he'd had the last word, and she wished she could
    have taken the knife again, struck him, stabbed him,
    torn him apart . . .
    
    But she had had her chance, and she'd failed. And
    what he took from her, she had given of her own volition.
    
    She shut her eyes against the memory, pressing
    clenched fists to temples in a fruitless effort to blot out
    the small inner voice which accused her of being a hypo-
    crite as well as a fool. Tarod had awoken a fundamental,
    animal need within her - she'd known it since their first
    meeting on the cliffs of West High Land, and though
    since then she had tried to deny and suppress it, it had
    never truly died. That echo of the past had finally proved
    strong enough to conquer the horrors of Tarod's true
    nature, and she had gone to him, yielded to him, like an
    infatuated child.
    
    She wanted to kill him. However great a fool she had
    been, he had manipulated and preyed on her. If by
    destroying him she could free herself from guilt and self-
    torment and recrimination, then, she told herself, she
    would have no qualms. Drachea had known from the
    beginning how dangerous Tarod was; he had warned
    her -
    
    Drachea. Cyllan came back to reality with a jolt, and
    realised with a cold fear that she had utterly forgotten
    Drachea in the mayhem of all that had happened. She
    had failed him; and he still lay in his bed, mortally ill,
    perhaps dying . . .
    
    She began to run, racing towards the Castle's main
    doors and taking the shallow steps two at a time. If
    Drachea were to die - no, don't think of that! He had to
    live - she needed him, needed his determination now as
    never before, to keep the turmoil of her confusion at
    bay, and to help the clear, cold rage that she struggled to
    nurture shine through. Together they could defeat
    Tarod; they must defeat him, see justice done - he was
    evil, a creature of Chaos - he must be thwarted!
    
    Cyllan repeated the silent litany in her head as she ran
    up the broad staircase to the Castle's living quarters.
    Heart pounding, she raced towards Drachea's room,
    flung herself against the door, and burst in.
    
    Drachea was sitting on the bed. One of the swords
    which she had left on the landing lay at his feet; the other
    
    was gripped in his right hand, while his left moved
    slowly, almost hypnotically, up and down the length of
    the blade, polishing it with one of his sea-drenched and
    discarded garments.
    
    Cyllan's heart turned over with relief, and she rushed
    forward. 'Drachea! Oh, you've recovered! Aeoris be
    thanked; I thought - '
    
    He sprang to his feet, swinging the blade up in a wild,
    defensive gesture. Then the terror in his face gave way
    first to recognition, then to anger, and he snapped
    viciously,
    
    'Where in all the Seven Hells have you been?'
    
    Cyllan stared at him, astonished and chagrined.
    Drachea's face was dead white, and an obsessive,
    unhealthy light burned in his eyes. The hand that held
    the sword was trembling as he hissed again, 'I said,
    where have you been! You should have been here - I
    woke, and I was afraid, and I needed help, and you were
    gone! You abandoned me . . . '
    
    'Abandoned you?' The accusation took her breath
    away, and her happiness at seeing him restored
    crumbled. 'I found you, Drachea - I found you on the
    stairs, unconscious, and I brought you here to
    sanctuary!'
    
    'And then you left me to wake alone - '
    
    'I was afraid you might die!' Cyllan told him savagely.
    'I tried to find a way of helping you"!'
    
    Drachea's gaze raked her with a mingling of contempt
    and suspicion, then his mouth twisted into a travesty of a
    smile. 'Helping me - and what skills do you have that
    could combat what he did to my mind?'
    
    Tarod . . . ?' Her stomach tightened.
    
    'Yes, Tarod!' Drachea turned and stalked away from
    her. 'While you were safely occupied elsewhere, he -
    attacked me. I didn't provoke him, but he turned on me
    and - ' He put a hand to his mouth, bit the knuckles.
    'Gods, those nightmares ... he conjured them out of
    nothing, he sent them against me, and I -I couldn't fight
    back. Not against that . . . Scum!' He drew a deep,
    heaving breath. 'He'll pay for it. I'll see him annihilated!'
    
    Cyllan crossed the room to stand behind him, and
    tentatively reached out a hand. She was struggling to
    recapture the feelings she had clung to as she ran to find
    Drachea, the sense of comradeship, of fighting a holy
    war together; but it was slipping away from her grip.
    Drachea's outburst had broken the spell; by turning on
    her instead of welcoming her, he had struck her cer-
    tainty and confidence a hard blow.
    
    But, she told herself, he couldn't be held to blame.
    She knew what Tarod was capable of, and she knew
    Drachea's weaknesses. His ordeal must have been far
    worse than her own; enough to unhinge the strongest
    will. She had to help him, match his resolve with hers - it
    was the only hope for them both.
    
    She let her fingers come to rest on his arm; he shook
    her off.
    
    'I don't want your sympathy!' His tone was angrily hostile.
    
    Cyllan bit back a retort, willed herself to be patient.
    'I'm not offering sympathy, Drachea. I'm offering to
    stand beside you against Tarod.' She smiled bitterly.
    Tor what little it might be worth.'
    
    Drachea looked over his shoulder at her, suspicion
    mingling with a sullen resentment in his look. 'Yes . . .'
    he said. 'I don't know what your loyalty's worth, do I? I
    don't know anything any more . . . how do I know that I
    can trust you?' He swung round suddenly. 'You say you
    went to find help - how do I know it's the truth? Where is
    this help? What have you done for me?'
    
    Cyllan gave a bark of harsh laughter, and put a hand
    to her mouth. 'Done for you?' she echoed. 'Drachea, if
    you knew - if you knew what I tried to do, what hap-
    pened - ' She took a grip on herself, her eyes alight with
    all the anger and shame of the memory. 'I failed. Tarod
    . . . would not help me.'
    
    'You went to him?' Drachea's jaw dropped, and for a
    moment she thought he'd launch himself at her in sheer
    rage. Then, breathing hard, he hissed between his
    clenched teeth, 'You treacherous bitch! So now you
    consort behind my back with the very demon who
    almost killed me!'
    
    Astounded by such wanton injustice, Cyllan fired
    back without stopping to consider her words. 'How dare
    you say such a thing! Gods, when I think what I've been
    through for your sake - you're not the only one to have
    suffered at Tarod's hands!'
    
    Drachea's lips curled into a sneer. 'You, suffer? You
    can't imagine what the word means! While you were
    telling pretty stories to your demon friend, I was helpless
    here, on the verge of death! Traitor!'
    
    For a long, long moment Cyllan stared back at him,
    her face dead-white and every muscle rigid. Then she
    reached to her throat and pulled aside the ripped shirt,
    so that her neck and the swell of her breasts were
    revealed.
    
    'Look at me, Drachea,' she said, her voice danger-
    ously steady. 'Look closely, and you'll see what Tarod
    did to me. Maybe he didn't choose to assault my mind,
    not directly . . . but my body was a different matter!'
    
    Drachea's angry gaze flickered to her pale skin. There
    were bruises, the marks of fingers, a livid red crescent
    where she had been bitten in the heat of passion ... He
    moved closer, slowly . . . then his hand shot out and he
    hit her with all his strength across the face.
    
    Unprepared for such an attack, Cyllan went down,
    and before she could scramble to her feet Drachea
    lashed out with one foot and kicked her as though she
    were a dog that had displeased its master.
    
    'Slut!' he roared, hysterical. 'Lying, filthy, demon-
    spawned whore!'
    
    Stunned, she couldn't even begin to protest before he
    kicked at her again. This time she had the presence of
    mind to roll clear, and Drachea snatched up the sword,
    brandishing it over her head. His eyes were starting out
    of their sockets, and Cyllan knew beyond all shadow of
    doubt that he'd lost his reason. Driven to the brink of
    madness by Tarod's sorcery, he sought an enemy on
    whom to avenge himself, and no power in the world
    could make him listen or understand.
    
    She hunched into a tight ball against the wall, unable
    to escape, and appalled by the mania in Drachea's voice
    
    as he demanded savagely, 'How many times have you
    gone to his bed, harlot? How long have you been plot-
    ting with him against me? Serpent!' As he shrieked the
    last word his arm swung wildly and the sword blade came
    hurtling down, to strike the floor inches from her head
    with a shuddering clash of metal.
    
    'Drachea!' She screamed his name, trying to break
    through the insane rage but knowing she stood no
    chance of reaching him. He had regained his balance
    and now held the sword in both hands, swaying. The tip
    of the blade swung mesmerically before her; she tried to
    hunch further back but the wall blocked her way.
    
    'Serpent!' Drachea yelled again, his voice cracking.
    'Demon! You've been in league with him all along! You
    ensnared me, you lured me into this nightmare - damn
    you! I'll kill you, you white-faced monstrosity!'
    
    He raised his arms high, and the crimson light that
    pervaded through the window seemed to drench the
    sword blade in blood. Eyes widening with the hideous
    foreknowledge of her own death, Cyllan flung herself
    frantically to one side as the sword sheared down. The
    breath burst from her lungs as she sprawled on the floor,
    then she jack-knifed her body and made a convulsive
    grab for the door. It was ajar; her momentum forced it
    open and she rolled, trying to gain her feet before
    Drachea could reach her. She heard a bellow like a
    maddened, insensate bull, saw the blade whistling like a
    giant fang, light stabbing along its length, tried to throw
    herself clear - and pain exploded in her ribs as the point
    of the sword bit through clothing and flesh.
    
    She gave an animal shriek, eclipsing Drachea's tri-
    umphant howl. The sword came free with a fresh shock

    of agony and she clasped a hand to her side, knowing
    there must be blood and trying to stem it, but driven only
    by a blind, terrified will to escape. Drachea bore down
    on her again - she sensed rather than saw him - and,
    rolling on to her back, she kicked out savagely with both
    feet. By sheer fortuity the kick connected; she heard a
    grunt and a thud, didn't stop to see what effect the
    assault had had, but dragged herself to her feet and ran.
    
    Before her lay the stairs, swimming and swaying
    through a grey fog of pain and shock. She knew she was
    weaving from side to side, wasting a valuable advantage,
    but she couldn't run in a straight line. Warm stickiness
    flowed over her hand, pulsing rhythmically with the
    pounding of her heart, and she tried to laugh aloud. She
    couldn't die - there was no Time here; her life couldn't
    bleed away without Time to help it ...
    
    Lucidity came back and she realised she was leaning
    heavily on the rail above the stair-well, laughing like a
    madwoman. A soft ticking sounded from the floor at her
    feet. Her blood, dripping from the wound Drachea had
    inflicted, sapping her strength . . .
    
    'Demon bitch!' She heard the mad shouting behind
    her, echoed by the thud of running feet, and the shock
    brought her fully back to reality. She plunged on, reach-
    ing the stairs and almost pitching headlong down them
    before she could stop herself. A wild grab at the banister
    rail saved her, then she was half staggering and half
    falling towards the double doors that led to the court-
    yard. Drachea was behind her, and closing - she could
    hear his voice yelling for her to stop, and the sound of it
    goaded her on. Part of her mind, which seemed to
    observe from a misty distance, told her that flight was
    useless; that she'd merely prolong the inevitable. She
    could run only so far before she dropped from loss of
    blood. And then he'd move in, to finish her . . .
    
    Cyllan forced the thought away and grimly stumbled
    on. The double doors lurched giddily before her, and as
    she ran out she lost her footing and fell down the steps
    into the courtyard. Struggling painfully to her feet she
    saw the crimson smears marring the stone behind her,
    leaving a trail that a child could follow, and desperation
    brought a wild hope.
    
    Tarod . . . if she could reach Tarod . . .
    
    Savagely she ignored the inner voice. Not Tarod,
    never Tarod ... she couldn't, wouldn't . . .
    
    A crash told her that Drachea had reached the doors,
    and she heard him laughing, certain of his success.
    Blindly she staggered towards the fountain, clinging to a
    
    crazed idea that she might be able to break off some
    delicate piece of the stone tracery and wield it as a
    weapon against him. She cannoned into the fountain
    basin, and the pain of colliding with solid stone took her
    breath away so that she collapsed, clutching at an impas-
    sive carved fish as she fell. The running footsteps at her
    back thudded closer, dinning in her ears; she twisted,
    striking out with a rapidly weakening arm, spitting and
    cursing a stream of drover's oaths in the face of her
    nemesis, but knowing she was lost.
    
    White light blazed beyond her tight-shut eyelids, and
    hands gripped her. She screamed defiance, trying to
    beat them off -
    
    'Cyllan!'
    
    He was going to slaughter her, and she fought him
    with all her fast-waning strength, trying to kick, bite,
    battle to the last.
    
    'Cyllan!' The voice wasn't Drachea's - shocked, her
    eyes snapped open and her body went rigid.
    
    The grey fog clouded her vision still, but through it she
    could see the raven's-wing shadow of his black hair, the
    sharp-etched features, the green of his eyes. Cool fingers
    touched her burning face and she heard Tarod say softly,
    as though from a great distance,
    
    'It's all right. You're safe ... he can't reach you, he
    can't touch you. You're safe with me, Cyllan . . . '
    
    She tried to speak, but only choked as the pain within
    her redoubled and swelled to a crescendo. Her hand
    clawed convulsively and tangled in his hair; he clasped it
    tightly, and his voice was more gentle than she had
    believed possible.
    
    'Peace, Cyllan. No more harm can come to you. Sleep
    . . . I'll heal you. Sleep, now . . . '
    
    The words were a balm, and she clung to them. His
    hand still held hers, and she felt the throb of the pain
    fading, fading, her senses like a hot tide receding away,
    until a quiet, engulfing darkness overcame all else.
    
    *****
    'Drachea . . . No!'
    
    The words broke in harsh confusion from Cyllan's
    lips. She'd been dreaming, and in the dream Drachea
    had turned on her with the face of a devil, lunging
    towards her with a blade that glittered like molten silver
    against a blood-crimson background. She twisted con-
    vulsively and heard the soft thud of a cushion falling to
    the floor . . . then a powerful hand gripped her shoul-
    der, pressing her back and gently yet firmly forcing her
    to quiescence. The knowledge that she wasn't alone with
    the nightmare eased her, and she felt her muscles slowly
    relaxing.
    
    'Cyllan. The dream's gone. It's over; there's nothing
    to fear.'
    
    In her half-waking state she'd expected Drachea's
    voice, and the unexpected yet familiar tone made her
    open her eyes in quick alarm.
    
    She was in the room at the top of the spire, lying on the
    long couch. Tarod sat beside her, and his hand had
    moved to her brow, tracing lightly across her skin. She
    raised her own hand to clasp his fingers, a mute gesture
    of gratitude that brought a faint smile to his lips; then,
    still confused, tried to form words.
    
    'I thought I was - ' Recollection came back then, and
    she drew in a violently sharp breath. 'Oh, Gods;
    Drachea - '
    
    'Drachea tried to kill you,' Tarod told her, and the
    gentleness of his tone was belied by the cold anger in his
    eyes. 'It was fortunate that I found you before he could
    complete what he'd begun.'
    
    The memory was crowding back, and she began to
    feel sick. 'Then the light - ' she whispered. 'It was you
    . . . ' She looked down at her own body. There was no
    pain now - she had only just realised the fact - and nor
    was there any trace of blood. The wound Drachea had
    inflicted had vanished as though it had never existed.
    Quickly she raised her gaze to meet Tarod's once more,
    uncomprehending, and he said quietly but wryly, 'Yes,
    it's more than any healer could have done. There are
    occasions when power such as mine has advantages.'
    
    Cyllan swallowed, hard. 'Thank you . . . '
    
    Tarod's instinct was to dismiss her thanks carelessly,
    but he checked himself. Such a reaction could easily be
    misconstrued, and he was anxious not to alienate her
    now. Instead he reached behind him to a table and
    picked up a cup, holding it out to her.
    
    'Drink this,' he said, and smiled again, this time with a
    touch of humour. 'It won't fortify you, in a place where
    food and drink are irrelevant - but it'll warm you. And I
    imagine you've not tasted good wine since the High
    Initiate's inauguration!'
    
    He was reminding her of their second meeting, when
    he had championed her against a cheating wine-seller,
    and tears sprang to Cyllan's eyes. She blinked them
    back, angry with herself for being moved, and took the
    cup. Over its rim, as she sipped, her amber eyes
    regarded him uncertainly, and at last she asked, 'Why
    did you save me?'
    
    'Why?' He seemed surprised by the question, and she
    nodded.
    
    'You owe me nothing. After we - parted-I thought - '
    
    'That we were enemies?' Tarod finished the sentence
    for her. 'No, Cyllan. I feel no enmity to wards you; in fact
    - ' He stopped, and a quick uncertainty flickered in his
    green eyes before he took a grip on himself again. Then
    he shook his head. 'You must judge me as you think fit.
    You've seen the High Initiate's documents for yourself,
    and for the most part Keridil presented the truth as he
    saw it.' His eyes narrowed. 'I can't deny what I am, and
    if you look on me as an enemy I can expect nothing
    better. But, demon or no, I saved your life because I
    wanted to ... to protect you.' He shrugged. 'Perhaps
    that sounds glib. If it does, you must put your own
    interpretation on it.'
    
    Demon or no . . . Cyllan detected the irony in his
    voice, and her throat tightened with an emotion she
    didn't dare allow to take hold. Whatever else he might
    be, Tarod was no demon . . . the term was more fitting
    to Drachea, who had turned on her, condemned her
    without a hearing and elected himself judge and
    executioner.
    
    Cyllan had determined never to cry, least of all in
    Tarod's presence, but she had the terrible feeling that
    she was about to lose control and break down. Her ally
    had betrayed her; her enemy had saved her life - and the
    old feelings, which she had done all in her power to crush
    since arriving at the Castle, were fighting back to the
    surface.
    
    Her hand started to shake and Tarod took the cup
    from her. He set it down, then gripped her fingers again,
    but gently this time.
    
    'Why did Drachea try to kill you, Cyllan?' he asked.
    
    She bit her lip. She didn't want to think about what
    had happened, but it had to be faced . . . and she had to
    tell the truth. She owed Tarod that, at least.
    
    'He - he found out that I'd been here,' she said, so
    quietly that the words were barely audible. 'He was -
    was berating me for not being at his side when he began
    to recover from . . . ' She stopped, swallowed, con-
    tinued with an effort. 'From what had happened to him.
    I was angry because his attitude was so callous, and I told
    him - told him - ' This time, she couldn't finish.
    
    He began to understand. 'So he jumped to the con-
    clusion that you were . . . shall we say, a willing victim?'
    
    She nodded. The memory of Drachea's twisted face,
    his injustice, his cruelty, surged up from the dark corner
    of her mind to which she'd tried to banish it, and with it
    came a burning, bitter fury. Unable to stem it, she said,
    choking on the words, 'He called me a whore, and a
    serpent, and - '
    
    And suddenly the barrier she'd been tightly holding
    on to broke. Cyllan covered her face with both hands
    and burst into tears as the pent emotion shattered her
    self-control. She felt Tarod's arms go round her and
    pressed herself against him, hiding her face in the black
    tangle of his hair. He said nothing, only held her, and the
    relief of being able to cry freely with no fear of rejection
    or contempt was like a cleansing balm.
    
    Finally, the storm of weeping subsided. Tarod made
    no attempt to release her, and eventually it was she who
    disengaged herself from his arms, rising unsteadily to
    
    her feet and walking towards the window. She wiped her
    face with both hands, leaving smears on her cheeks, and
    said indistinctly, 'I'm sorry.'
    
    'You've nothing to be sorry for. I've known many
    Adepts who'd weep at less provocation.'
    
    She shook her head. 'No; I mean for more than that.'
    She wanted to look at him, to read the expression in his
    eyes, but didn't dare for fear of what she might see. She
    took a deep breath, aware that she must say what was in
    her heart, now or never. If she had misjudged Tarod
    then the mistake would hurt her badly. But she felt that
    she had nothing left to lose - and emotion was dictating
    what reason had finally been unable to suppress.
    
    'I've done you a great injustice,' she said quietly. 'I
    believed that you were an enemy, not to be trusted, and
    I allied myself with Drachea because I believed -
    thought I believed - in the cause he espoused. He wants
    to destroy you. I thought he was right.' She laughed, her
    voice breaking. 'I call myself a seer, yet I couldn't see the
    truth before my own eyes. Or at least ... I wouldn't
    acknowledge it. I thought Drachea's wisdom was
    greater than mine.'
    
    'And now?' Tarod asked softly, when she didn't
    continue.
    
    'Now ... I don't know. Drachea thinks me a
    simpleton peasant, and perhaps he's right. But I can
    only judge by what I see, not by what I'm told.' The
    words were coming in a rush now, and with them was a
    growing fear that seemed to eat into her soul. She was
    gambling everything; if she lost, she couldn't live with
    herself. But instinct - and emotion - told her to put her
    trust in the gamble, and believe that, at very least, Tarod
    would understand.
    
    'I wish,' she said, 'that I'd listened to my inner self.
    Because ... I don't believe you're the demon they say
    you are. And I don't want to be your enemy.'
    
    There was silence for a while. Then she heard a faint
    rustle as Tarod moved, and thought that he had come
    to stand behind her, though she didn't dare look
    round.
    
    'You've read the High Initiate's testimony,' he said.
    
    'No, I haven't. Drachea read it to me.' She smiled a
    smile that she didn't intend him to see. 'I can't read.'
    
    There was no surprise in his voice, no amusement, no
    pity. He simply said levelly, 'I can't deny the truth of that
    document, Cyllan. I might challenge the interpretation,
    but the facts are real enough.'
    
    She shrugged.
    
    'Doesn't that repel you?'
    
    'No. If those papers described a total stranger, then
    perhaps I'd condemn, because I knew no better. But
    they don't describe the man I met at West High Land, or
    the Adept who remembered me at the celebrations . . .
    or the man who saved my life.' She drew a breath. 'I
    thought I was afraid of you. But... I think I was more
    afraid of my own feelings.'
    
    Tarod felt as though something were constricting his
    lungs and throat. Cyllan was almost silhouetted against
    the gloomy light from beyond the window, only a faint
    blood-red gleam tinting her pale hair, and he wanted to
    move towards her, touch her, hold her. Her hesitant
    confession had stunned him - yet he knew she'd spoken
    from the heart, willing to risk mockery or contempt.
    She'd trusted him, and he imagined that throughout her
    harsh life such trust had rarely been honoured. She was
    still uncertain - the set of her small shoulders gave away
    her determined resolve not to seem weak - but she had
    bared her soul. And he, though he was soulless and had
    thought himself incapable of feeling, was overtaken by a
    force he couldn't combat and didn't want to. Emotions
    moved in him like an implacable tide; hope, wistfulness,
    an aching longing to be able truly to live again. He had
    held the feelings back, afraid of what they might mean
    and what they could lead to. But he could no longer
    control them.
    
    Cyllan laughed suddenly, chokingly. 'I still don't
    understand why,' she said.
    
    'Why?'
    
    'Why you saved my life.'
    
    He stepped forward  and  laid his hands on her
    
    shoulders. 'Don't you?' he said softly, and bent to
    kiss her upturned face. She responded eagerly, almost
    childlike - then her body tensed and she pulled
    away.
    
    'Please, Tarod . . . don't. Not unless - unless you
    mean it.'
    
    Tarod understood, and an image of Sashka as she had
    so often gazed at him, beautiful, hungry and inviting,
    came unbidden to his mind. He banished it. Sashka was
    dead; long dead for him . . .
    
    'I mean it.' He drew her towards him, his mouth
    finding hers and his body responding to the warmth of
    her. 'I mean it, Cyllan . . . '
    
    *****
    
    Desire was spent, but the emotion remained. They lay
    together on Tarod's couch, Cyllan's head resting in the
    crook of his arm. Neither had felt the need to speak, and
    now it seemed that Cyllan was asleep, her breathing
    light and regular.
    
    Tarod watched her. He felt more at peace than he
    could ever remember, and yet the peace was touched by
    a sadness that he had, as yet, been unable to bring
    himself to face. He had been shocked by the feelings that
    this oddly courageous and loyal girl had aroused within
    him, but knew that there was nothing illusory or transi-
    tory about his love for her, or hers for him. And yet,
    despite the flowering of those feelings, he was aware of
    an emptiness at the core of his heart, a dark, emotionless
    shadow that marred his new-found happiness.
    
    Could there be a future for them? Here, in this strange
    dimension where nothing ever changed, they could exist
    for eternity if they chose. But for a man without a soul,
    unable to give completely, it would be a hollow exist-
    ence because he could never be truly fulfilled. Tarod
    wanted to be complete again; to know the pains and the
    joys of completion. Soulless, he was but half alive . . .
    and yet to regain his soul would be to face once more the
    full implication of his true nature . . .
    
    He sighed, and Cyllan's eyes flickered open.
    
    Tarod?' Her fingers touched his arm lightly, sleepily,
    then she frowned. 'Something troubles you . . . '
    
    She read him all too well. 'Idle thoughts,' he said.
    
    'Tell me. Please.'
    
    He drew her closer. 'I was thinking of the future.' He
    smiled, but not happily. 'Since Time was banished, I've
    existed here without caring about all that I'd left behind.
    But now ... so much has changed. When I lost my
    soul, I thought I'd moved beyond humanity. I was
    wrong. And yet I'm a husk; a shell - there's a cold core
    within me that I can't break down. I can't give to you in
    the way that I once could have done; I can't love you
    with my soul, because I have no soul. And yet if I should
    try to turn back, and if I should succeed - '
    
    Tarod . . .' Sensing his distress Cyllan tried to interrupt
    him, but he silenced her by placing a finger on her lips.
    
    'No. It has to be said. You know what I've become,
    Cyllan. But do you know what I once was?'
    
    An echo of the old fear crept into her eyes, and he felt
    as though a knife had twisted in his gut. She still didn't
    fully understand, and he was afraid that, when she did,
    she would be unable to face the truth without revulsion.
    But he couldn't keep it from her. She had been prepared
    to gamble - so must he.
    
    'Once,' he said, 'I wore a ring. In the ring was a stone;
    a very beautiful gem. I learned that that gem was a focus
    of power, but I was ignorant of its true nature . . . until
    that nature was revealed to me by Yandros.'
    
    'Yandros . . . ' The word sent an atavistic shiver
    through Cyllan, and she said tentatively. The testimony
    claimed that he was - is - a Lord of Chaos . . . '
    
    'Yes.'
    
    'And the stone . . .' She knew the answer, but needed
    to hear it in his own words.
    
    The stone was the vehicle for my soul.' He ran his
    tongue over lips that were suddenly dry. 'It, too, is from
    the Chaos realm.'
    
    She sat up, seemingly wrestling with some inner con-
    flict - then turned abruptly to face him, reaching out to
    
    take his hand as her distress found voice.
    
    'But you're no demon! You're of this world; you're
    human - '
    
    'Cyllan - ' He squeezed her fingers, moved by her
    loyalty and yet finding it a bleak comfort. 'I'm not
    human. Not wholly. I never have been - though the
    Gods know it took me long enough to find that out.'
    
    'Then what are you?'
    
    Tarod shook his head. 'I don't know, Cyllan; I truly
    don't know. I have human feelings, human reactions;
    yet I also possess powers which no mortal man should be
    capable of wielding. The Circle say I'm a demon. And
    Yandros . . . ' his gaze flickered uncertainly to her face,
    'Yandros called me "brother".'
    
    Cyllan didn't speak, and when he looked at her again
    her head was bowed so that he couldn't see her face.
    Inwardly, she was struggling to assimilate all he had told
    her. She had expected him to deny the charges laid
    against him by the Circle; instead he admitted that,
    though slanted, they were in essence true. The idea that
    this man could be kin to a Lord of Chaos appalled her
    . . . and yet, no matter what every catechism she had
    learned since childhood might say, she couldn't reject
    him; couldn't turn against him for the sake of an abstract
    principle.
    
    'If I were to regain the soul-stone,' Tarod said, 'The
    links with Chaos would be reforged. Yet without it I
    can't truly live, and I can't find the fulfilment I long for
    with you.' He smiled bleakly. 'Can you reconcile such a
    paradox?'
    
    Cyllan looked at him. 'Is it a paradox, Tarod? What-
    ever that stone might have made you, you're human
    enough! You were a high Adept, a servant of our gods,
    when you possessed your soul. You were no demon -
    why should that change if you regain it now?'
    
    He laughed bitterly. The Circle would disagree.'
    
    'Then damn the Circle! If they couldn't see the truth
    before their eyes, they were fools!'
    
    He turned to regard her, unsure of himself. 'Do you
    really have so much faith in me, Cyllan?'
    
    'Yes,' she told him simply.
    
    The irony of her unquestioning loyalty, contrasted
    with the hostility he had met from those who had pur-
    ported to be friends and peers of a lifetime's standing,
    was sobering. During his cold existence alone in the
    timeless Castle Tarod had turned his back on the old
    allegiance to the Lords of Order, for with the Circle's
    betrayal Order had failed him. But the stirrings of a
    rekindled humanity had brought back the love of his
    world. He wanted to be a part of that world again; and it
    was a world in which Yandros and his ilk played no part.
    
    He looked down at the buckled base of the ring on his
    left hand. 'There could be dangers if the stone is
    recovered. It was the key to Yandros's plan to challenge
    the rule of Aeoris, and it could be that it would open the
    gateway . . . that Chaos could threaten the world once
    again.'
    
    'You fought Chaos once before. Even the High Initi-
    ate admitted that. His papers said that you banished
    Yandros . . . '
    
    'Nonetheless, Yandros doesn't accept defeat easily.'
    Tarod smiled thinly. 'As I know to my cost.'
    
    Cyllan leaned forward and let her arms slip around
    him, moving closer until she was pressed warmly against
    him. 'I don't care about Yandros,' she said with deter-
    mination. 'He's a shadow - and I'm not afraid of shad-
    ows. All that matters to me is that you've lost a part of
    yourself, and you want to regain it. That's what counts.'
    
    Tarod gazed down at her, and one hand reached out
    to stroke her pale hair. 'Whatever that self might be?
    You don't fear that?'
    
    'No.' She kissed him, and the kiss was fierce. 'I don't
    fear that.'
    
    Chapter 9
    
    Drachea's hand moved slowly, rhythmically back and
    forth along the length of the sword blade as he sat
    crouched over the weapon in one of the remotest of the
    Castle's many empty rooms. He had carefully wiped
    Cyllan's blood from the blade, but that wasn't enough;
    he needed to polish the steel until it shone blindingly,
    eradicate every possible trace of her. Purity, he told
    himself over and over again, with a twisted ferocity; the
    sword must be pure before it was fit for him to wield -
    he'd have no taint of the white-faced witch about him.
    
    Memory of the frustration and fury he'd felt at being
    cheated of his victim brought a chilly sweat to Drachea's
    brow. Bearing down on Cyllan, certain of securing her
    death, he had been momentarily blinded by the shatter-
    ing aurora of light that materialised around her from
    nowhere, and when its brief flash faded she had van-
    ished. He had no doubt that Tarod was responsible,
    though whether his skills had been enough to keep her
    alive he didn't know, If she lived, then she was another
    adversary to be counted in his personal reckoning - but
    the scores he had to settle with both her and her demonic
    lover could wait awhile. He had more urgent matters at
    hand.
    
    Drachea stopped polishing, studied the sword criti-
    cally and, satisfied, laid it with something approaching
    reverence on the bed before rising and crossing to the
    window. During his search for a safe hideaway he had
    found new clothes that he felt were more fitting to his
    station both as heir to a Margravate and as champion of
    the Circle against their common enemy. Taking up a
    stance at the window, he flicked back the short, fur-
    
    trimmed cloak that covered dark green velvet jerkin and
    grey silk shirt and trousers, trying to glimpse his own
    reflection in the glass. The panes distorted the image and
    irritated him; he turned back and picked up the sword
    once more, hefting it and testing its balance. Not ideal -
    Cyllan had failed him there, as in so many other ways -
    but it would do. And he had found a knife for him-
    self, which might prove a more useful weapon. The knife
    now hung in a sheath fastened to the belt at his waist; he
    slipped the sword through the adjacent loop, adjusted
    its angle at his hip and decided that he was ready.
    
    Drachea had no illusions about his prospects if he
    should face and defy Tarod alone - his last experience at
    the Adept's hands had all but unhinged him, and
    nothing would induce him to repeat it. If Tarod was to be
    defeated, he would need help - and the only chance of
    securing that help lay in finding a way to reverse the spell
    which had stopped Time, and call the Circle back to the
    world. Then retribution would be his for the taking, and
    he would relish every sweet moment. If Cyllan lived
    she'd learn to regret her alliance with Chaos, and he
    smiled to himself, thinking of the satisfaction that forc-
    ing her to witness Tarod's final annihilation would give
    him.
    
    But to relish his triumph now was premature - he had
    a long way to go before the victory. And the first step
    was to search for the Chaos stone, which could prove to
    be the most valuable weapon of all. With that in his
    grasp, he would be in a position to bargain with Tarod -
    a bargain that would be very much to his own advantage.
    
    Drachea took a final glance around the room, wishing
    that he could have shared this moment with someone
    who would admire his courage and wish him well. No
    matter; he would in time receive the Circle's gratitude as
    their champion and saviour, and they would see to it that
    he had his just reward.
    
    He left the chamber, closing the door quietly behind
    him, and set off towards the stairs.
    
    'Cyllan.' Tarod laid his hands gently on her shoulders as
    she looked up at him. 'Are you sure you want to do this?'
    
    She smiled, her face lighting. 'Yes, I'm sure.' She
    covered his left hand with her own, feeling the sharp
    contours of his broken ring against her palm. 'You can't
    enter the Marble Hall - but I can. And if the stone can be
    found, I'll find it.' She stood on tiptoe, drawing him
    down to kiss him. 'Trust me.'
    
    'I do. But I'm uneasy.' His green eyes, unquiet,
    focused on a point beyond her. 'You persuaded me to
    show mercy to Drachea ... I still think you were
    wrong.'
    
    'No.' She shook her head emphatically, remembering
    how hard it had been to dissuade him from finding the
    young man and slaying him without a second thought.
    Why she felt a measure of compassion for Drachea she
    didn't know; he had betrayed her trust and, if their
    positions were reversed, would have had no hesitation in
    killing her. But mingled with her contempt was an ele-
    ment of pity; revenge played no part in her thinking, and
    to see Drachea die for no good reason would prey on her
    conscience.
    
    Tarod felt differently. Drachea's treatment of Cyllan
    was in itself enough to provoke his quick temper, and he
    wanted nothing more than to blast him to damnation
    and have done. For her sake he had promised to stay his
    hand - but deep down he wondered if he might come to
    regret the promise.
    
    'Drachea can do us no harm.' Cyllan said. 'He counts
    for nothing, Tarod. I'm not afraid of him.'
    
    He hesitated, then smiled, though there was still a hint
    of doubt in his eyes. 'Go, then,' he told her. 'And if you
    need me, I'll hear you and be with you.' He kissed her,
    seeming reluctant to break away. 'The gods protect you.'
    
    He watched the door close at her back, waited until he
    heard her light footfalls on the stairs, then closed his
    green eyes, concentrating briefly on the small exertion
    of power that would transport her to the foot of the
    titanic spire. When it was done, he turned back to his
    table and sat down. The single candle in its sconce stood
    
    among a clutter of books; he passed one hand over it,
    and the familiar green witchfire glowed into life. As it
    gained strength, casting a cold radiance across his gaunt
    features, Tarod gazed unblinkingly into the heart of the
    flame and tried to banish the uneasiness that lurked like
    a worm within him.
    
    As she descended the stairs that wound down towards
    the library vault, Cyllan was keyed up with a mingling of
    excitement, anticipation and dread. She didn't fear the
    task that lay ahead of her, but knew that, if she was
    successful, the future would become unknown and per-
    haps perilous territory. With the soul-stone restored to
    him Tarod would again assume his true nature, and to
    stay in the timeless Castle wouldn't content him. He'd
    refused to admit the truth directly, but Cyllan believed
    that, when the stone was in his possession, he would use
    its power to call back Time to the dimension. The
    thought of what might ensue when he confronted the
    Circle again chilled her to the marrow; but she knew him
    well enough to realise he'd have it no other way. He
    couldn't exist in an unchanging eternity; he needed to
    live, and if living involved risk, he'd take the risk. She
    couldn't find it in her heart to argue with him, and yet the
    one fear which ate at her like a disease was the fear of
    losing him. Even with his soul restored, Tarod wasn't
    invincible; and if the Circle should prevail against him,
    she'd lose her own reason for existing.
    
    The sudden and drastic changes in both herself and
    Tarod had happened so unexpectedly that Cyllan had
    had no chance even to try to question or understand
    them. Nor, if she was honest, did she wish to. At
    Drachea's behest she had convinced herself that Tarod
    was evil, an enemy to be mistrusted and thwarted, and
    she had fought against her own desires and instincts in an
    effort to reinforce that conviction. But she had never
    been at ease with it; and once the barriers between them
    finally broke down, the feelings she had tried to suppress
    had taken hold of her with a vengeance. Powerful emo-
    tions, long repressed, had found their focus in a man
    
    who awoke in her a fierce desire, unquenchable love and
    a loyalty that nothing could shake. Right or wrong she
    had chosen her path, and no matter what the future
    might bring she wouldn't turn from it.
    
    She ran down the last few stairs of the flight and
    pushed open the door that led to the library. The dim
    vault was still and silent, and Cyllan paused on the
    threshold, turning her mind to Tarod where he waited in
    the spire. At once she felt an answering presence joining
    with her and soothing her unease, and she was com-

    forted by it. Whatever lay ahead, he'd be with her . . .
    
    As she crossed the room towards the half-hidden door
    which would lead her to the Marble Hall, the hem of her
    skirt snagged on one of the scattered books which lit-
    tered the floor, and she was forced to stop and free it.
    She was unused to wearing clothes like these; for as long
    as she could remember she'd had nothing but shirts and
    trousers handed down from a cousin or, in recent years,
    from one of the men in her uncle's drover-band. But
    Tarod had told her that she deserved something better,
    far better . . . and he had found, though the gods alone
    knew from where, a dress of dark red silk which fitted
    her as though it had been made for her alone. The feel of
    the fabric fascinated her; the rustle as she moved, the
    sensation of the silk swirling against her bare legs . . . and
    when she wore it for him he had said she looked beautiful.
    No one had ever paid her such a compliment before, yet
    she didn't doubt Tarod's sincerity. To him she was beauti-
    ful, and the knowledge meant more to her than she could
    express. Cyllan remembered his words, cherishing them,
    as she reached the low door, opened it and gazed through
    to the empty passage with its peculiar, silver-tinged light.
    Then, gathering her courage, she started towards the
    source of the light and the Marble Hall beyond.
    
    Tarod's plan, as he had outlined it to her, was straight-
    forward enough. Without the soul-stone he could do
    nothing to reverse the forces which had halted the
    Pendulum of Time and locked the Castle into this
    strange non-dimension; yet the stone had been con-
    signed to limbo along with the Castle's inhabitants. The
    
    only way to resolve the paradox was to break through
    the barrier on one of the highest of the seven astral
    planes, and find the stone. If the stratagem worked - and
    Tarod admitted that he was uncertain of success - it
    could be brought back through dimensions, if the
    motivating power and will were strong enough. Tarod
    had the power, and the will, but the vital focus provided
    by the Marble Hall itself was denied to him through the
    quirk of fate which had shifted it fractionally out of
    synchronisation with the Castle when Time was ban-
    ished. Soulless, he couldn't enter . . . but Cyllan could.
    And her innate psychic ability, Tarod believed, would
    be enough to enable him to succeed in his task using her
    as a medium.
    
    Cyllan didn't pretend to understand the nature of the
    occult skill which Tarod would need to achieve his aim,
    but only prayed that she would be capable of doing what
    he wanted of her. He had warned her that there could be
    dangers but she had stubbornly dismissed them; she
    trusted him, wanted to help him, and she was resolved to
    play her part.
    
    Now though, as she reached out to touch the dull
    silver door that stood between her and the Marble Hall,
    she was assailed by a chilly shiver of uncertainty. No one
    knew the true properties of this strange, illusion-
    haunted place; so much had been made clear in the High
    Initiate's papers, and Tarod had only confirmed it. If
    something were to go wrong with the plan, if some force
    that even Tarod hadn't bargained for were to manifest
    then no amount of foresight could predict the possible
    consequences. Limbo . . . Cyllan shuddered at the
    thought and all but withdrew her hand from the door.
    
    There's no shame in being afraid, Tarod had told her.
    Don't fight your fear, or pretend it doesn't exist. He was
    right . . . the feeling, on the threshold of such an
    undertaking, was natural . . .
    
    She took a deep breath, and touched her hand to the
    door. It swung open, and the shifting, shimmering mists
    enfolded her as she walked slowly into the Marble Hall.
    
    Drachea stood in the shelter of the doorway, his gaze
    roaming uneasily across the courtyard's vast expanse. It
    seemed deserted, but it was impossible to be sure; the
    crimson light played tricks with the eyes, and any one of
    a thousand dense shadows might without warning move
    and resolve into something other than shadow . . . He
    glanced towards the summit of the Northern spire, and
    thought he detected the faintest glimmer of light from a
    high window; but again, it could easily be illusion.
    
    He had arrived at the courtyard by a deliberately
    tortuous route which finally brought him to an insignifi-
    cant side entrance adjacent to the stables. If Tarod were
    watching for him, the chances were that he'd mount his
    vigil in sight of the main doors, which Drachea could see
    standing open. If he kept to the deeper darkness, he
    should be able to reach his goal with small risk of being
    detected . . . and so, trying to quell the thumping of his
    heart, he eased out into the shadow of the black wall and
    began to edge his way along it. Nothing untoward hap-
    pened - once he thought he glimpsed a blur of move-
    ment low down, as though something sentient had
    detached itself from the foot of a buttress and slipped
    snaking away across the flagstones; but it was nothing
    more than his imagination, and at last he gained the
    shelter of the colonnaded walkway. Here he could
    merge easily with the gaunt silhouettes of the pillars, and
    by moving with slow caution arrive at the door which led
    to the library vault.
    
    At the top of the vault stairs his determination almost
    failed him as he realised that Tarod could be waiting for
    him in the library, but Drachea forced himself not to
    dwell on the idea. If he baulked now, seeing demons at
    every turn, he might just as well return to his room and
    wait for insanity or Tarod's vengeance - or both - to
    claim him. The work must be begun, and he could gain
    nothing by delaying.
    
    Softly, though imagining every footfall to be as loud as
    thunder, Drachea began to descend the stairs.
    
    Cyllan stood at he head of the massive block of black
    
    wood which lay at what was deemed to be the Marble
    Hall's exact centre. Her eyes were closed, and her lips
    moved silently in a fervent prayer to Aeoris for protec-
    tion - though whether the god would see fit to grant it to
    her in the face of what she was about to do, she didn't
    like to speculate. Her stomach roiled with the sickness of
    nerves, and though instinct urged her to reach out and
    lay her hands on the block's surface, she couldn't bring
    herself to touch it. Passing by the seven defaced black
    statues, which loomed eerily out of the shrouding mist,
    she had faltered, and only by silently repeating the litany
    of Tarod's words to her could she force herself on. But
    she had come this far ... for his sake, for both their
    sakes, she must look forward and not back.
    
    The silence and stillness were absolute. Once she had
    imagined she had heard a distant sound like the muted
    chiming of a bell, and once an echo of soft laughter,
    almost beyond the threshold of human hearing, had
    seemed to shiver in the mist; but such illusions were
    gone now. The Hall itself seemed alive and waiting; she
    felt its tension like a physical presence. The mosaic floor
    was cold beneath her bare feet . . . she clasped her
    hands before her and struggled to quiet her mind, make
    herself receptive for contact with Tarod.
    
    His presence in her subconscious mind came suddenly
    and powerfully. For an instant Cyllan glimpsed the
    darkened room at the top of the spire and seemed to see
    steady green eyes gazing into her own, lit with an inten-
    sity that frightened her. Then she sensed the guiding will
    that began to integrate with hers and to take control. . .
    breathing slowly, lightly, she reached out as though
    sleepwalking, and her hands came to rest on the pitted
    surface of the block. As they touched, a lurching sensa-
    tion of vertigo struck up from far beneath the floor and
    she swayed, biting her tongue to stop herself crying out
    in alarm. The feeling passed, but she knew that, beyond
    her closed lids, something had changed. The tension was
    transmuting into a dreamlike sensation, as though she
    floated free of time and space. She wanted to open her
    eyes, but courage failed her. Whatever surrounded her
    
    now wasn't for mortal sight or mortal understanding,
    and the knowledge brought on something akin to panic.
    She flailed mentally, blindly seeking an anchor, and
    almost at once the other will touched her and held her,
    drawing her back from the terror. She felt Tarod's pre-
    sence in her mind again, but it was a presence that
    transcended humanity, more powerful than anything
    she had ever known. For a moment her own will resisted
    through fear, but the presence soothed her, reassured
    her, and she let herself be eclipsed by it as Tarod drew
    her through the planes towards their mutual goal.
    
    Sword drawn, Drachea stepped into the vault and
    picked his way carefully among the fallen books and
    manuscripts. At every other pace he turned quickly, the
    blade swinging up as though to block some assault from
    behind, but the precaution was needless. The library
    was empty.
    
    And yet he had a conviction that not all was as it
    should have been. Something was awry, though he
    couldn't put a finger on the cause. Drachea was no
    psychic, but a glimmer of sensitivity warned him, even
    before he came across the low door in its alcove and
    found it standing wide open.
    
    He stopped on the threshold, licking his lips uncer-
    tainly. This way lay the Marble Hall; the one place in all
    the Castle where, on his own admission, Tarod couldn't
    go. Yet the door gaped, suggesting that someone had
    recently come this way . . . and the Castle's only other
    inhabitant was Cyllan . . .
    
    His previous unreasoning fear of the Marble Hall
    meant nothing in the face of this unexpected oppor-
    tunity to settle the score. Drachea put the sword away,
    aware of its disadvantages in the confined space of the
    passage, and instead drew the short knife from its
    sheath. The blade glittered wickedly in the odd light,
    and he set off slowly, cautiously, towards the silver door.
    
    First there was a terrible sensation of weight, as though
    the towering cliffs of West High Land were crushing her
    
    beneath them . . . she resisted, urged by the will inter-
    locked with her own, and abruptly the pressure gave way
    to the balm of a cool, clear current which carried her like a
    fish on its tide. She heard the eldritch song of the fanaani,
    but it faded and instead she was being buffeted on a
    laughing, capricious gale . . . which exploded into heat
    that assailed her, burning, unquenchable. She seemed to
    pass through fire, on the point of screaming until sud-
    denly the searing pain was eclipsed by a voice that spoke
    in her innermost consciousness, Slowly, it seemed to say,
    Slowly . . . gently ... I am with you . . .
    
    And there was silence. She felt as though she hung
    weightless and motionless amid nothing; yet there was a
    disturbance in her mind, an unease, a fear . . . a sense
    that below her, something waited . . . and the voice
    spoke within her again and said, Look . . .
    
    It was a black and silver world, with no colour to
    relieve the austerity. Cyllan hung disembodied above a
    floor where mosaics made a complex pattern, and she
    looked down upon an extraordinary, motionless
    tableau.
    
    Some twenty or thirty men and women were ranged in a
    circle, all heads turned towards one man in heavy, sombre
    ceremonial garb, wearing a circlet that glittered coldly on
    his head. His arms were outstretched, and in both hands he
    held a massive, ugly sword which gave off a coruscation of
    light that seemed to burn the air around it. The light
    illuminated his powerful frame and a face which, though
    young and handsome, was set in hard lines.
    
    Cyllan felt a shaft of anger lance through her, and
    knew it emanated from the part of the linked con-
    sciousness that was Tarod. She looked again, and saw
    that the young man who held the sword stood before a
    great block of black wood . . . and on the block was
    another figure, tall, gaunt, face half hidden by a mane of
    black hair. The tableau's still rigidity gave a macabre
    twist to the attitude of extreme agony that racked the
    victim on the block - then the fury flared into life again,
    and Cyllan's mind recoiled in shock as she recognised
    him.
    
    The stone, Cyllan . . . find the stone . . . The voice
    that spoke within her carried no overt emotion, but
    Cyllan felt the savage thrust of pain that accompanied
    the words. Momentarily she realised how Tarod must
    feel at witnessing the scene of his own execution, but the
    understanding was eclipsed by an urgent longing that
    surged within their linked wills. Guided by Tarod, she
    exerted her strength, seeking, hunting . . .
    
    And then she saw it. It lay in the cupped hands of
    another Initiate who stood at the foot of the block, and it
    glowed with a cold inner life of its own. A single gem,
    multifaceted and beautiful . . . the Chaos stone.
    
    Take it, she heard Tarod's whispered command, and
    something seemed to propel her forward and down-
    ward, so that her mind reached out to the still figures of
    the tableau. The stone began to pulse, radiating seven
    shafts of light that all but blinded her as she drew closer,
    closer . . . and the presence in her mind prepared itself
    for a last, single exertion of will. She knew that this was
    the perilous moment; it would take all Tarod's skill to
    link their shared consciousness with the soul-stone, and
    snatch them back from this world of illusion and phan-
    tasm. She felt the power building within her, building
    until she thought she couldn't contain it and would
    shatter under its inexorable pressure . . . still it grew,
    and the glowing stone blazed more fiercely than ever,
    drawing her into itself like some terrible vortex . . .
    
    A gigantic concussion smashed from every direction
    at once, and Cyllan's scream of terror shattered into a
    thousand echoes that dinned in her ears as she was
    hurled from the dimension. Mind, body and soul split
    asunder, the scream rang on and on - until with a titanic
    crack the world returned.
    
    She was sprawled across the execution block, all
    breath knocked out of her lungs by the force of impact.
    She tried to move, but her limbs had no strength and she
    could only slide helplessly to the floor as her spinning
    senses struggled to right themselves. At last, guided by
    the feel of the cold marble beneath her, she gained a
    small measure of orientation and by slow and painful
    
    degrees was able to sit up. Her hands were clenched into
    fists and when she tried to unlock them she was racked
    by violent muscular spasms . . . but in her hand she felt
    something hard and cold and rounded . . .
    
    'Tarod . . . ' She croaked his name aloud, trying to
    urge her will to meld once again with his, and almost
    sobbed with relief when she felt his mind reaching out to
    her. The presence was weakened by their shared ordeal;
    he had exerted all his strength in calling on the forces
    he'd summoned, and the contact was tenuous. Yet it was
    enough . . .
    
    She projected the certainty she felt with all her
    remaining energy. I have the stone . . .
    
    He was barely able to answer her, and Cyllan began to
    struggle upright. Gaining her feet, she was forced to lean
    over the block to balance herself and get her breath -
    and it was as she gasped air thankfully into her lungs, the
    Chaos stone still tightly gripped in her hand, that a
    glittering sliver of steel slid from behind her shoulder to
    hover a hairsbreadth from her throat, and a voice thick
    with triumphant savagery said,
    
    'Thank you, Cyllan. You've solved my most pressing
    problem . . . '
    
    Tarod slumped in the chair, his head thrown back and
    sweat gleaming on his face and hands. He was drained,
    and the strength he craved wouldn't return to him. To
    summon and use such power was taxing enough under
    any circumstances, but to do so at second hand, through
    the medium of another mind, had almost proved his
    undoing. Only by an iron control of his will had he been
    able to pull himself and Cyllan back from limbo, and
    now he felt as weak as a new-born child.
    
    But it was done . . . The realisation lit a fire within
    him, though he hadn't the strength to rejoice. They had
    succeeded, and the stone had been retrieved from that
    netherworld . . .
    
    He must go to Cyllan. In his present condition he had
    no power to bring her back to the spire, but he must go to
    her. With a tremendous effort Tarod forced himself to
    
    rise from the chair, and stood swaying as though drunk.
    And then, as he turned towards the door, something
    impinged on a deeper level of his consciousness.
    
    Tarod . . .
    
    He felt the first stirrings of concern, for he recognised
    the source of the voiceless, psychic call and its inflection
    told him something was wrong.
    
    Tarod. . .
    
    Fear. It was fear he sensed in the call she sent, out to

    him; fear and an incoherent pleading. Drained as he
    was, he couldn't lock his mind completely with Cyllan's,
    but enough energy remained, fuelled now by alarm, for
    him to reach out psychically towards her. As he did, he
    heard her thoughts more clearly.
    
    Tarod, I've failed you . . . I was wrong. I thought he
    could do us no harm . . .
    
    The shock of her words struck his tired mind, and a
    terrible clarity brought home the truth to Tarod. He
    swung round to where the candle still burned with its
    sickly halo, and bent over the nacreous green flame.
    Distorted images danced before him; he willed them to
    focus, and saw her.
    
    She knelt on the mosaic floor at Drachea's feet, both
    arms twisted viciously up behind her back. Drachea held
    the blade of a knife poised at her throat, in such a
    position that one incautious movement would sever the
    jugular vein. Her eyes were tight shut and Tarod saw
    blood on her lip where she had bitten into it.
    
    A rage as he had never known before began to fill
    Tarod. The fury at Themila's death, which had led him
    to kill Rhiman Han, the bitterness of Sashka's betrayal,
    were nothing by comparison to the insanity of malev-
    olence that consumed him now. He gasped, swaying
    back, then with one hand swept the candle, books and
    all other artefacts from the table-top. They smashed to
    the floor; the witchfire halo winked out, and blackness
    surged up in Tarod's mind, bringing with it a resurgence
    of power which he caught, focused, savagely directing it
    towards Drachea -
    
    'No!' He yelled the word aloud in a desperate bid to
    
    break his own concentration, and reeled back as the
    power-bolt disintegrated in his head. His magic was
    useless - without a willing medium he couldn't penetrate
    the barrier between himself and the Marble Hall, and to
    use Cyllan as a vehicle for this would be to kill her. He
    sucked air into his lungs, striving to calm himself and
    railing wildly against the realisation that he was trapped.
    He could do nothing to Drachea, and Drachea held
    Cyllan's life as hostage. Whatever the treacherous Heir
    Margrave wanted - and Tarod believed he knew the
    answer to that question - he had no choice but to com-
    ply. If he refused, Cyllan would die. And as he faced this
    final, terrible test, Tarod knew that no sacrifice would be
    too great to save her.
    
    'So our mutual friend has heard you, and is aware of
    your plight.' Drachea smiled, speaking softly, and gave
    a vicious jerk to Cyllan's pinned arms that made her gasp
    with pain. 'No doubt he's aware, too, of what could
    become of his precious stone if he attempts to cross
    me!'
    
    Cyllan didn't answer. She could make no move,
    knowing that Drachea held the knife-blade so close to
    her throat that the smallest slip would drive it deep, and
    the wound would be fatal;. She had felt Tarod's despair
    and fury as he realised what had happened, but now
    there was no presence in her mind at all. She prayed that
    he still had a reserve of power, that he could use it to
    blast Drachea, and cursed herself a thousand times for a
    fool. If she hadn't pleaded with Tarod to show leniency,
    Drachea would be dead . . .
    
    Another cruel jerk at her arms brought her back to
    earth. 'Well?' Drachea demanded, his voice harsh in her
    ear. 'What does he say? What does he mean to do?'
    
    Cyllan made an inarticulate noise and he withdrew the
    knife sufficiently to allow her to speak. 'I - don't know
    . . . ' she whispered.
    
    'Liar!'
    
    'No ... it's the truth
    
    Drachea laughed. 'Then perhaps your demon-lover
    
    thinks less of you than you so fondly believe! Nonethe-
    less, he values that pretty trinket in your hand. Release
    it, Cyllan.'
    
    She clenched her fist. 'No . . . '
    
    'I said, release it!' The knife touched her neck and
    Cyllan realised she would achieve nothing by defiance.

    He could kill her and take the stone; she had nothing to
    gain by sacrificing herself.
    
    The jewel fell to the floor with a small, cold clink and
    Drachea stared down at it, hardly able to believe his
    good fortune. It looked an ordinary enough bauble now;
    dull, lifeless, like a piece of glass. But he had seen the
    white-hot glare that sprang from Cyllan's outstretched
    hands as the thing materialised in his full sight, and he
    had felt the power pulsing from its heart. It was a deadly
    artefact - and the Circle would reward him well when he
    returned it into their rightful custody!
    
    Drachea had entered the Marble Hall as the rite con-
    ducted by Tarod and Cyllan neared its climax. Cyllan
    was oblivious to her surroundings, and he had hidden
    himself behind one of the black statues, gambling that
    his presence would go undetected. He soon realised that
    Cyllan was acting as a medium for the dark sorcerer, and
    when he saw the soul-stone's radiance spilling from
    between her cupped fingers he knew what they had
    done, and a heady exultation filled him. Weak as she
    now was, Cyllan would be easy prey. Tarod couldn't
    enter the Hall . . . and with the Chaos-stone in his
    hand, Drachea would have an unassailable fortress from
    which to make his demands.
    
    But as yet, he had had no chance to voice those
    demands. He had ordered Cyllan to make contact with
    Tarod, but although she swore she had done so, Tarod
    hadn't responded. Doubtless he considered her ex-
    pendable - eventually he must come seeking the stone.
    And he wouldn't be inclined to risk the loss of his own
    soul for the sake of a simple bargain . . .
    
    Drachea wondered if Tarod was planning some coun-
    ter-move. The demon had great guile, and he felt uneasy
    with nothing to do but wait. Suddenly angry, he twisted
    
    Cyllan's arm again, opening his mouth to voice a further
    threat if she didn't try to make contact again. But before
    he could speak, a new voice cut across the eerie quiet of
    the Marble Hall.
    
    'Drachea.'
    
    The tone was chilling, calm but terrible. Drachea
    started and all but lost his grip of Cyllan's arms; seeing a
    chance, albeit slender, she twisted in his grasp and tried
    to pull away, but before she could roll clear he had
    snatched at her and jerked her back, her head against his
    shoulder, the knife touching the flesh of her neck.
    Slowly, dragging his burden with him, Drachea turned
    around.
    
    The coruscating mists had shivered apart as though a
    beam of light had cut through them, and the way to the
    silver door was unobscured. A single pace beyond the
    Marble Hall's threshold stood Tarod, mad-eyed, his left
    hand raised and pointing directly at Drachea.
    
    Tarod said with unhuman malignance, 'Release her.'
    
    For an instant Drachea baulked, then he remembered
    the Marble Hall's properties, and his face worked into a
    sneer. 'Release her?' he repeated mockingly. 'You may
    think me a fool, demon, but I'm not that gullible! I have
    the stone, and I have Cyllan. I will destroy either with
    impunity if you dare to give me orders again!'
    
    Tarod's eyes blazed, and a dark aura flickered into life
    around him. 'You cannot destroy the Chaos stone,
    worm.'
    
    'Perhaps not - but I can kill her!' Drachea jerked
    Cyllan violently- and saw fear in Tarod's look before he
    could disguise it. His own eyes lit with excitement as he
    realised that his adversary had revealed an unexpected
    weakness. Could it be that he had some care for Cyllan
    after all - or at least, that she was in some way vital to
    him?
    
    Slowly, thoughtfully, Drachea ran his tongue over his
    lower lip. 'Let us say, Adept Tarod,' he went on, inject-
    ing a venomous contempt in the last two words, 'that
    there is something I want from you. Let us say that if you
    refuse to grant it, I will slit Cyllan's throat, and you may
    
    watch her life-blood spill over this mosaic floor. What
    would your answer to my request be?'
    
    Tarod's face tightened and he responded savagely,
    'Harm Cyllan in any way, and you won't merely die - I'll
    send you to eternal torture!'
    
    'Ah!' Drachea crowed delightedly. 'So the soulless
    one has a flaw after all! What is Cyllan to you, Tarod,
    that makes her so vital to your needs ? A whore's a
    whore, after all - there are plenty better to choose from
    in the world!'
    
    Tarod's hand jerked up as though to release a furious
    power-bolt, but Cyllan cried out, 'No! Tarod, he seeks
    only to enrage you! Don't give him that satisfaction!'
    
    Drachea swore and pulled viciously at her hair to
    silence her, but Tarod knew she was right. Fury and fear
    had taken him dangerously close to losing control; now,
    with an effort, he collected his wits. If Cyllan was to be
    saved, he had no business arguing with Drachea. There
    was a bargain to be struck . . . and he knew what that
    bargain must be.
    
    The black aura flickered, faded as he stared at the
    Heir Margrave and at Cyllan. The slightest move could
    mean her death ... he swallowed, his throat dry, and
    he said to Drachea,
    
    'What is it you want of me?'
    
    Drachea grinned. 'Better! You begin to understand at
    last. I'll spell it out clearly for you, demon. I have
    Cyllan, and I have your soul-stone. If you want to save
    Cyllan's life, you must use the stone, and call back Time
    to this Castle!'
    
    Cyllan twisted ferociously in Drachea's grip. 'Tarod,
    no!' she shrieked. 'It would mean awakening the Circle
    - you can't do it, not this way!'
    
    Her eyes, wide and staring, met his, and she saw a
    sadness and compassion in his green gaze that horrified
    her with its implication. She tried to shake her head, but
    the knife was too close. 'Tarod, no, please . . . '
    
    He continued to look at her. 'I have no choice.'
    
    'But you have! Let him kill me - it's better than the
    alternative!'
    
    'No!' The refusal was shockingly vehement, and
    Tarod raised his head to stare proudly, contemptuously
    at Drachea. 'I will do what needs to be done, Heir
    Margrave. And I congratulate you on your deviousness.
    My reckoning with you must wait!'
    
    'Your reckoning will be with the High Initiate!'
    Drachea sneered. 'Save your pride for him, serpent!'
    
    Tarod took a deep breath, fighting down his fury, and
    said calmly, Then give me the stone.'
    
    'What?' Drachea was incredulous, then he laughed, a
    loud peal that rang and echoed dashingly through the
    Marble Hall. 'I gave up suckling at the teat many years
    ago, my friend! Until the Circle return, and you are
    safely bound, this stone stays with me!' He forced Cyllan
    forward until she crouched painfully with head bent,
    then with one foot shifted the Chaos stone, which still
    lay on the floor, into Tarod's view. 'You've already used
    this white-faced bitch as your medium. Use her again.'
    
    It would take more strength than he possessed . . . he
    was still weakened by the force expended to call the stone
    out of limbo . . . Aloud, Tarod said, 'I can't.'
    
    'You're lying! You've done it before!'
    
    'Cyllan may not consent.'
    
    'Damn you, then make her consent! It's a simple
    enough choice - either you do what I command, in the
    way I command it, or you watch her die! My patience has
    run out - make your decision!'
    
    There was no other way open to him. If he refused to
    accede to Drachea's demands, the Heir Margrave would
    slit Cyllan's throat while Tarod stood helpless. And no
    matter what vengeance he took, nothing could ever
    compensate for her loss . . .
    
    But Tarod knew that, weakened as he was by the
    forces he had used to call the Chaos stone out of limbo,
    he might not have the strength to do what Drachea
    wanted of him. This was no trifling magic, and if he
    failed, if his will broke, then the backlash of power could
    destroy Cyllan.
    
    Yet she's damned already if you don't try . . .
    
    The inner voice chilled him, for it spoke nothing less
    
    than the truth. Tarod sighed. 'Very well, Drachea. I
    accept your terms.'
    
    'Ha!' Drachea grinned, then leaned over to leer at
    Cyllan. 'It seems you can take comfort from your
    demon-friend's loyalty, bitch! And he thought I was the
    fool
    
    Cyllan shut her eyes, wanting to blot out the image of
    Drachea's twisted, triumphant face. She had to stop
    Tarod somehow - it was better, far better, that she died
    and left him free, for the alternative was too appalling to
    consider. Desperately, she tried again to plead with him.
    
    Tarod . . . listen to me . . . '
    
    'Quiet!' Drachea hissed.
    
    'No! Tarod!' Her voice rose shrilly. 'I don't care what
    happens to me - let him use the knife, I don't care ! You
    musn't do this, you can't!'
    
    Drachea had twisted her around so that she couldn't
    see Tarod, but she heard his voice clearly enough, and it
    was implacable.
    
    'There's no other way.' And as he spoke aloud, she
    heard other words, voiceless, echo in her mind. Cyllan,
    if you love me, obey me in this!
    
    She summoned her mental resources. I can't! The
    Circle will —
    
    Damn the Circle! I won't see you die . . .
    
    I'll fight you ...
    
    You can't fight me. I'll do what I must do, and I'll use
    you in whatever ways I need to, to save your life!
    
    There was venom in the last message, and Cyllan
    realised that nothing she could say or do would sway
    him. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks; tears of
    misery and defeat, and Drachea looked quickly up at
    Tarod. 'Is she subdued?' he demanded.
    
    'She'll do what I ask of her,' Tarod told him curtly.
    
    'Good. Then don't prevaricate - begin!'
    
    Tarod bowed his head. To turn his mind from Cyllan's
    plight and concentrate on what must be done was a
    nightmare, but he forced himself to clear all extraneous
    thoughts from his mind. So much depended on his skill
    and remaining strength now . . . yet if he succeeded, he
    
    would be placing himself in a trap with jaws that could
    clamp ferociously on him. It was likely that Drachea
    would attempt to kill Cyllan the moment the rite was
    completed, and Tarod had to risk everything on the
    chance that, freed from the constraints put upon him by
    timelessness, he would be able to intervene before it was
    too late. But if he failed . . .
    
    He spoke, hardly recognising his own voice. 'Let
    Cyllan kneel by the wooden plinth, and place the stone
    in her hands.'
    
    Drachea spat. The stone stays where it is, and so does
    she!'
    
    Tarod looked up, his eyes malevolent. Then there
    can be no raising of power. The procedures must be
    followed.'
    
    The Heir Margrave flushed angrily, and looked about
    him. At his back the slab of black wood loomed out of
    the mist, and he dragged Cyllan towards it, kicking the
    Chaos stone along the floor as he went. Reaching the
    block he looked back at Tarod speculatively - then with a
    force that made her cry out, he wrenched Cyllan up on to
    the slab so that she lay staring at the invisible roof, her
    white throat exposed. Snatching the stone Drachea
    pressed it into her hands, then took up a stance over her
    and laid the blade of the knife lightly on her neck.
    
    'I trust I make my intentions clear, demon,' he said to
    Tarod. 'If you attempt to trick me, however swift you
    are I'll cut her throat before you can touch me!' He
    smiled unpleasantly. 'When we play the game of Quar-
    ters at my home in Shu-Nhadek, both contestants know
    that to try to take advantage of such an impasse will gain
    them nothing.'
    
    'We, too, play Quarters at the Castle,' Tarod replied.
    'When impasse is reached, the game is at an end and
    there's no victor.'
    
    Then I'd suggest for Cyllan's sake that you don't
    attempt to change the rules.'
    
    Tarod inclined his head. 'So be it.'
    
    Lying on the unyielding, splintered wood of the block,
    
    her eyes closed, Cyllan knew that they were lost. Tarod
    had made his decision and had refused, foolhardily, to
    sacrifice her. Now, she hadn't the will to defy him,
    however much she might want to. He could overcome
    any obstacles she put in his path, and she was helpless.
    
    Inwardly she railed against the twist of Fate that had
    brought them both to this. She should have let Tarod kill

    Drachea . . . and she swore to herself that, if they both
    lived - or if only she lived, which was too terrible a
    thought to contemplate further - she wouldn't rest until
    she had destroyed the Heir Margrave of Shu-Nhadek;
    destroyed him and all he stood for. She hadn't thought
    herself capable of such hate, but it burned in her now
    like a black flame. And mingling with it suddenly came
    the awareness of another mind, a raw emotion that
    linked with hers and made her strong.
    
    Tarod . . . She sent the mental call out softly and
    heard his reply shape into silent words.
    
    Listen to me, love. I may not be strong enough - and to
    conserve strength, I must act swiftly. Don't be afraid, and
    don't resist me. Holdfast to the stone, let it guide you. . .
    I'll be with you . . .
    
    His presence faded suddenly into a confusion of
    images which resolved into a smoothness, a oneness,
    like a dark, featureless sea. Cyllan felt her identity slip-
    ping away, and the stone in her hands seemed to pulse
    hot, a living heart. She could still feel the touch of the
    knife at her throat, but it was her only link with reality,
    and a tenuous one. With a soft sigh she let her con-
    sciousness sink into the sea, merging with Tarod, with
    the soul-stone, with infinity . . .
    
    It must be done quickly, for there would be no second
    chance. Before, when he sought the Pendulum of Time,
    he had travelled through the seven astral planes, gather-
    ing strength and will from each in turn, until at the last he
    had cloaked himself in an iron strength that was sufficient
    for his awesome task. But now there could be no such
    precautions. There was but one way; savage and
    instantaneous. And an ancient memory was unlocking
    
    deep within him, opening the doors that would take him
    to that brink . . .
    
    Tarod reached out his will, and found the Chaos
    stone. It called him and he both loved it and loathed it;
    but he had to master it, or it would betray him. Every
    muscle in his body was locked rigid: all awareness of
    Cyllan, Drachea, the Marble Hall, faded away and was
    left far behind as he travelled onward and outward in
    spirit. The stone hung always ahead of him, just out of
    reach; he tried to breathe and found no air, and sweat
    soaked him as his hands clenched together into a sign
    which, in his human existence, he had all but forgotten.
    
    It was drawing nearer . . . He felt its presence like
    some grim nemesis, and again reached his mind towards
    the stone, needing its power now at this crucial moment.
    An image flickered at the edge of awareness; darkness,
    rust, decay ... he pursued it and it eluded him.
    
    Darkness, rust, decay . . . remember what you once
    were ...
    
    And slowly, slowly, it materialised before him, a mon-
    strous shadow amid dense, evil gloom. The shaft reared
    up into an unimaginable void, and the titanic bob hung
    still and lifeless, red-brown corrosion encroaching
    across its surface. The Pendulum, Time's arbiter in his
    own world, abandoned and rotting, a derelict hulk,
    frozen until the single bolt of power should wake it...
    
    Tarod reached down, far down into the deepest
    recesses of his being. His strength was failing, the power
    of the stone slipping away from him - he must make the
    last summoning now, or be defeated. Drawing his
    psyche like an animal poising to spring, he felt a white-
    hot flowering at his heart as the force of the Chaos soul,
    momentarily freed from its crystal prison, flowed into
    him. For an instant he and the Pendulum were one - and
    Tarod flung himself forward with the full power of his
    will.
    
    A high, thin shriek like a soul in torment split the
    darkness apart as the massive bob of the Pendulum gave
    under the forces that assailed it. The shaft quivered with
    a monstrous shock - and the Pendulum of Time swung
    
    forward, shattering the barrier between dimensions and
    hurtling into the world with a vast, clamouring boom
    that smashed Tarod back like flotsam against a tidal
    wave. Momentarily he glimpsed the tremendous bulk of
    the Pendulum bearing down on him, then it seemed to
    explode into a blinding, seven-rayed flash that blasted
    his senses. Walls rose from nowhere to meet him; he
    reeled, then his body crashed in a twisted contortion to
    the floor of the passage as all awareness was obliterated.
    
    The scream that tore from Cyllan's throat was drowned
    by the awesome voice of the Pendulum, and the Marble
    Hall seemed to turn in on itself, the floor bucking and
    the walls shrieking a protest. She was flung from the
    block like a doll thrown by some giant, petulant child,
    and sprawled on the mosaic floor of the Hall with the
    reverberations of the great concussion still echoing in
    her head. Gasping like a stranded fish, she glimpsed
    through watering eyes the prone form of Drachea - then
    she was seized by a spasm of retching and doubled over
    as the muscles of her empty stomach contracted
    violently.
    
    Tarod . . . Memory crawled to the surface of her
    mind at last. Where was Tarod? Had they succeeded?
    And the stone . . . Her hand clenched convulsively and
    she felt the sharp contours of the gem against her palm.
    In her confused state, all she knew was that she must
    reach Tarod, and she began to struggle upright -
    
    'Ah, no, you bitch!'
    
    Cyllan whipped round, and saw Drachea bearing
    down on her. He had recovered his senses more quickly
    than she, and was already on his feet, though unsteady.
    Horrified she started to run, heard footsteps at her back
    - and Drachea flung himself at her, bringing them both
    down with a jarring impact. Cyllan kicked out wildly,
    and a fist smashed across her face, stunning her; she
    slumped, and Drachea breathlessly grasped her shoul-
    ders as he got up, made to drag her back across the
    floor -
    
    And stopped.
    
    'Aeoris!' He dropped his burden and made the White
    God's sign over his heart. The robed figures — some
    .twenty or thirty of them, women as well as men - who
    formed a circle around the black slab were all staring at
    him, their faces white and shocked and uncomprehend-
    ing. One man, young and fair-haired, held a huge sword
    in both hands; now it fell from his fingers and clattered
    raucously on the marble floor as its wielder struggled to
    assimilate the sight that greeted him. A movement to
    one side alerted Drachea's attention and he was in time
    to see a much older man slide to the floor with a soft
    moan and lie motionless; then a woman began to
    scream, a long, wailing, featureless cry of hysteria.
    
    Drachea and the fair-haired man continued to stare at
    each other, and all the words of triumphant greeting that
    Drachea had so carefully and frequently rehearsed died
    on his tongue. Then slowly, shakily, the fair-haired man
    moved round the block.
    
    'What . . . ' He shook his head, dazed and unable to
    form the question.
    
    Cyllan stirred. A livid bruise was spreading across her

    cheek where Drachea had hit her, and when she opened
    her eyes her vision wouldn't focus at first. Convulsively,
    she tried to move, and hands viciously pushed her down.
    She winced in protest - then realised that someone was
    staring at her. And as her sight cleared she found herself
    meeting the light brown, steady eyes of a man dressed in
    a sombre, funereal garb of purple and sapphire blue.
    Recollection dawned - she had seen that face, that garb,
    before, in the grisly tableau on the astral plane . . .
    and then she recognised the symbol at the man's
    shoulder; a double circle bisected by a lightning-flash.
    Keridil Toln, High Initiate of the Circle - and Tarod's
    deadliest enemy ...
    
    Drachea pushed sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes
    and made a creditable attempt at a bow in the fair-haired
    man's direction. 'Sir,' he said when he had breath
    enough, 'There's much explaining to be done, and I'd
    consider it my privilege. But. . . Aeoris be thanked for
    your safe return!'
    
    Chapter 10
    
    Keridil Toln stared at Drachea and Cyllan, stunned by
    the sudden and violent interruption of the Circle ritual.
    To him, it seemed that he had but a moment ago been
    standing before the execution block, ceremonial sword
    raised high above Tarod's head as he called down the
    White Flame of Aeoris to consume and finally damn the
    creature of Chaos. Then with no warning a colossal
    crash of thunder had split his mind, shattering the power
    he had built - and, reeling with the shock, he had
    opened his eyes to find his victim gone and two complete
    strangers fighting like wildcats on the floor of the Marble
    Hall. A combination of fury and fear of something
    beyond his comprehension filled him, and he snapped at
    Drachea, 'Who are you? And how in the name of all the
    gods did you get here?'
    
    Drachea swallowed. 'Sir, there's no time for explana-
    tions now! Your enemy - the creature called Tarod - is
    at large, and must be found before he can wreak more
    havoc!'
    
    Keridil's head snapped quickly round to look at the
    empty block. Tarod is behind this . . . ?'
    
    Before Drachea could answer, Cyllan twisted in his
    grasp and cried out, 'No! He's lying, it isn't true! Listen
    to me - '
    
    Drachea's bunched fist hit her hard on the side of the
    head and she collapsed to the floor. 'Quiet, you harlot!'
    Drachea spat. 'One more word from you and I'll kill
    you!'
    
    Keridil's face darkened with anger, and he said
    furiously, 'I'll have no such behaviour here!'
    
    Drachea stared down at Cyllan and said harshly,
    
    'Even towards a woman in league with Chaos? This
    treacherous bitch is Tarod's paramour - and she has his
    soul-stone!'
    
    'What?' The beginnings of comprehension dawned in
    Keridil's eyes and he moved to stand over Cyllan. 'Is this
    true, girl?'
    
    Cyllan stared back with mute defiance, wishing that
    her mouth wasn't too dry to spit.
    
    'She holds it in her left hand,' Drachea said, giving her
    a vicious shake. 'And there's only one way to make her
    give it up.' He touched the tip of the knife blade to
    Cyllan's neck.
    
    'No.' Keridil raised a hand, forestalling him. 'I'll have
    no violence against her until I've heard the whole story.'
    His eyes met Drachea's again. 'You say Tarod is at
    large. Where is he?'
    
    'I'm here, Keridil.'
    
    Everyone turned, save for Cyllan who was held rigid
    with Drachea's blade still at her throat. Tarod walked
    slowly and unsteadily into the Marble Hall, barely able
    to stay on his feet. His sweat-soaked hair hung lank and
    his eyes were glazed with exhaustion; he had used the
    very last of his strength to call back Time, and its final
    draining had left him an empty husk.
    
    Four men moved forward, weapons drawn, then hesi-
    tated, remembering how the sorcerer had dealt with
    such assaults before. Tarod smiled thinly and with an
    effort. 'Tell your friends they've nothing to fear, High
    Initiate.'
    
    Keridil stared at him for a moment as though weighing
    his words. Then he said curtly, 'Bind him.'
    
    One of the Adepts used the belt of his robe to tie
    Tarod's hands behind his back, then all four flanked him
    closely as he approached the gathering around the
    block, until at last he and Keridil stood facing one
    another.
    
    Keridil said softly, 'So we failed to destroy you ... I
    should have known you'd not admit defeat so easily.'
    
    Tarod, kill him!' Cyllan suddenly cried out. 'Kill him,
    before they - ' Her words choked off as Drachea
    
    wrenched on her hair and raised his knife as though to
    strike a death blow -
    
    'No!' The harsh order came from Keridil, who swung
    round and knocked the dagger out of Drachea's hand.
    Cyllan tried to launch herself towards Tarod, but the
    High Initiate caught her arm and dragged her back, his
    other hand locking on her left wrist. He was taller and
    heavier than Drachea, and she could only gasp a curse at
    him as he tried to prize her fingers open.
    
    'Let's see if the young man speaks the truth about this
    girl . . . ' Keridil grunted as Cyllan ferociously resisted
    him, then twisted her hand round so that he could get at it
    more easily. Cyllan bit him with all her strength, drawing
    blood, and two other Adepts stepped forward to pin her
    while Keridil at last forced her clenched fingers to part.
    
    The stone fell free, and Drachea pounced on it as
    Cyllan shrieked a protest. He held it out to the High
    Initiate, who handed the struggling girl into the safe
    custody of the two Adepts before taking the stone - a
    little gingerly, Drachea noticed - and weighing it in his
    palm. His brown eyes looked with thoughtful specula-
    tion at the younger man for a moment, then he turned
    his gaze once more to Tarod.
    
    'We seem to have opened a veritable nest of vipers,'
    he said evenly. 'But I think we hold the upper hand. We
    have the Chaos stone - and Tarod, it would seem, is in
    no condition to challenge us. Perhaps now someone will
    explain to me what has happened here!'
    
    Tarod said nothing, and Drachea stepped forward.
    'Sir, I am Drachea Rannak, Heir Margrave of Shu
    Province. I believe you are acquainted with my father,
    Gant Ambaril Rannak . . . '
    
    Keridil frowned. 'I know Gant . . . and you have his
    look about you, I'll grant you that. But how, by all that's
    sacred, did you come to be here?'
    
    Drachea glared at Tarod. 'I've been held prisoner in
    the Castle - just before the Spring Quarter-Day I was
    brought here against my will - '
    
    'What?' Keridil was incredulous. 'The Spring Quarter
    Day is two months ahead of us - '
    
    'No, sir! By now it could be two months or even two
    years past, for all I know!'
    
    Keridil looked quickly at his fellow Adepts. Their
    faces were blank, and he said harshly, 'Explain
    yourself!'
    
    Drachea took a deep breath. 'Time has been stopped.
    This Castle has had no true existence since the creature
    called Tarod used his demonic power to snatch it and all
    its inhabitants from the world and lock them in limbo.'
    He paused. 'I've seen the documents relating to his
    execution. He called on his Chaotic powers at the climax
    of your rite, and banished Time itself.'
    
    Someone made a sound of shocked disbelief, and
    Keridil shook his head. 'No - I can't accept that such a
    thing's possible!'
    
    'It's possible, Keridil.' Tarod spoke quietly, and when
    the High Initiate looked at him he saw a trace of the old
    malevolence in Tarod's smile. 'Did you think I'd meekly
    submit, at the last, to my own destruction?'
    
    Keridil stared at him, and realised that he was telling
    the truth. The thought of such a titanic power in the
    hands of one man chilled him to the marrow, and he
    suppressed a shiver before turning back to Drachea.
    
    'You say that Time here was halted - yet you and this
    woman found your way to the Castle. How?'
    
    Drachea shook his head. 'I don't know, High Initiate
    - but I believe it was at her behest.' He pointed an
    accusing finger at Cyllan. 'She's a witch, a creature of
    Chaos herself - she duped me and lured me here, and
    since I arrived she's been plotting with that hellspawn
    against me and against all who stand for Light and
    Order.'
    
    'Liar!' Cyllan spat. 'Traitor, betrayer!'
    
    Keridil looked over his shoulder at her and said
    calmly, 'You'll have your turn to speak, girl. Until then,
    hold your tongue - or I'll cut it out.'
    
    'She should die!' Drachea insisted vehemently. 'Isn't
    that the rightful fate of all Chaos's servants? She's a
    witch, a serpent - waste no time on her, High Initiate,
    kill her now!' His hand went to the sword at his hip.
    
    'You've seen for yourself that she's in league with this
    demon - and after what they've done to me - '
    
    'Touch Cyllan and I'll see you damned!' Tarod grated.
    
    Keridil looked into Drachea's eyes and saw a feverish
    hunger for revenge. The young man was hot-headed; he
    had made his judgement and wanted to see it imple-
    mented. Cyllan's continued survival was of no personal
    interest to Keridil - and if she had indeed plotted with
    Tarod against the Circle, she deserved the severest
    penalty. But he wouldn't condone Drachea's idea of
    summary justice . . . and besides, Tarod's angry threat
    had given him a vital clue. Unlikely though it might
    seem, the girl was obviously important to him, and he
    was anxious to protect her - which placed the black-
    haired sorcerer at a singular disadvantage . . .
    
    Drachea was launching into a further tirade against
    Cyllan, but a searing look from Keridil silenced him.
    The High Initiate crossed the floor to where Cyllan still
    fought her captors, and, taking a handful of her hair,
    tilted her head back until she was forced to look at him.
    
    'It seems that Tarod sets great store by your safety,' he
    said, quite gently. 'We must see what we can do to
    accommodate his desire to protect you.'
    
    'I don't want protection!' Cyllan fired back. 'I'm not
    afraid of dying, and I'm not afraid of you!'
    
    'Brave words.' Keridil smiled. 'But we shall see how
    your courage faces up to your soul's damnation.'
    
    His words provoked the response he hoped for. Tarod
    shook off the four men who held him and stepped for-
    ward. 'Harm her at your peril, High Initiate! If any hurt
    comes to Cyllan I swear I'll destroy you, destroy the
    Circle, destroy this Castle!'
    
    The malign glitter was returning to his eyes, and
    Keridil guessed that he had regained some measure of
    strength. Not enough, yet, to make him dangerous; but
    nonetheless he'd be well advised to waste no time in
    sealing a bargain between them. He turned his back on
    Cyllan and walked with slow deliberation towards his
    adversary.
    
    'Very well, Tarod. Your loyalty is to be commended,
    
    and perhaps it can be used to the girl's advantage.'
    His eyes hardened. 'Your fate is ordained. We have
    the soul-stone, and we have the means whereby we
    can finally see you annihilated. But you've already
    proved yourself treacherous, and I intend to ensure
    that you don't try to cheat us a second time.' He stroked
    his chin, making a show of deliberation. The girl
    will stay in the Castle, under close guard, while
    preparations are made to repeat the ceremony which
    failed tonight. If you submit to us, she won't be
    harmed, and when you are dead she will be allowed to
    go free. But if you attempt any treachery - just
    one move which could be misconstrued - then I'll give
    her to the Heir Margrave to take the vengeance he
    craves.'
    
    It was the same blackmail which Drachea had used to
    force the return of Time, and Tarod's heart was bleak.
    He knew Keridil well enough to realise that he'd have no
    compunction in carrying out the threat - his was a cold,
    calculated motivation, more dangerous than the per-
    sonal score Drachea had to settle, and his choice was
    painfully clear. If he agreed to Keridil's terms, he would
    die; cruelly, agonisingly. And the Chaos stone would
    remain in the world, a vehicle for Yandros's ambitions.
    Yet if he did not, Cyllan's death would follow on the
    instant.
    
    He could carry out his threat; destroy Keridil and the
    Circle, retrieve the stone and send them all to damna-
    tion. But he couldn't bring Cyllan back to life, and
    without her there was no life worth the having. Damn
    the world ... he cared nothing for whatever evil might
    threaten it if he allowed them to kill him. If Cyllan could
    live, that was all that counted.
    
    But Keridil had betrayed him once before ... He
    looked up, met the High Initiate's steady gaze.
    
    'What safeguard do I have, Keridil? What guarantee
    can you give that Cyllan will be treated kindly if I agree

    to your demand?'
    
    Keridil smiled reservedly. 'My word as High Initiate
    of the Circle.'
    
    The green eyes narrowed to slits. 'Your word is worth
    nothing!'
    
    Take it or leave it. You're in no position to barter -
    unless you'd prefer to see her die here and now?'
    
    A sudden, violent scuffle broke out at Keridil's back,
    and he turned in time to see Cyllan wrestling with one of
    the Adepts. She was trying to wrench his short sword
    from its scabbard, and blood flowed from her palm
    where she'd cut it on the blade.
    
    'Hold her!' Keridil snapped, furious as he realised
    what she was attempting. If she could have got her arm
    to the blade, she could have opened an artery and spilled
    her life-blood before anyone could stop her.
    
    Cyllan fought as though demented, kicking and bit-
    ing, but she was overpowered. One of the Adepts cut a
    length of fabric from his own cloak and bound her hand,
    and only when she was finally subdued did Keridil turn
    back to Tarod.
    
    'Well?' he said. 'I'm awaiting your answer.'
    
    There was nothing he could do but pray that Keridil
    would keep his word. The High Initiate had no personal
    grudge against Cyllan, and nothing to gain by harming
    her. It was a chance . . . and he had no choice but to
    take it.
    
    Tarod nodded once, curtly. 'I agree.' Then his head
    came up and he regarded Keridil with a cold, cruel stare.
    'But you must abide by your bargain to the letter. If any
    man lays hands on her against her will - '
    
    'There'll be no abuse of her.' Keridil smiled un-
    pleasantly. 'I doubt that any man living would want to
    bed with a servant of Chaos.'
    
    Tarod ignored the jibe. 'And when I'm dead - ' He
    hesitated, hearing a stifled cry from Cyllan, 'she will be
    granted her freedom.' He looked at the girl. 'She has no
    power. She'll be no threat to you.'
    
    'She will be released, unharmed.'
    
    Tarod nodded again. 'I'll not clasp hands with you on
    the pact. But consider it sealed.'
    
    Keridil let out a pent breath. For a moment he had
    wondered if Tarod's loyalty would waver in the face of
    
    the choice he had to make, but his first instinct had
    proved right. He gave silent thanks to Aeoris for the
    quixotic flaw in Tarod's character which would provoke
    him to sacrifice himself for the sake of a personal altru-
    ism - an admirable quality under some circumstances,
    but one which too often proved misguided. Yet as he
    turned away he was aware of a small worm of discomfort
    within himself that might have been a sense of shame.
    He dismissed it impatiently, then spoke to his fellow
    Adepts.
    
    There's nothing to gain from remaining here any
    longer. If our friend Drachea Rannak,' he bowed an
    acknowledgement in Drachea's direction, 'is right in
    what he has told us, we'll find the Castle in some disar-
    ray. There's much to put right, and a great deal of
    explaining to be done.' He gestured in Tarod's direc-
    tion. 'Lock him up, and guard him heavily. I'll see about
    further precautions later.'
    
    'And the girl?' one of the Adepts asked.
    
    'Assign her a room, and see that she's comfortable.
    But have her watched.' Keridil turned to Drachea. 'Heir
    Margrave, if you would accompany us . . . ?'
    
    Cyllan made no protest as the Adepts led her towards
    the silver door. Tarod stood motionless, watching her,
    and as she drew level with him she suddenly stopped and
    looked up.
    
    Tarod.' Her voice was frighteningly calm. 'I won't let
    this happen to you. I'm going to kill myself. I don't know
    how, but I'll find a way, I swear it. I'm not going to let
    you die for me.'
    
    'No, Cyllan.' He tried to reach out to her, forgetting
    momentarily that his hands were bound behind him.
    'You must live. For me.'
    
    She shook her head violently. 'Without you, I'll have
    nothing to live for! I'll do it, Tarod. I don't want to stay
    in the world if it means . . . this.' She pulled her hand
    free from her guard's grip . . . embarrassed and uncer-
    tain, the man let it go ... and touched his face gently.
    Tarod kissed her fingers, then turned his head away.
    
    'She means it, Keridil.' His eyes were filled with pain.
    
    'Stop her. You know what the alternative is.' And
    before Cyllan could speak again he walked away
    towards the vault beyond.
    
    It was a strange procession that made its way up the
    winding stairs to the Castle courtyard. Keridil led, with
    Drachea hurrying eagerly at his heels, and behind them
    came Tarod under the close guard of four Adepts.
    Cyllan and her escort followed, while the remainder of
    the high-ranking Adepts brought up the rear.
    
    As they approached the courtyard door, Cyllan felt a
    sense of foreboding at the prospect of what she might
    see. In a strange way she had come to love the Castle as
    she knew it; the eerie crimson light somehow befitted
    the ancient stone of its walls, and the stillness had a
    peace - albeit a dark, brooding peace - that was better
    suited to it than the bustle of human habitation. And
    there were memories here that brought tears to her eyes
    as she climbed the last few steps and emerged at last into
    the night.
    
    The crimson glow had gone. In its place, a dense grey
    darkness hung over all; the pewter-green of a night sky
    lit by the reflection of one Moon, now setting below the
    high walls. A faint susurration caught her ears and she
    saw the glitter of water from the ornate fountain, catch-
    ing and reflecting the dim starlight. The Castle stared
    down like a blind, indifferent beast, not a single lamp or
    torch showing in any of its myriad windows, and there
    was a smell of the sea on the night breeze.
    
    Keridil drew a deep breath, tasting the air. 'Come,' he
    said quietly. There's an hour or more to go before
    dawn, by the feel of it. We'll gather in the hall.'
    
    Silently they crossed the courtyard and mounted the
    steps to the main doors. As they walked through the
    Castle's corridors, footsteps echoing hollowly, Cyllan
    gazed about at her surroundings which had taken on a
    disturbing unfamiliarity. Every now and then she looked
    at Tarod, who walked ahead of her, and once she had
    tried to use her psychic skill to make mental contact with
    him, but he had not responded.
    
    She felt bitter and miserable. With victory literally in
    their grasp they had been thwarted, and she blamed
    herself for the misplaced pity which had allowed
    Drachea Rannak to live. Now, nothing but an empty
    void lay ahead of her. But she would find a way to do
    what she had promised. And when she was dead, Tarod
    would be free to exact his revenge . . .
    
    The doors of the dining-hall opened with a groan of
    protesting hinges, and Keridil surveyed the bare, des-
    erted chamber. It shocked him deeply to see the Castle
    so empty and forlorn, and to assuage his uneasiness he
    became brisk.
    
    'Rouse the servants, and have a fire lit,' he ordered.
    'We'll send word to the kitchens for food to be prepared
    - oh, and if someone would be so good as to find my
    steward, Gyneth, I'll need him here.' He turned to
    regard Tarod. 'Find the securest place you can find for
    him, preferably on the lower levels where there are no
    windows. I'll finalise the arrangements later. And as for
    this girl . . . ' He stared at Cyllan thoughtfully for a few
    moments, then beckoned to her escort. 'Come with me.'
    
    Cyllan looked back over her shoulder to see Tarod
    being hustled away through a side door before she was
    propelled up the stairs that led to the gallery above the
    vast fireplace. From the back of the gallery a small door
    led to another maze of passages and stairs, until finally
    they arrived at a narrow corridor on the Castle's highest
    floor. Keridil opened the door to a room at the far end,
    looked in and, satisfied, motioned for Cyllan's guards to
    bring her through.
    
    The room was small, and sparsely though comfortably
    furnished. An alcove bed, a single upholstered chair, a
    small table, and heavy velvet curtains at the window.
    Underfoot were woven rugs, and Cyllan stood mute in
    the middle of the room, staring around.
    
    Keridil crossed to the window and pulled the curtains
    back to reveal an iron mesh across the glass. Then he
    drew a knife from his belt and, with two quick strokes,
    severed the tasselled cords that hung from the curtains.
    Then he came to stand in front of Cyllan.
    
    'Understand me,' he said, not unkindly. 'The window
    is barred, so that you can neither open it and jump out,
    nor break the glass and use it to slash your wrists. There
    are no curtain ropes by which you can hang yourself.
    And a lamp will be fixed at a point too high for you to
    reach, so don't think you can burn yourself to death
    either.'
    
    Cyllan only glowered at him.
    
    'Consider yourself a valued guest of the Circle,'
    Keridil went on. 'When we've done what must be done
    you'll be free to go, and if you choose to take your own
    life then, it's no concern of mine.' He paused before
    smiling in an attempt to thaw her ice-cold expression.
    'Though I think it would be a tragic waste.'
    
    'Think what you please,' Cyllan said venomously.
    
    'I'll wish to talk to you when I've attended to some
    more urgent matters. I've yet to hear your side of this
    story, and I want to be fair.'
    
    That brought a response. Cyllan laughed harshly.
    'Fair?' she echoed. 'You don't know the meaning of the
    word! Tarod has told me about you, High Initiate, and I
    want none of your idea of justice!'
    
    Keridil sighed. 'Have it your own way. Perhaps in
    time you'll understand - I hope so. I feel no malice
    towards you, Cyllan- that is your name, isn't it? And I'll
    keep my side of the bargain I made with Tarod.'
    
    She smiled unpleasantly. 'So will I.'
    
    'I think not. Oh, you could try and starve yourself to
    death, true; but our physician, Grevard, has a few meth-
    ods for dealing with such cases, and he can keep you
    alive and well whether you will it or no. So you'll live,
    and you'll prosper. If you understand and accept that
    now, we'll get along a good deal better.'
    
    Cyllan walked to the window, shoulders hunched. 'I
    want to see Tarod.'
    
    'That isn't possible.' Keridil returned to the door and
    spoke in a lowered voice to the two Adepts. 'Stay on
    guard outside until I can find someone to relieve you.
    Keep the door between yourselves and her unless
    there's some emergency- but whatever you do, don't let
    
    her near your swords or she'll stab herself before anyone
    can stop her.' He looked back at the small, defiant figure
    by the window. 'She's a valuable hostage, although the
    gods alone know how valuable she'll prove to be until it's
    put to the test.' He clapped each man on the shoulder.
    'Be vigilant.'
    
    Cyllan heard the door close and lock from behind her,
    and turned to find herself alone in the unlit room. Her
    eyes had adjusted to the gloom, and she paced restlessly
    around the chamber's perimeter, seeking something
    which she could use to carry out her self-destructive
    plan. She wanted to die; wanted to free Tarod from the
    onus he had taken on himself - but Keridil had been
    thorough, and there was nothing to hand. Even the bed
    had no pillows, though she doubted if she could have
    smothered herself anyway . . . she was thwarted.
    
    At last, giving up the search, she moved to the bed and
    sat down, clasping her hands in her lap and trying not to
    let despair take hold of her. She wondered where they
    had taken Tarod, how he fared, whether she would be
    able to persuade them to let her see him, at least one last
    time before . . . angrily she broke the dismal train of
    thought. She wasn't going to admit defeat, not yet.
    While he lived, there was still hope. And she'd find a
    way to spark and fuel that hope . . . somehow, she'd
    find it.
    
    The words were brave - as Keridil had said - and yet
    in the solitude of her prison they rang hollow. Cyllan
    fought to keep them alive in her mind, but it was an
    unequal struggle. And at last, giving in to the feelings
    that lay buried far deeper within her, she began to cry,
    softly, helplessly, as the first pale glimmer of dawn
    showed beyond her window.
    
    *****
    
    The dining-hall was a maelstrom of activity, gladdening
    Drachea's heart as he sat, washed and refreshed and
    replete from a good breakfast, at a bench near the huge
    grate. A fire burned brightly, banishing the chill, and he
    
    was surrounded by men and women who all morning
    had plied him with questions, praise and gratitude until
    he was giddy with their approbation.
    
    A few paces from him, the High Initiate sat at a
    separate table with the senior members of the Council of
    Adepts - or at least, those who had survived their
    ordeal. It had been an unpleasant revelation to find that
    the return of Time had taken its toll. Seven of the
    Castle's older inhabitants, including the high Adept who
    had collapsed in the Marble Hall, were dead; their
    hearts incapable of withstanding the shock as the Pen-
    dulum had heralded its presence in their world like an
    earthquake. Others were in need of medical attention,
    and Drachea had glimpsed Grevard, the Castle's physi-
    cian and by all accounts the most skilled of his kind in the
    world, harassed and weary, attending to one emergency
    after another, aided only by two assistants and a horse-
    faced, elderly woman in the white robes of a Sister of
    Aeoris.
    
    An hour ago, a party from Shu Province had come
    thundering through the Maze that held the Castle aloof
    from all but the Initiated, and among their number had
    been a white-faced messenger from the Margrave him-
    self, bringing a plea for the High Initiate's aid in finding
    his missing son and heir. Keridil had immediately
    despatched a rider to carry the good news to Shu-
    Nhadek, and imagined that the Circle could anticipate a
    personal visit from Gant Ambaril Rannak by return.
    The prospect didn't please him - he remembered
    Drachea's father as a fussy martinet, and with so much
    confusion to put to rights he could do without unnecess-
    ary interruption. But there were formalities that
    couldn't be avoided - Drachea must remain at the Castle
    at least until a full session of the Council of Adepts could
    be convened so that he could present his evidence in the
    proper manner. And, although he had to admit privately
    that he didn't entirely like the arrogant young man,
    Keridil acknowledged that Drachea was due some for-
    mal recognition of the service he had rendered.
    
    He had now had the chance to hear the full story, at
    
    least in outline, and it formed a disturbing picture. But
    for Drachea's intervention. Tarod would have regained
    possession of the soul-stone, and the thought of the
    havoc he might have wreaked then was appalling. Now
    though, Tarod was safely locked away in one of the
    Castle's cellars, and as soon as Grevard had finished his
    work and had a chance to rest, he'd be detailed to see to
    it that the right precautions were taken.
    
    Keridil pinched the bridge of his nose between fore-
    finger and thumb as the papers before him blurred. He
    badly needed sleep himself, but there could be no
    respite yet. Messengers were arriving seemingly every
    minute, and he was only just beginning to realise the
    extent of the alarm that had been raised throughout the
    land at the Circle's unexplained disappearance. Spring
    was advancing; there had been plenty of time for
    rumours to arise and grow, and it would take a
    concentrated effort to spread the word that all was
    now well. A report must be made to the High Margrave,
    to the Matriarch of the Sisterhood; there were fears
    and speculations to be allayed . . . the list seemed
    endless and the prospect of completing the work
    daunting.
    
    But, somehow, it would be done . . . and Keridil was
    warmed by the thought that, in his task, he'd have the
    support of one person in particular. She sat near him
    now, in a comfortable chair a little behind his, and when
    he turned his head she smiled radiantly at him.
    
    Sashka Veyyil looked as serene and as beautiful as she
    had done at the moment when he had kissed her and left
    to begin the rite that would send Tarod to destruction. In
    a velvet gown with a fur-trimmed jacket over it to ward
    off chill, and with her rich auburn hair carefully dressed
    and ornamented, she was composed, self-assured, ut-
    terly the aristocrat, and Keridil felt proud of her. Time
    and again Sashka was proving her worth to him . . . she
    noted matters for his later attention, gave orders on his
    behalf, fended off the constant flow of messengers from
    the South. And later, when the work was done, she
    would come to him in his private rooms and let him taste
    
    again her pliant, hungry sweetness as she soothed away
    the ravages that the day wrought.
    
    Sashka herself was intrigued with the turn events had
    taken. Listening as Drachea Rannak's story was told,
    she had at first been wide-eyed with disbelief - but
    Keridil had confirmed enough of the facts to convince
    her. She congratulated herself on her own strength of
    character in taking the return from Timelessness in her
    stride - despite the fact that her only experience of it had
    been the shock which had racked the entire Castle as the
    Pendulum broke through from limbo - and now was
    speculating on the realisation that Tarod was still alive.
    Once, when he was seventh-rank Adept of the Circle,
    she had been betrothed to him . . . but when the truth
    about him was revealed, she had thankfully had the

    wisdom and foresight to change her allegiance before
    any slur could be cast upon herself. And the gods had
    rewarded her by bringing her to the attention of a man
    whose rank Tarod could never have hoped to match; a
    man, moreover, whom she found far easier to cajole and
    persuade to her will. As the High Initiate's paramour she
    had an undreamed-of status ... yet deep down some-
    thing still rankled, and would continue to rankle while
    Tarod lived. She despised him, hated him . . . but she
    couldn't entirely forget him. And because of those feelings,
    she wanted him to suffer. Before, she had had the satisfac-
    tion of believing that he still loved her and yearned for her;
    but now it seemed that matters had taken a different turn.
    The young man from Shu-Nhadek had spoken of a girl
    from the Eastern Flatlands who had taken it into her head
    to champion Tarod's cause, and who was now shut away in
    the Castle. It would be interesting, Sashka thought, to find
    out a little more about her . . .
    
    She leaned forward and touched Keridil lightly on the
    shoulder. He turned, smiling at her, and lifted her
    fingers to his lips to kiss them.
    
    'You must be weary, love,' he said solicitously.
    
    She shook her head. 'Not weary, no ... but a little
    stiff with sitting for so long. Will you forgive me if I leave
    you for a while?'
    
    'Of course.' He kissed her hand again. 'See if there's
    anything your .mother and father are in need of. And
    convey to them my regards.'
    
    'Of course.' She slid gracefully out through the nar-
    row aisle between tables, and made her way at leisure
    along the length of the dining-hall. An elderly woman in
    a Sister's robes, passing by, gave her a withering look,
    but Sashka ignored the scrutiny. Sister Erminet Rowald
    had been one of her Seniors at the West High Land cot
    where she was officially a Novice, and was at no pains to
    hide her dislike of Sashka. Sashka cared nothing for the
    good opinion of Sister Erminet, considering her a
    shrivelled and frustrated harridan who vented her jeal-
    ousy on those more fortunate than herself. And she had
    nothing to fear from the old woman, for if all went well,
    it was unlikely she would ever need to return to the cot to
    continue her studies.
    
    Holding her head at an arrogant angle, she brushed past
    Sister Erminet, then glanced around the hall. Almost at
    once she saw her quarry seated among a group of younger
    Initiates whom he seemed to be regaling with a story.
    Drachea Rannak was a celebrity, but Sashka felt sure he
    could be persuaded to give her a little of his time . . .
    
    She walked up to the table and said, 'Pardon me . . .'
    
    Drachea looked up, and was startled to see the beauti-
    ful, patrician girl who all morning had sat beside the
    High Initiate smiling down at him. He didn't know her
    name or rank, but her face alone was enough to arouse
    his interest. He rose, and bowed.
    
    'Madam. I'm afraid I haven't had the privilege of an
    introduction.'
    
    His manners were impeccable . . . Sashka inclined
    her head. 'I am Sashka Veyyil, of Veyyil Saravin, Han
    Province.' She was gratified to see that the clan name
    was familiar to him. 'I believe you are Drachea Rannak,
    Heir Margrave of Shu?'
    
    'At your service.'
    
    The Initiates had also risen, and were watching the
    exchange with interest. Sashka turned her haughtiest
    expression on them.
    
    'Gentlemen, the High Initiate has asked me to convey
    some information of a confidential nature to the Heir
    Margrave. If you would excuse us . . . ?'
    
    The ploy was effective, and with expressions of cour-
    tesy they moved away, leaving Sashka and Drachea
    alone. She sat down, gesturing graciously for him to do
    likewise, and with no preamble said, 'I was most inter-
    ested by your story, Drachea- may I call you Drachea?'
    
    He flushed. 'I'd consider it an honour.'
    
    Thank you. I particularly wanted to know more
    about the girl whom you tell us was in league with
    Tarod.'
    
    'Cyllan.' He didn't quite understand her; what pos-
    sible interest could she have in Cyllan's well-being?
    
    Sashka ignored his obvious puzzlement. 'Can you tell
    me something about her?' she asked sweetly. 'Her back-
    ground, her past - I gather that she's from the Great
    Eastern Flatlands.'
    
    Drachea studied his folded hands for a moment, then
    said with unexpected venom, 'Cyllan Anassan is nothing
    but an ignorant, gutter-bred slut who has yet to learn her
    place!'
    
    Sashka raised her perfect eyebrows. 'Indeed? You are
    - vehement, Drachea.'
    
    He smiled. 'Then I must crave your foregiveness. I
    have a personal score to settle with both that trull and
    her lover; memory of what I have suffered because of
    them makes me . . . indelicate in my expression of
    those feelings.'
    
    She reached out and laid a hand on his arm. 'It must
    have been a great ordeal for you.'
    
    Drachea's eyes burned eagerly. 'Yes . . .' Gods, this
    girl was exquisite . . . a match for any man with the
    courage to try her . . .
    
    'You said,' Sashka went on, not removing her hand,
    'that she was Tarod's lover.'
    
    'Lover, paramour, harlot - ' Suddenly Drachea grin-
    ned wolfishly. 'Whichever term you choose, he was fool
    enough to sacrifice himself for her sake.'
    
    'So he loves her . . . ?'
    
    'Love? I don't know if a soulless vermin like Tarod
    can know the meaning of the word. But he made a pact
    for her safety with the High Initiate, so he values the
    little witch in some way.' He paused. 'May I venture to
    ask if you yourself knew Tarod?'
    
    'Oh,' Sashka said carelessly, 'we all knew Tarod to
    some degree. I simply wanted to clarify one or two
    points that Keridil was unclear on.' She rose, amused by
    the haste with which he followed her example and grati-
    fied by his obvious anxiety to please her. 'Thank you,
    Drachea. You've been most helpful.'
    
    The chances of being able to speak alone with her
    again were slim, Drachea knew, and so before she could
    turn away he said, keeping his voice casual, This room
    grows a little overbearing - perhaps you'll permit me to
    escort you into the fresh air for a while?'
    
    She regarded him. 'Thank you, but no.'
    
    Then perhaps some refreshment?'
    
    Sashka smiled sweetly. 'I think that to save embar-
    rassment, Drachea, I should tell you that I am shortly to
    wed the High Initiate.'
    
    She had flattened him and dismissed him with a single
    sentence, and as he began to stammer out an apology
    she gave him a small, almost amused bow and walked
    away. The boy must be arrogance itself if he thought he
    was worthy of her ... he was well mannered and
    pleasant enough, but her prospects went far beyond a
    mere Margravate.
    
    'Sashka!' A voice spoke behind her, and she turned to
    find her father, Frayn Veyyil Saravin, at her elbow.
    
    'Father.' She kissed him. 'Is Mother rested?'
    
    'Well rested, yes - she'll join us a little later.' He
    nodded in the direction of Drachea, who had sat down
    again disconsolately. 'I saw you talking with the Heir
    Margrave. He seems a very worthy young man.'
    
    'I'm sure he is,' Sashka said disinterestedly.
    
    Frayn pursed his lips. 'I hope you weren't rude to him.
    He looks downcast, and I know what your tongue can be
    like.'
    
    'Oh, Father! Of course I wasn't rude. He made a
    
    polite and proper advance, and I simply told him that I
    am betrothed to the High Initiate.'
    
    Her father's jaw dropped. 'But you're not!'
    
    'Keep your voice down; people are staring at us.'
    
    His face purpled apoplectically and he repeated in a
    strangled whisper, 'But you're not betrothed!'
    
    'Not officially yet, perhaps, but . . . ' Sashka shrug-
    ged. 'It's only a matter of time, Father. Would you
    therefore want me to squander myself in some dalliance
    with a provincial Margrave's son?'
    
    Frayn frowned darkly. 'Sometimes, Sashka, your
    arrogance astonishes me! If Keridil hasn't yet asked for
    your hand - '
    
    'But he will.' She planted a kiss squarely on her
    father's forehead to pacify him, then, turning, tossed her
    hair back. 'Sashka Veyyil Toln - it sits well on the
    tongue, don't you think? And don't try to tell me that it
    won't be the best alliance our clan has ever had!'
    
    Frayn Veyyil Saravin sighed exasperatedly, but knew
    better than to argue with her. In truth he was deeply
    proud of what his daughter had achieved. He'd never
    felt easy with her original plan to marry that black-
    haired Adept; he'd always felt there was something
    wrong with the man, and his opinion had been vindi-
    cated. But the High Initiate was another matter. As a
    man of rank, Keridil was second only to the High Mar-
    grave himself; as an individual he was personable, trust-
    worthy, had already proved himself a worthy successor
    to his sire, Jehrek. Frayn could hope for nothing better.
    
    He caught his daughter's arm and squeezed it fondly.
    'Then if you're so set in your own mind, Sashka - and
    I'm not about to gainsay you - take an old man's advice,
    and return to the High Initiate's side. That's a woman's
    proper place, and he'll appreciate you the more for it.
    Ask your mother if you doubt me.'
    
    Sashka gave him one of her most beatific smiles, laced
    with a good measure of pity. 'Dear Father!' she said, and
    kissed him soundly again before moving quickly and grace-
    fully away in the direction of the hall doors.
    
    Chapter 11
    
    Cyllan's face was white and pinched with strain as she
    walked between her two guards through the Castle's
    corridors. In the three days which had passed since
    her imprisonment she had seen no one, save the
    escorted servant who brought her food and returned
    after an interval to take away the untouched plate,
    and she had spent almost all her time sitting at the
    window of her room, gazing out over the courtyard
    in the vain hope of gaining some clue to Tarod's
    whereabouts.
    
    She had to admit - though it rankled - that her captors
    had been scrupulous in keeping their part of the bargain
    for her life. No one had made any attempt to molest her;
    indeed, they'd treated her with punctilious courtesy,
    even kindness. She'd stonily rebuffed their efforts, igno-
    ring the delicacies sent to tempt her and refusing to
    respond to any attempt at conversation. But she knew
    that this impasse couldn't last forever. Keridil Toln had
    anticipated and thwarted any effort she might make to
    kill herself; unless she found another way to break the
    deadlock, then the grim pact would be fulfilled, and
    Tarod would die while she remained a helpless hostage.
    And she had little time left . . .
    
    She had tried to make mental contact with Tarod, but
    always her efforts failed, and she imagined that the
    Circle had taken precautions- perhaps by drugging him,
    perhaps by magical means - to prevent any communi-
    cation. And so, with every other way she could think of
    barred to her, Cyllan had concluded that she had but one
    choice ... to plead with the High Initiate for Tarod's
    life.
    
    Knowing what she knew of the enmity between
    Keridil Toln and Tarod, and the reasons behind it, she
    felt that a mouse in the jaws of a cat would have a better
    chance of survival than she had of convincing the High
    Initiate to heed her. But when, on her third morning of
    captivity, two Initiates came to confer with the guards
    outside her door and then announced that she was to be
    brought before Keridil for an interview, she felt a spark
    of hope. She had nothing to lose by making her plea save
    her self-respect, and that counted for nothing.
    
    And so she went with them willingly enough, her
    heart pounding with nervousness as at last they halted
    outside the door of the High Initiate's apartments.
    
    'Come.' Keridil answered the knock crisply, and
    Cyllan was led in.
    
    The room was lined with shelves crammed with papers,
    and dominated by a large table behind which Keridil Toln
    sat. Cyllan's spirits sank as she realised that, contrary to her
    hopes, he wasn't alone. Two elderly men flanked him, one
    fussing with a scroll, the other staring at her with something
    resembling distaste. Grevard, the Castle's physician,
    stood by the window, and on a chair nearby sat a girl of
    about Cyllan's own age; a patrician, beautiful yet cold-
    eyed girl with rich auburn hair. From Tarod's descrip-
    tion Cyllan recognised Sashka Veyyil immediately, and
    forced herself not to react outwardly to her first sight of
    the woman who had been his chief betrayer.
    
    'Cyllan.' The High Initiate's quiet voice broke into
    her angry thoughts and, dazedly, she turned to look at
    him. He smiled reassuringly. 'Please, sit down. There's
    nothing to fear.'
    
    She gave him a withering glance, and seated herself in
    the chair he indicated.
    
    Keridil clasped his hands and rested his chin on them.
    'We want to give you the chance to tell your side of this
    unhappy story,' he went on. 'And I hope that you'll look
    on us not as enemies, but as friends. There's a great deal
    you don't yet know about the events that have led up to
    today, and it's the merest justice that you should under-
    stand fully.'
    
    Cyllan stared back at him. 'Where is Tarod?'
    
    Sashka Veyyil coughed delicately, and amusement
    flickered in her eyes. Tarod still lives,' Keridil said.
    'And he has kept his side of the bargain we made. I hope
    we can persuade you to do the same.'
    
    She ignored the remark. 'I want to see him.'
    
    'I'm sorry; that's impossible. As I explained to you
    before -'
    
    'Keridil . . . ' Sashka rose gracefully and came to
    stand at his back, her hands resting lightly on his shoul-
    ders. 'Please, let me intercede for this girl. Surely, under
    the circumstances, she can at least be permitted to see
    Tarod one last time before he dies?' She looked at
    Cyllan and her eyes were malicious.
    
    That's a kind thought, love.' The High Initiate was
    clearly unaware of any ulterior motive, and Cyllan won-
    dered how he could be so blind to Sashka's duplicity.
    But if the patrician girl anticipated any reaction from
    Cyllan to her deliberate reminder of Tarod's impending
    fate, she was disappointed. Cyllan's expression
    remained stony. But inwardly the taunt was like a knife-
    thrust . . . and she knew she couldn't plead for Tarod's
    life in the presence of such an audience. Thought of
    Sashka's mockery, the cold hostility of the two old men,
    the physician's hawk-like scrutiny . . . she couldn't do
    it; the words would wither on her tongue, for her cause
    would be lost before she could begin.
    
    Keridil glanced at Sashka, who had resumed her seat.
    'We'll see what can be arranged . . . but there's time
    enough yet. I want to hear your story, Cyllan - and I
    want you to understand that we of the Circle are not
    your enemies. We want to help you, in any way that we
    can.'
    
    The look he received for his well-intentioned remark
    was one of such searing contempt that it brought an
    involuntary flush to his face. Collecting himself, he tried
    again.
    
    'Perhaps you'd begin by telling us how you came to
    the Castle? We've heard Drachea's side of the tale, of
    course, but - '
    
    'Then you don't need mine,' Cyllan said.
    
    'But we do. If justice is to be done - '
    
    'Justice?' She laughed harshly, then: 'I have nothing
    to say to you.'
    
    One of the elderly Councillors leaned across and cup-
    ped a hand to Keridil's ear. 'If this girl chooses to be
    difficult, High Initiate, I see little point in wasting time
    on her. We have, surely, all the information we need
    from the Rannak boy? And it must be said that any
    evidence she presents to us can at best be considered -
    ah - dubious.'
    
    Keridil looked obliquely at Cyllan, who sat mutely
    defiant on the chair opposite him. Despite her alle-
    giances he felt sympathy for her, and couldn't help but
    admire her steadfastness. He believed - and he didn't
    think it a rash assumption - that if she could be per-
    suaded to speak at all, she'd speak the truth. And he
    wanted to hear what she might have to say.
    
    He lowered his voice to a whisper. 'I take your point,
    Councillor Fosker, but I've a suspicion that the girl's
    reticence stems more from fear than hostility, and per-
    haps it's little wonder. With respect, I suggest that we'd
    have better hope of success if I were to interview her
    privately.'
    
    The elderly Initiate looked at his fellow Councillor,
    who had overheard Keridil's words. The other man
    grunted. 'If the High Initiate thinks it wise . . . '
    
    'I do.'
    
    Fosker nodded. 'Very well. Though I must say I've
    little faith in the notion, Keridil.'
    
    Keridil smiled thinly. 'I trust I can prove you wrong.'
    
    Cyllan watched with wary suspicion as the two old
    men made a great fuss of escorting Sashka to the door.
    She had caught the flash of resentment in the girl's eyes
    when Keridil asked her to leave, but Sashka made no
    overt protest. When they were gone, Grevard levered
    himself up from his reclining posture against the wall.
    
    'Do you wish me to leave, too?' he inquired.
    
    Keridil inclined his head. 'I'd appreciate it, Grevard.'
    
    The physician paused as he drew level with Cyllan,
    
    and stared critically at her, eyes narrowed. 'I'll want to
    see you again before much time has passed,' he told her
    sternly, then looked at the High Initiate. 'She's not been
    eating. We'll have to do something about that, if she's to
    stay in good health. As soon as I've had a chance to catch
    up on some sleep, I'll see to it.'
    
    Thank you.' Keridil watched until Grevard had
    closed the door behind him, then sat back with a sigh. A
    flask of wine and several cups stood near him on the
    table; he poured two cups and set one in front of Cyllan.
    She ignored it, and he said, 'You won't compromise
    yourself by drinking wine with me, Cyllan., I need it, and
    I don't doubt you do, too. Oh - and pay no heed to
    Grevard's brusque manner; it's merely an affectation.
    Now ... do you feel a little better without a plethora of
    strangers to stare at you?'
    
    He smiled encouragingly, and a little of Cyllan's lost
    confidence returned. He was attempting to bridge the
    gulf between them, and if she could bring herself to
    unbend towards him - or at least appear to - she might
    stand a slender chance of winning a sympathetic
    hearing.
    
    She nodded, and picked up the cup. The wine was
    light and crisp, and made her realise how thirsty and
    hungry she had become. She drank more, and Keridil
    nodded approval. 'That's better. If we can get along
    without hostility, I think this will be a happier interview,
    don't you?'
    
    Cyllan stared down into her cup. 'I didn't ask for this
    interview,' she said. 'And it's true that I've nothing to
    tell you that you don't already know.'
    
    'Maybe so. But I still want to hear the story from your
    own lips. I want to be fair to you, Cyllan. You've done
    nothing to harm the Circle, not directly; and it saddens
    me to think that you consider me your enemy.'
    
    The wine, on an empty stomach, was going quickly to
    her head. Cyllan looked up, blinking, and found herself
    voicing the thoughts she'd intended to keep to herself.
    'But you're Tarod's enemy, High Initiate. That makes
    you my enemy, also.'
    
    'Not of necessity. If you only understood what lies
    behind this affair - '
    
    'Oh, but I do. Tarod told me the whole story.' She
    paused. 'He also told me that you were once his closest
    friend.'
    
    Keridil shifted uncomfortably. 'Yes, I was. But that
    was before I discovered the truth about him.'
    
    'So you changed your allegiance without a second
    thought, and friendship and loyalty counted for
    nothing.' She smiled humourlessly. 'It's little wonder
    that Tarod is so bitter!'
    
    The barb went home, and not for the first time Keridil
    felt echoes of shame.
    
    Cyllan drained her cup and held it out for more. She
    was beginning to feel reckless, and although she knew
    the wine was dangerously loosening her tongue, she no
    longer cared. Keridil refilled her cup without comment,
    and she took another mouthful before setting it down.
    
    Tarod was loyal,' she said savagely. 'He was loyal to
    the Circle, and the Circle betrayed him.'
    
    Keridil shook his head. 'You don't understand. What-
    ever Tarod told you, it's a twisted image of the facts.'
    
    Tarod isn't a liar!'
    
    Keridil sighed. This was proving harder than he'd
    expected - he had hoped that by using reason he could
    persuade her round to his point of view, but the task was
    looking more hopeless with every moment. Cyllan had
    no thought for her own safety, no fear of reprisal - her
    loyalty to Tarod was ferocious, and the High Initiate
    realised that, however deluded she might be, she loved
    him. In the face of that, how could he make her accept
    that Tarod had to die?
    
    'Cyllan.' He laid both hands on the table, palms
    down, in a conciliatory gesture. 'Please. You must listen
    to me, and try to see matters through my eyes.'
    
    Anger flared in her look and she retorted, 'Must I,
    Keridil? You'll not see matters through mine - why
    should I make concessions where you refuse them?' She
    picked up her cup, drank again, beginning to feel giddy
    and a little sick. 'You hold me hostage while you make
    
    preparations to murder Tarod. Yes, murder,' she added
    as Keridil made to protest. 'It's nothing less than that!
    He's never been tried for his supposed crimes - oh, I too
    saw the documents! Instead, you simply condemn him to
    death because it's expedient!' She spat the last word
    viciously. 'If that's your justice, I want none of it!'
    
    Keridil's mouth tightened as anger began to replace
    the nagging guilt. 'As you're so ready to cry murder,' he
    snapped back, 'then perhaps you'll spare a thought for
    the fellow Initiate whom Tarod slaughtered in cold
    blood, in this very room! Do you condone that?'
    
    Cyllan smiled icily. 'Do you mean the man who killed
    Themila Gan Lin?'
    
    That was an accident!' Keridil got up and paced
    across the room, furious. The girl was twisting his every
    word to her own advantage; he felt as though he were
    the prisoner and she the inquisitor. Abruptly he turned
    on his heel, pointing a finger at her. 'Your lover isn't
    what you so fondly believe him to be. Damn it, he isn't
    even human! Consorting with Chaos is a crime that
    hasn't been heard of in this land for centuries, but you,
    with your ridiculous romantic notions, have committed
    that crime! The rightful punishment is death, and if it
    wasn't for the fact that we need you as a safeguard, I'd-'
    He stopped, realising that he was losing his temper, and
    took a deep breath. 'No. I didn't mean that; I'm sorry.'
    
    'You shouldn't be,' Cyllan replied, her eyes intense.
    'Kill me. I don't care.'
    
    He shook his head. 'I won't harm you. When Tarod is
    dead, you'll go free with no stigma attached to you. I'll
    keep my bargain - and.the gods know I don't bear you
    any personal ill will! But while you persist in this insane
    determination to champion an evil-doer, I can't help
    you, either.'
    
    She turned her head away. 'I don't want your help. I
    don't want anything from you - except Tarod's release.'
    
    'You know that's impossible. One day, with Aeoris's
    grace, perhaps you'll understand.'
    
    The storm of rage was past now, leaving Cyllan
    drained and weakened; and the wine was sapping her
    
    will to fight. At this moment she would have gone down
    on her knees before the High Initiate and pleaded for
    Tarod's life, but she knew with a dismal certainty that it
    could avail her nothing. Keridil was implacable in both
    his hatred and his resolve, and nothing she could do or
    say would sway him. She felt despairing tears start in her
    eyes and struggled to hold them back, but Keridil saw
    the tell-tale glitter on her lashes. He moved towards her,
    knowing he couldn't comfort her and yet urged by an
    uneasy conscience to try, but was interrupted by a tenta-
    tive knock at the door, which opened to reveal an elderly
    woman in the white robes of a Sister of Aeoris.
    
    'Oh . . . forgive me, High Initiate.' Her bright, sharp
    eyes focused on Cyllan. 'I'm seeking Grevard, and I was
    told I'd find him here.'
    
    Keridil forced himself, with an effort, not to snap at
    her. 'He was, Sister Erminet, but he's gone. Can I be of
    service?'
    
    'It's simply that your captive should be attended to
    before he has a chance to recover from Grevard's last
    dosage,' the old woman told him briskly. Cyllan's head
    came up sharply and she stared at the Sister, receiving a
    frown in return. 'I understand it's a precaution that's
    better not neglected,' Sister Erminet went on. 'But if
    Grevard is occupied elsewhere, I'll gladly see to the
    matter myself.'
    
    'Yes, yes.' Keridil was impatient, annoyed by the
    interruption and only thinking to rid himself of its
    perpetrator as quickly as possible. 'Please do as
    you think fit, Sister. Grevard will be grateful for your
    help.'
    
    'Very well.' The old woman looked at Cyllan again,
    speculatively this time. The girl's face was frozen, as
    though she'd seen some ancestral ghost, and the snip-
    pets of hearsay she'd gleaned in the Castle over the past
    few days began to make a pattern in Erminet's mind.
    She pulled her gaze away, nodded with quick courtesy to
    the High Initiate, and went out.
    
    Cyllan stared at the closed door until Keridil's hand
    on her shoulder startled her back to the moment. She
    
    jerked away, her face venomous. 'She's going to Tarod
    . . . where is he? What have you done with him?'
    
    'He's safe, and he's well enough.' Keridil spoke
    shortly.
    
    'I want to see him!'
    
    'And I've told you, you can't!' Sister Erminet's unwit-
    ting interruption had brought the High Initiate near the
    end of his tether. 'Don't you think I've enough to do
    without this miserable affair to contend with as well? I
    brought you here in the hope that I could make you see
    sense - I'm beginning to feel I'm wasting my time!'
    
    Cyllan bit her lip hard to stop the tears. 'We disagree,
    High Initiate, on what is sense and what is not. And if
    you think you'll persuade me to change, you're wrong!'
    She looked at him, accusation and contempt in her eyes.
    'Unlike many others, I abide by my word of honour!'
    
    Keridil's lips whitened and he strode to the door,
    flinging it open and shouting for Cyllan's escort, who
    were waiting a little further down the corridor. They
    hastened in, and he made a dismissive gesture in
    Cyllan's direction.
    
    'Get the girl out of my sight,' the High Initiate said
    coldly. 'She's had her chance - I'm wasting my time with
    her!'
    
    He wondered if Cyllan would have some last word,
    even some plea, as she was led away. Even now he'd
    help her if he could . . . but her face remained whitely,
    icily expressionless, and she didn't so much as glance at
    him. The door closed behind her and, angry and frus-
    trated, Keridil lifted his own wine cup and drained its
    contents in a single draught.
    
    The steep stairs that led down to the Castle's cellar level
    were uneven, and the unsteady light of Sister Erminet
    Rowald's lantern made the way more tricky still,
    especially with the added encumbrance of her bag of
    herbs and philtres. She had, however, refused all offers
    of help with her task, convincing Grevard that she could
    quite well manage alone.
    The physician had been thankful enough to have this
    
    particular duty lifted from his shoulders, and his willing-
    ness suited Erminet's purpose perfectly. Past the wine
    stores, he had told her; then the third cellar on the right.
    A troublesome task, and a time-consuming one . . .
    Erminet's nostrils caught the mingled smells of musty
    casks, old, spilled wine, stale air and earth; and wryly
    she wondered how any living being could be expected to
    prosper in such unsavoury surroundings.
    
    Reaching the bottom of the flight she set off briskly
    along the dark, narrow passage. At her heels a small
    silver-grey shape trotted, blending with the shadows,
    and as she approached the third door Erminet paused to
    look down at the cat which had followed her from the
    main wing.
    
    'Little Imp.' Affection softened the old woman's nor-
    mally acerbic tone, and the cat raised its tail high.
    There'll be no tidbits for you down here!'
    
    The cat uttered a self-satisfied chirrup in reply, and
    ran on ahead. It was one of the numerous offspring of
    Grevard's own pet which lived half wild in the Castle,
    and for some inscrutable reason it had lately taken to
    following Erminet wherever she went, attaching itself to
    her like a familiar. Erminet was amused and gratified by
    its partiality for her company; she had dubbed it the Imp
    - not entirely in jest; many people mistrusted these
    creatures' telepathic abilities - and, when no one was
    about to observe, spoiled it with food from her own plate.
    
    The cat, prompted by that same telepathic instinct
    which enabled its kind to communicate in a primitive
    way with human emotion and intent, stopped at the
    appropriate door and looked at Erminet with inquiring
    interest. The door was unguarded - Keridil had taken
    more arcane precautions - and Erminet drew the key
    Grevard had given her from her pouch. It turned stiffly
    in the lock, and she entered the cellar beyond.
    
    She couldn't see him at first. Her lantern-light was
    poor, and the shadows played tricks with the eyes. But
    as she turned from relocking the door carefully behind
    her, a figure moved in the deeper darkness on the far
    side of the chamber.
    
    He was sitting on what looked like a pile of worn and
    discarded rugs, his back propped against the damp wall,
    and even in this dim light Sister Erminet could see the
    sardony in his green eyes. Grevard had been lax - the
    drugs he had administered had clearly worn off, leaving
    the captive in full possession of his faculties. But perhaps
    that could be to her advantage . , .
    
    Tarod spoke suddenly. 'A Sister of Aeoris to adminis-
    ter to my needs. I'm honoured.'
    
    Erminet sniffed. She had encountered this man - or
    demon, or whatever he was - before, under similar
    circumstances; and although they had crossed swords,
    she felt respect and a strong measure of sympathy for
    him. Heretical though the thought might be, the old
    Sister strongly disapproved of the kind of treachery
    which had brought Tarod to this pass, and disliked
    seeing a once proud individual so reduced. And she had
    stronger views still on the nature of girls like Sashka
    Veyyil . . .
    
    'Adept Tarod.' She crossed the room towards him,
    aware that he hadn't as yet recognised her. 'I see
    Grevard's nostrums have done nothing to dull your
    tongue.'
    
    The green eyes narrowed momentarily, then Tarod
    laughed a tired, throaty laugh. 'Well, well; Sister
    Erminet. I didn't expect this particular wheel to come
    full turn again.'
    
    She set her bag down on the floor and stared at her
    patient. Gaunter than ever, unshaven, hair lank, clothes
    dirty . . . and the tell-tale lines of tremendous strain on
    his face. The sight of him affected her, and to combat
    such unwarranted feelings she was brusque as she said,
    'You look no better for your respite.'
    
    Thank you. Did Grevard send you specifically to
    entertain me with your observations?'
    
    'Grevard is too busy attending to what they tell me is
    the aftermath of your handiwork,' Erminet retorted.
    'I've simply been detailed to see that you are, and
    remain, stupefied.' She frowned at him. 'It would
    appear that someone has been neglecting their duty.'
    
    Tarod sighed. 'Perhaps they also tell you that I don't
    present a threat to anyone here, drugged or no.'
    
    This was what Erminet had suspected, and it fitted

    with the slowly emerging picture. 'I heard some rumour
    of a bargain between you and the High Initiate,' she
    said, busying herself with the contents of her bag. 'But it
    sounded unlikely, and no one took the trouble to explain
    it to a withered old apple like me, so I dismissed it as
    nonsense.'
    
    'It's true.' Tarod eyed the concoction she was prepar-
    ing with distaste.
    
    Erminet stopped her work and regarded him
    thoughtfully. Then I've misjudged you. I hadn't imag-
    ined you would accept defeat so easily.'
    
    She saw the answering flicker of pain in his eyes, and
    the cat, which until now had sat peacefully washing
    itself, paused to give a little cry of protest as though its
    telepathic senses had picked up some powerful emotion.
    Then Tarod said curtly, 'I have my reasons, Sister.'
    
    'Ah, yes . . . ' Erminet licked her lips. 'The girl. . . '
    
    The sudden change in the atmosphere was palpable as
    Tarod sat upright, every muscle tense. 'You've seen
    Cyllan?'
    
    She had expected a reaction, but not one so vehe-
    ment; and to hide her surprise she feigned indifference.
    'Cyllan; so that's her name. Yes, I've seen her, not an
    hour ago in fact. That is, if she's that frail-looking child
    with the pale hair and peculiar eyes.'
    
    Tarod tensed visibly. 'Where is she?'
    
    'Your anxiety betrays you, Adept.' Erminet eyed him
    with sour amusement, then abruptly relented. 'She was
    with the High Initiate, in his study - and yes, I recall the
    circumstances under which Sister-Novice Sashka Veyyil
    was granted a similar interview.' She remembered
    Cyllan's face, the agony of rage in her eyes; remem-
    bered, too, the argument on which she'd shamelessly
    eavesdropped before knocking at Keridil's door. 'You
    need have no fears there,' she added. 'Had the girl been
    armed, I imagine I'd have found the High Initiate with a
    knife through his heart.'
    
    Tarod closed his eyes. 'Then she's alive, and she's well
    ... I thought Keridil might betray our pact . . . '
    
    Erminet looked at him beadily. 'Your pact? How is
    the girl involved in that?'
    
    Tarod met her gaze, weighing her up in an attempt to
    decide whether or not he should say more. This old
    woman had tried to be kind to him once, in her peculiar
    way; despite his contempt for Circle and Sisterhood, he
    liked her - and, though in many ways the two women
    were poles apart, something in her character reminded
    him of Themila Gan Lin.
    
    He said, softly, 'Cyllan is the crux of our pact, Sister.
    She is a hostage against my good behaviour. If I should
    fight against the fate the Circle has ordained for me,
    Keridil will have her executed the moment I'm dead.'
    
    Erminet was clearly shocked, and her customary sour-
    ness gave way to sudden humanity. 'But she's no more
    than a child! The High Initiate surely wouldn't - '
    
    'She has consorted with me. Any Province Margrave
    would hang her for less.'
    
    That was true enough. . . no one, now, was in any doubt
    as to Tarod's real nature, although in the privacy of the
    cellar Erminet found it hard to believe she was talking with
    a demon of Chaos. She should have been afraid of him, but
    wasn't. To her, he seemed little more than a victim of
    circumstance . . . and that was a condition she understood
    all too well, even if the memory was forty years old . . .
    
    'So you're prepared to die, in order to save her life . . .'
    she said.
    
    'Yes.'
    
    Gods, she thought, was the age-old pattern repeating
    itself yet again? She licked her dry lips. 'And when
    you're gone?' she asked.
    
    'Keridil has promised that she'll go free.' Tarod's eyes
    darkened. 'I have no choice but to trust him. At least this
    way she'll have a chance.'
    
    Erminet doubted the wisdom of speaking what was in
    her mind, but couldn't break her lifelong habit of brutal
    honesty. 'Are you sure it's a worthwhile sacrifice,
    Tarod? You were betrayed once . . . '
    
    For a moment she thought he'd strike her, but the
    anger in his eyes died and he only said, 'I'll not
    be betrayed a second time, Sister Erminet. Not by
    Cyllan.'
    
    No ... recalling again what she had overheard,
    Erminet believed that he was right. She sat down, dis-
    carding her potions, and her face was suddenly drawn
    with an uncomfortable mingling of confusion and pain.
    Tarod's love for that strange little outland girl, his readi-
    ness to lose his own life in order to save hers, moved her
    deeply, awakening emotions which she'd thought gone
    and forgotten. She sat motionless for what seemed a
    long time, tormented by her thoughts, and only looked
    up when Tarod's hand touched her arm.
    
    He was smiling, faintly but kindly. 'Forty years ago,
    you said, Sister. But you haven't forgotten what it is to
    love, have you?'
    
    The face of the youth, doubtless by now aged and
    withered, as she was, who had spurned her and for love
    of whom she had tried to kill herself, was suddenly sharp
    and clear in Sister Erminet's inner eye. The cat ran up to
    her and tried to climb on to her lap, making small sounds
    of distress. Tarod stroked its head. 'I'm sorry. I
    shouldn't have spoken.'
    
    'Nonsense.' Erminet forced her voice to take on its
    old brusqueness. 'Ghosts can't harm anyone . . . ' She
    laughed, sharply and artificially. 'I haven't cried since I
    entered the Sisterhood, and I'm not about to start now;
    not for myself, at any rate.' She looked at him, her eyes
    over-bright. 'But that doesn't stop me wishing there was
    something I could do for you and that girl.'
    
    Tarod leaned back. 'You could do something for me,'
    he told her. 'If you will.'
    
    'What's that?'
    
    'See to it that she lives, and prospers.'
    
    Erminet blinked. 'Should she not?'
    
    'She's sworn to take her own life. She tried once,
    when we were first captured, to stop the bargain being
    made. I believe she'll try again, and I don't trust Keridil
    to prevent her.' He hesitated. 'If you can do that for me,
    
    Sister, you'll have my lifelong gratitude - ' He stopped,
    and laughed at the irony of his own words. 'No; that's
    worth little enough. Say instead, my thanks.'
    
    It was a modest enough request; and if the High
    Initiate, or her own Senior, the Lady Kael Amion,
    disapproved, they might do as they pleased. The
    thought gave Erminet a frisson that was almost pleasant.
    
    'I don't need your thanks,' she told Tarod. 'I'll do as you
    ask, because I don't want to see two lives wasted where one
    would suffice.' Abruptly she smiled. 'There; now you have
    a sour old woman's reasoning to comfort you.'
    
    'You're not as sour as you like to pretend.'
    
    'You've only seen my weaknesses. But you'll see my
    strengths unless you take this.' Bending, she picked up
    the concoction she had been mixing. 'Enough, Grevard
    says, to render you unconscious, so that the rest of us can
    sleep easy in our beds tonight.'
    
    Sleep would be a blessing ... its oblivion was far
    preferable to the long, solitary hours, the agony of wait-
    ing, of wondering. Tarod took the tiny silver cup. 'A
    bargain, then, Sister Erminet.'
    
    'You're too fond of making bargains for your own
    good,' she said with an attempt at acid humour. 'But yes.
    I'll keep my promise.'
    
    She watched as he drank the cup's contents, then took
    it from him and said, 'I'll speak to the girl. I'll tell her you
    still live - though whether she'll trust me, I can't predict.
    Were I in her place, I wouldn't believe a word anyone
    said to me.'
    
    Tarod gazed thoughtfully into the middle distance for
    a few moments, then smiled wryly. 'Give her a message
    from me, Sister. Ask her if she remembers her first visit
    to the spire . . . and remind her that I took nothing she
    was unwilling to give.' His green eyes met Erminet's.
    'She'll understand.'
    
    His look made the old woman feel something akin to
    shame. She nodded, hiding behind a brisk defence. 'I'll
    tell her.'
    
    Tarod leaned forward and kissed her brow. 'Thank
    you.'
    
    Erminet smiled thinly. 'I never thought I'd live to be
    kissed by a demon from Chaos. That would have been a
    tale to tell my grandchildren, had I had them.'
    
    The Imp, silent as a shadow, followed her out of the
    door. Tarod heard the key grate in the stiff lock, then
    tried to make himself comfortable as he waited for the
    drug to take effect. Although the cellar was almost
    pitch-black without Sister Erminet's lantern, he could
    see well in darkness. Not that there was any prospect
    worthy of attention . . .
    
    He lay back, ignoring the irrational flicker of hope
    within himself. Hope was a pointless exercise. One old
    woman, however kindly her intentions, could do
    nothing beyond bearing a message; and during the stul-
    tified miasma of the days since his capture Tarod had
    consciously chosen to resign himself to what fate had
    decreed for him. He had quenched the fires of hatred
    and vengeance and fury, deliberately deadening all feel-
    ing and all thought of the future. If Cyllan were to
    survive, he could do nothing more.
    
    His eyelids felt heavy, and he wondered if he would
    dream. If he did, likely as not they'd be fragmented
    dreams, meaningless; as everything else was meaning-
    less now. Tarod closed his eyes. Briefly, in his inner
    vision, he thought he saw a many-faceted stone, glitter-
    ing like a mocking eye, and from far away someone - or
    something - seemed to call his name with an odd
    urgency. Lapsing into narcotic-induced confusion he
    ignored the call, thrust it away. It faded and was gone,
    and he lay still in the silent darkness of the cellar.
    
    Chapter 12
    
    The Sun's last light had flared above the Castle wall in
    brief glory, and the first of the two Moons would soon
    show its pockmarked face in the East. Torches flickered
    in the courtyard; groups of people crossed the flagstones
    and an occasional burst of laughter drifted up to where
    Cyllan sat at her window staring out, unmoved, at the
    activity.
    
    She was exhausted by her argument with Keridil Toln,
    dazed with the effects of the wine, and yet she couldn't
    sleep. She had had her one chance to plead for Tarod,
    however remote the hope of succeeding - and her tem-
    per had got the better of her. She'd failed him; and now
    it seemed there was no other path left.
    
    Fury welled up in her, a bitter railing against the
    Circle's justice which could condemn one of their own to
    a terrible death without a qualm. The ceremony involved
    fire, Tarod had told her; a supernatural fire that burned
    more than flesh—abruptly Cyllan put a hand to her mouth,
    forcing back a sick spasm as hideous images sprang
    unbidden and unwanted into her mind. When the spasm
    faded she was shaking uncontrollably with the rage of
    impotence, and with a desperate fear that made her
    want to scream aloud. Tarod would die, while she sat by
    in this dismal room, helpless until she should be granted
    her freedom - and then it would be far too late.
    
    But there was nothing she could do. Keridil had seen
    to it that she couldn't kill herself and thereby negate the
    bargain Tarod had made; Tarod would not abandon her
    as she had pleaded with him to do; the Circle was
    intractable. Her only choice, now, would be to go down
    on her knees and pray to Aeoris for a miracle.
    
    But Aeoris was unlikely to take pity on one who
    interceded on behalf of Chaos. More likely the White
    Lord would rejoice at Tarod's destruction, and, not
    caring that the thought was blasphemous, Cyllan felt her
    anger focusing on the god himself. She'd find no help
    there - better to turn to Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who
    had claimed kinship with Tarod . . .
    
    Yandros. The idea shocked her and chilled her blood.
    But surely Yandros, of all beings, wouldn't be willing to
    see Tarod die, if it was within his power to intervene?
    
    She tried to dismiss the idea as insane. Tarod himself
    had rejected his links with Chaos, banished Yandros,
    and spoke of him as a deadly enemy. Yet, Cyllan
    reasoned, there could be no enemy deadlier than those
    who were bent on Tarod's annihilation. Perhaps
    Yandros couldn't aid her; perhaps he'd not choose to.
    But with every other door closed to her, she had nothing
    left to lose.
    
    She rose, still shaking, and for a minute or two stared
    at the slowly rising Moon, which glared back like a
    malevolent eye. How could she reach out to such an
    entity as Yandros? The travelling Sisters who had cate-
    chised the children of her home village taught that
    Aeoris heard the most humble of petitions; that a pure
    heart and spirit was enough to ensure the great god's
    benevolence. Cyllan's heart and spirit were ablaze with
    a black flame of fury - and petitioning Chaos was a very
    different matter. By turning to Yandros, she would
    betray her fealty to the White Lords and damn herself in
    their eyes. But to reject any possibility that gave her
    even the most slender thread of hope was a greater
    betrayal still . . .
    
    She lowered her gaze to look across the courtyard,
    beyond the splashes of torchlight and the groups of
    people, to the brooding bulk of the Castle's North spire
    where Tarod had had his eyrie. Her eyes misted as she
    thought of him, and she said softly, as though whispering
    to an intimate companion.
    
    'Tarod . . . forgive me. There's no other way left.'
    
    Turning, Cyllan sat down cross-legged on the floor.
    
    By tradition all prayers to Aeoris were made while the
    supplicant faced the East. As Yandros was Aeoris's
    sworn enemy it seemed fitting that his petitioner should
    look to the West, and she quelled an instinctive sense of
    sacrilege as she set her back to the point of Sunrise.
    Closing her eyes, she tried to form an image in her mind,
    recalling the vision she had seen in the Marble Hall when
    the defaced statues had manifested their true origin to
    her. Sharp-etched features, beautiful but cruel; mouth
    smiling in mockery, eyes slanted and knowing . . . the
    picture wavered, eluding her. She concentrated harder,
    her breathing harsh and loud in the room's quiet, but
    still the image wouldn't form.
    
    If only she had her stones . . . they would aid her,
    enable her to focus her mind and her desires. But her
    pouch lay somewhere in the Castle beyond her reach,
    and she didn't dare ask for it lest her motives should be
    suspected. Cyllan's eyes flickered open and she sighed.
    She was no sorceress - her skills were limited enough
    even with the precious pebbles; without them she could
    do nothing.
    
    Then her gaze lit on a bowl which her jailers had
    earlier placed on the table. In an effort to tempt her
    appetite, and thus avoid the unpleasant necessity of
    calling on Grevard's services to force her to eat, Keridil
    had sent a dish of Prospect Province fruits from the
    Castle's precious supply. She had ignored them, despite
    their rarity and the fact that she had never been offered
    such delicacies in her life; but now she realised that the
    fruit would contain stones . . . and even a substitute
    might suffice if her own pebbles were unavailable.
    
    Quickly she snatched the bowl from the table and
    broke one of the fruits apart. At its centre was a hard,
    wrinkled stone the size of her thumbnail. . . discarding
    the pulp, Cyllan set to work on the other fruits until she
    had a collection of some dozen seeds. Few enough, but
    they might be all she needed . . . She licked juice from
    her fingers - she was sorely tempted to eat one or two of
    the ruined fruits, but, having heard of the importance of
    fasting for magical rites, rejected the impulse - then
    
    wiped her palms on her skirt and gathered the stones
    into her hands.
    
    This time, when she closed her eyes the darkness
    behind her lids was absolute. And moments later she felt
    the first prickling sensation at the back of her neck,
    suffusing through to her scalp. Quelling her excitement
    she focused her mind, feeling the rough, hard contours
    of the stones between locked fingers. Hardly aware of
    what she did, her lips formed a name, whispered it into
    silence.
    
    'Yandros ...'
    
    Her hands were hot, blazing hot; the stones like ice by
    comparison . . . and a face was beginning to form in her
    inner eye, taking shape and life . . .
    
    ' Yandros . . . Yandros, hear me. Lord of Chaos, hear
    me . . . '
    
    The room's stillness deepened and the air seemed to
    cloy around her, as though a vast, dark curtain had
    descended. Cyllan could feel her pulse pounding suf-
    focatingly throughout her body; her hands burned, the
    stones burned . . .
    
    'Yandros, Lord of Night, Master of Illusion, hear my
    prayer . . . ' The words were coming swiftly, uncon-
    sciously; she no longer chose them but they were sud-
    denly there on her tongue, as though an ancient memory
    had awoken. 'Yandros, though you were banished, your
    servants still remember. Return to me, Master of Chaos,
    return from the realm of Night and aid me?
    
    It was as though the stones had caught fire in her
    hands. Cyllan cried out with pain and shock, and the
    fruit-seeds scattered across the floor as she flung them
    from her with a violent reflex, rocking back. And at the
    same moment a dull, echoing crack reverberated in her
    ears.
    
    'Aeoris!' The oath, though inappropriate, was invol-
    untary, and Cyllan's eyes snapped open.
    
    The gloomy walls of her room surrounded her,
    unchanged. The stones lay on the floor, forming a ran-
    dom pattern which she couldn't even begin to interpret,
    and as the shock of their burning heat faded she realised
    
    miserably that she had failed. Yandros either could not
    or would not answer her call, and all she had experi-
    enced was the delusion of a fevered and desperate
    imagination.
    
    She rose, ignoring the scattered stones, and walked to
    the window. The first Moon was high now - odd; for it
    seemed that only a few minutes had passed - and its
    scarred face, near full, mocked her chagrin. Down
    below in the courtyard the torches had been
    extinguished and the giant rectangle was empty.
    
    Or was it? Cyllan looked again, and realised that there
    were figures in the court . . . but none of them was
    moving. Each stood like a statue, as though a single
    moment in their lives had been frozen and preserved.
    They looked faintly ridiculous, some with one foot
    raised in the act of walking, one with an arm held high in
    some extravagant, arrested gesture . . . and the foun-
    tain was no longer playing . . .
    
    Instinct warned her in the split second before she
    heard the softly emphasised sound of a latch clicking
    behind her. She whirled round -

    The outlines of a door which hung suspended in the
    middle of the room were flickering out of existence,
    vanishing even as she glimpsed them. He stood before
    her, and with a flowering of panic she realised that she
    faced something so far beyond humanity that the con-
    cept threatened her sanity. Tall, gaunt, gold hair flowing
    over his high shoulders, he could have been Tarod's twin
    - but for the fact that there was no trace of mortality in
    the beautiful, cruel features, that the smile on his lips
    made a mockery of human knowledge and ambition. His
    narrow, feline eyes were opalescent, their colour shift-
    ing and changing in the deceptive Moonlight.
    
    Cyllan backed away until her spine jarred against the
    window-frame. She was struggling for breath, but there
    was no air to fill her lungs. The being - demon or god,
    whatever he might be termed - stepped with graceful
    ease towards her, and as he moved, the outlines of the
    room warped and twisted as though they and he could
    not exist in the same space. Cyllan sensed a vastness
    
    wiped her palms on her skirt and gathered the stones
    into her hands.
    
    This time, when she closed her eyes the darkness
    behind her lids was absolute. And moments later she felt
    the first prickling sensation at the back of her neck,
    suffusing through to her scalp. Quelling her excitement
    she focused her mind, feeling the rough, hard contours
    of the stones between locked fingers. Hardly aware of
    what she did, her lips formed a name, whispered it into
    silence.
    
    'Yandros . . . '
    
    Her hands were hot, blazing hot; the stones like ice by
    comparison . . . and a face was beginning to form in her
    inner eye, taking shape and life . . .
    
    'Yandros. . . Yandros, hear me. Lord of Chaos, hear
    me . . . '
    
    The room's stillness deepened and the air seemed to
    cloy around her, as though a vast, dark curtain had
    descended. Cyllan could feel her pulse pounding suf-
    focatingly throughout her body; her hands burned, the
    stones burned . . .
    
    'Yandros, Lord of Night, Master of Illusion, hear my
    prayer . . . ' The words were corning swiftly, uncon-
    sciously; she no longer chose them but they were sud-
    denly there on her tongue, as though an ancient memory
    had awoken. 'Yandros, though you were banished, your
    servants still remember. Return to me, Master of Chaos,
    return from the realm of Night and aid me!'
    
    It was as though the stones had caught fire in her
    hands. Cyllan cried out with pain and shock, and the
    fruit-seeds scattered across the floor as she flung them
    from her with a violent reflex, rocking back. And at the
    same moment a dull, echoing crack reverberated in her
    ears.
    
    'Aeoris!' The oath, though inappropriate, was invol-
    untary, and Cyllan's eyes snapped open.
    
    The gloomy walls of her room surrounded her,
    unchanged. The stones lay on the floor, forming a ran-
    dom pattern which she couldn't even begin to interpret,
    and as the shock of their burning heat faded she realised
    
    miserably that she had failed. Yandros either could not
    or would not answer her call, and all she had experi-
    enced was the delusion of a fevered and desperate
    imagination.
    
    She rose, ignoring the scattered stones, and walked to
    the window. The first Moon was high now - odd; for it
    seemed that only a few minutes had passed — and its
    scarred face, near full, mocked her chagrin. Down
    below in the courtyard the torches had been
    extinguished and the giant rectangle was empty.
    
    Or was it? Cyllan looked again, and realised that there
    were figures in the court . . . but none of them was
    moving. Each stood like a statue, as though a single
    moment in their lives had been frozen and preserved.
    They looked faintly ridiculous, some with one foot
    raised in the act of walking, one with an arm held high in
    some extravagant, arrested gesture . . . and the foun-
    tain was no longer playing . . .
    
    Instinct warned her in the split second before she
    heard the softly emphasised sound of a latch clicking
    behind her. She whirled round -
    
    The outlines of a door which hung suspended in the
    middle of the room were flickering out of existence,
    vanishing even as she glimpsed them. He stood before
    her, and with a flowering of panic she realised that she
    faced something so far beyond humanity that the con-
    cept threatened her sanity. Tall, gaunt, gold hair flowing
    over his high shoulders, he could have been Tarod's twin
    - but for the fact that there was no trace of mortality in
    the beautiful, cruel features, that the smile on his lips
    made a mockery of human knowledge and ambition. His
    narrow, feline eyes were opalescent, their colour shift-
    ing and changing in the deceptive Moonlight.
    
    Cyllan backed away until her spine jarred against the
    window-frame. She was struggling for breath, but there
    was no air to fill her lungs. The being - demon or god,
    whatever he might be termed - stepped with graceful
    ease towards her, and as he moved, the outlines of the
    room warped and twisted as though they and he could
    not exist in the same space. Cyllan sensed a vastness
    
    surrounding him, an alien dimension that clashed with
    the natural laws of this world. He was here, and yet not
    here - this was but one manifestation of an entirety
    whose essence, if once glimpsed, would send her scream-
    ing over the brink of madness. This was Chaos . . .
    
    Propelled by a combination of terror, awe and a fear-
    ful reverence, Cyllan dropped to her knees. 'Yandros

    
    'Rise, Cyllan.' Yandros's voice was like silver, yet the
    mellifluence only thinly disguised an implacable men-
    ace. Shaking, she forced herself to obey, though all her
    instincts protested, and he walked slowly in a circle
    around her, his unhuman eyes critical and the small
    smile still playing on his lips. At last he stopped before
    her once more, and she felt his scrutiny like a physical
    pain as he gazed down at her.
    
    'So you've chosen to damn yourself by calling on me.'
    Yandros spoke with careless amusement. 'I commend
    your courage. Or your foolishness.'
    
    Cyllan shut her eyes tightly and reminded herself that
    Tarod had not feared this being. She had summoned
    Yandros of her own free will; if he proved a harsh
    master, she must take the consequences. With an effort
    she forced herself to speak.
    
    'I had no choice. They mean to kill Tarod, and I can't
    help him.' Taking a grip on her fear she looked up into
    his ever changing eyes. 'You're my only hope.'
    
    The Chaos Lord bowed sardonically. 'You compli-
    ment me. And why do you believe that it might be in my
    interests to save a pledged servant of Aeoris?'
    
    He was challenging her to prove herself; as perverse
    as she might have anticipated . . . Cyllan licked dry lips.
    'Because you once called Tarod "brother".'
    
    Yandros continued to regard her for a few moments,
    and she didn't dare to imagine what he might be think-
    ing. Then he stepped forward, and laid a hand on her
    head. She flinched inwardly from the cold touch of his
    fingers, feeling her stomach turn over, but forced herself
    not to give ground.
    
    'And you are willing to jeopardise your very soul in
    
    order to save him . . . that's a very noble sentiment,
    Cyllan.' The silver voice was disdainful still, but some-
    thing akin to affection had crept into the tone. 'It would
    seem we chose well when we brought you to the Castle.'
    Shocked, she stared at him uncomprehending. 'You -
    you brought me - ?'
    
    Yandros laughed softly; a sound that made her shud-
    der. 'Let's say we were instrumental in your arrival.
    Exiled we may be, but some of the forces that serve our
    cause still remain in this land.'
    Suddenly she understood. 'The Warp . . . '
    'As you say: the Warp. Even Aeoris and his corrup-
    tion-ridden brothers couldn't entirely rid the world of
    their old enemy.' Yandros smiled. 'And when we also
    find a mortal willing to serve us, our ambitions begin to
    take form . . . and that pleases us.'
    
    So she had been a dupe, a tool, manipulated by Chaos
    from the beginning . . . Cyllan began to feel sick at the
    thought of that implication and recalled what Tarod had
    told her of the Chaos Lord's machinations. Yandros
    wanted to challenge the rule of Order, to snatch the land
    back into the maelstrom from which Aeoris had saved it
    so many centuries ago. And he saw them both as pawns
    in the greater game.
    
    But however evil Yandros might be, whatever the fate
    he planned for the world, Cyllan no longer cared. He
    alone could help her to save Tarod from annihilation,
    and no price was too great to pay for that.
    
    The Chaos Lord regarded her, clearly aware of her
    thoughts. At last, almost gently, he said,
    'What is it that you ask of Chaos, Cyllan?'
    She took a deep breath. 'Help me to save Tarod's life!'
    He inclined his head. 'And how would you envisage
    that I do it? Should I bring a legion of demons to raze the
    Castle and consign its inhabitants to the Seven Hells?
    Would you condone that, to save him?'
    Cyllan met his searing gaze. 'If need be.'
    'Ah; then you are worthy of Tarod.' To her astonish-
    ment she saw respect lurking beneath the amusement in
    Yandros's  expression  before  his  thin  lips  quirked
    
    downwards. 'But, much as the thought appeals to my
    sense of justice, it can't be done. We are in exile, Cyllan.
    Our powers in this world are a poor shadow of what they
    once were. I have been able to reach your mind and
    speak with you - but I can bring you no direct aid.' He
    smiled again, thinly. 'Only Tarod had the power to open
    the way to us, and he chose instead to break the pact we
    had made and turn his back on the old allegiance.'
    
    Cyllan felt her throat constrict. Yandros's mercurial
    nature was twisting again, offering her hope one minute,
    despair the next. He had made no promise to help her
    . . . could it be that, even now, he'd refuse?
    
    She said, her voice unsteady: 'I can't deny that. But I
    hope -I believe - that in spite of it, you won't abandon
    him now.'
    
    Yandros's look was enigmatic. 'You place a childlike
    faith in our loyalty.'
    
    'I have no other choice.'
    
    The Chaos Lord considered. 'And if I am persuaded
    . . . what would you have me do?'
    
    She had thought, and she saw only one way. 'Kill me,'
    she said harshly. 'Break the hold that the High Initiate
    has over Tarod. When I'm dead, there'll be nothing to
    stop him from taking revenge.' She hesitated, then her
    eyes met his and she added with heartfelt emphasis,
    'Please
    
    'No.' Yandros held up a graceful hand, forestalling
    her protest. 'To free Tarod by destroying you would be a
    waste. I could do it - and would, if it served my purpose -
    but there are better ways, and you're of more use to us
    while you live. But understand this; if Tarod is also to
    live, you must serve us, and serve faithfully. Look at
    me.'
    
    She had cast her gaze down, but now, at his bidding,
    looked up again. Yandros's eyes had turned black, and
    mirrored in them she saw images that made her recoil
    with a deep-buried, atavistic horror. Havoc - a wild,
    howling insanity of impossible colours, tormented
    shapes, shrieking faces - the stuff of Chaos itself, roiling
    from the implacable black eyes turned towards her,
    
    ready to explode upon the world in insane
    pandemonium.
    
    'You see what you must pledge yourself to serve.'
    Yandros's voice was cruel, unrelenting. 'Make your
    choice!'
    
    Panic seized her; the revulsion of a hundred genera-
    tions who had sworn fealty to the peace of Order; the
    inherited memories of thousands who had died to wipe
    the plague of Chaos from the world; the horrors of
    eternal damnation. To ally herself to this being would be
    to betray all she had ever known . . . yet without
    Yandros, Tarod would die . . .
    
    Slowly, shaking violently, Cyllan dropped to one knee
    before the Chaos Lord.
    
    Yandros smiled. He had foreseen enough to confirm
    the judgement he had made in sending the Warp that
    had snatched this girl from her old life; in moving the
    fanaani, who owed no debt to Order, to save her from
    the sea; in manifesting a part of himself in answer to her
    call. And if she succeeded in her task, she alone would
    hold the key to Tarod's future . . . and the future of the
    Chaos realm. She would be a valuable servant ...
    
    There can be no turning back,' he said softly, with
    satisfaction.
    
    Cyllan didn't raise her head, but he saw her nod
    almost imperceptibly before she whispered, 'What must
    I do?'
    
    'You must find the stone . . . and restore it to its
    rightful owner.'
    
    She looked up quickly. 'How can I do that?'
    
    'By using the cunning and the guile that have already
    stood you in good stead. We can help you - we have no
    power to intervene directly, but our . . . influence . . .
    may still be felt in the right quarters.' Abruptly the smile
    faded from his expression. 'It must be done, Cyllan.
    Only Tarod has the power to call us back to the world,
    and then only when the soul-stone is in his possession
    once more. But if the stone remains in the hands of these
    worms of Order, they'll not rest until its essence is bound
    and destroyed.' His proud, sinister face now held no
    
    trace of kindness, but was cruelly venomous. 'If the
    stone is destroyed, Tarod's soul will be destroyed with it.
    And that is not what you want ... is it, Cyllan?'
    
    'No . . . ' she whispered.
    
    Yandros raised a hand, pointing at her heart. 'Then, if
    you desire him to live, I charge you to return the Chaos
    stone into his keeping.' His eyes flashed with a white-hot
    fire. 'Don't fail me - for if you do, you'll lose far more
    than Tarod's life. Your own gods damned you when you
    called on Chaos for aid; but if you fail Chaos now, your
    soul will find no comfort in our realm!'
    
    His tone struck to the marrow of her bones; a chill
    certainty that brought back the horrifying images she
    had seen in his eyes. She couldn't answer; she was too
    appalled by the enormity of the bargain she had made.
    
    Yandros seemed to relent a little and his eyes quieted,
    strange colours moving once more in their slanting
    depths. 'Do your work well, and you have nothing to
    fear,' he said more softly. 'And don't think that you're
    entirely alone. There is one here in the Castle who will
    help you. When you meet that one, you'll know.'
    Abruptly he caught her left hand, turning it palm up.
    'You cannot summon me again, Cyllan. I've answered
    you this once, and I can do no more. But I leave you with
    my blessing.' And with a gesture that seemed to mock
    human courtesy, he kissed her wrist.
    
    It was as though a burning brand had been touched to
    her arm. Cyllan screamed with pain, jerking violently
    backwards - and as she fell, a fire-hot blast of air ripped
    through the room with a muffled, thundering explosion.
    The walls bulged out, tortured by a force they could
    barely contain - Yandros vanished, and Cyllan slammed
    back against the window before slumping in a dead faint
    to the floor.
    
    The servant who ran to fetch Keridil received a tongue-
    lashing for his pains, but the High Initiate had no choice
    but to leave the small celebration taking place in his
    rooms and follow the man to the Castle's South wing. He
    had cut off the garbled explanation, aware only that the
    
    girl from the Eastern Flatlands had somehow managed
    to do herself some mischief in spite of his best precau-
    tions, and as he hastened towards her room he felt sick
    to his stomach at the thought of what might happen if she
    died. They could keep the news from Tarod easily
    enough, until the time came for his execution. But he
    wouldn't go willingly to destruction unless it was proved
    to him that she still lived and prospered. And if she did
    not . . .
    
    Keridil swallowed back the bile of fear as he
    approached the locked door.
    
    To his relief, his peremptory knock was answered by
    Grevard. The physician looked irritable rather than
    worried - surely a good sign, Keridil told himself
    nervously.
    
    'Ah - Keridil.' The physician scowled at him. 'I told
    those damned fools there was no need to send for you!'
    
    Keridil looked past him to the bed. Hard to make the
    girl's figure out; she seemed to be unconscious, and a
    white-robed woman whom he recognised as Sister
    Erminet Rowald was tending her, dogged by two ser-
    vants who seemed to be more of a hindrance than a help.
    
    'She's alive?' the High Initiate demanded tersely.
    
    'Oh yes; she's alive.'
    
    'What happened?'
    
    Grevard shook his head. 'I don't know. We thought
    all possible precautions had been taken, but it seems we
    were wrong.' He nodded towards the bed. 'One of the
    servants found her huddled senseless in a corner when
    he brought her food. I thought at first she'd collapsed
    from malnourishment - you know how she's been refus-
    ing to eat - but I changed my mind when I saw her arm.'
    
    'Her arm?'
    
    The physician shrugged. 'Go and look at it for
    yourself.'
    
    Frowning, Keridil crossed to the bed, nodding a brief
    acknowledgement to Sister Erminet as he drew near.
    Cyllan lay still and white-faced, and at first she seemed
    unmarked - until Keridil saw that the left sleeve of her
    dress had been rolled back, exposing a ferocious
    
    crimson mark that ran from her wrist almost to the
    elbow.
    
    He looked quickly back over his shoulder at Grevard.
    'That's a burn mark . . . '
    
    'Precisely.' The physician grimaced. 'And if you can
    explain how she came to have fire in her hands, you're a
    better man that I am!'
    
    'It's impossible. Unless she conjured it out of thin air -'
    
    'Well, I've yet to hear a better theory. Does she have
    any power?'
    
    Keridil mused, then shook his head. 'I doubt it.
    Besides, if she had a talent, the Sisterhood would have
    snapped her up years ago; isn't that right, Sister
    Erminet?'
    
    The old herbalist eyed him enigmatically. 'Naturally,
    High Initiate.'
    
    'Then if she didn't inflict it on herself, who could have
    . . . ' Keridil's voice trailed off as an unpleasant pos-
    sibility occurred to him. Tarod. If the girl had somehow
    contacted him, persuaded him to break the bargain, he
    might have tried to use his power to kill her from a
    distance, in order to save himself. And almost suc-
    ceeded . . .
    
    He turned on his heel. 'Grevard, is that demon Tarod
    still under lock and key?'
    
    'Of course.' The physician looked surprised.
    
    'And have my instructions to keep him drugged been
    followed to the letter?'
    
    Now Grevard looked affronted. 'If you're suggesting
    that I -'
    
    'High Initiate.' Sister Erminet's voice cut in on
    Grevard's angry retort, and Keridil turned to see that
    she had straightened and was facing him, arms akimbo,
    like an admonishing tutor. 'The Adept Tarod is at this
    moment lying in his cell, oblivious to the activities of the
    world around him. I administered the narcotic with my
    own hands, and watched him drink it with my own eyes.'
    
    Nonplussed, Keridil made a pacifying gesture. 'I'm
    sorry, Sister; I didn't mean to imply negligence. And
    Grevard -I apologise.'
    
    The physician shook his head. 'It was a reasonable
    enough assumption under the circumstances.'
    
    Again, Erminet spoke up. 'There is, of course, one
    other possibility,' she said indifferently. Both men
    stared at her and she continued. 'It may not be a burn
    mark at all. The stone of the walls is rough - if the girl
    really wanted to kill herself, she might have tried to
    graze her wrist to the point where the artery was
    severed.' She smiled pityingly. 'She couldn't have suc-
    ceeded, of course, but who can fathom the reasoning of
    the desperate? And if she rubbed it hard enough, the
    grazing could produce a mark very akin to a burn.'
    
    Grevard looked sceptical, but to Keridil the old
    woman's theory seemed as credible as any other. 'Thank
    you, Sister,' he said. 'You may well have solved our
    conundrum . . . but the question remains as to how we
    keep her from doing herself further harm. She can't be
    constantly watched - we haven't the servants to spare.'
    
    'Perhaps I can be of use, High Initiate?' Erminet said,
    as though the idea had only just occurred to her.
    'Grevard has little need of me now that his list of emer-
    gencies has been dealt with, yet he himself is still busy
    enough. It would be no hardship for me to divide my
    time between two patients.' She smiled ingenuously. 'I
    believe I could ensure that this girl doesn't have the
    opportunity for any further mischief.'
    
    'I don't know.' Privately, Keridil wasn't taken with
    the idea; he had caught much of Sashka's dislike of the
    acerbic Erminet, although he had to admit that he could
    find no fault with her skills. 'I feel we've already imposed
    too much on your good offices, Sister, by detaining you
    at the Castle this long. You must surely have more vital
    work at your Cot?'
    
    'Nothing that can't wait.' Erminet told him briskly. 'If
    truth be told, sir, I find great satisfaction in being in a
    place where I can use my skills rather than merely teach
    them. I feel that I am being of practical help.' She
    beamed at him.
    
    Cornered, Keridil looked at the physician. 'Grevard?'
    
    Grevard and Erminet had reached a tacit understanding
    
    whilst they worked together, and the physician had
    developed a respect for the old woman. 'If the good
    Sister is willing to stay, I don't mind admitting that I'm
    grateful for her assistance. Especially with Tarod . . . '
    His face tightened perceptibly. 'Don't take me wrong; I
    share the views of the entire Circle where he's con-
    cerned. But it isn't easy to face a man and prepare him
    for execution when I once knew him as a friend.'
    
    Keridil's face remained impassive, though the physi-
    cian's words went sharply home. 'Very well, then,' he
    said, making the best of it. 'If Sister Erminet is willing to
    take responsibility for both our prisoners, so be it.' He
    bowed to the old woman. 'Thank you, Sister.'
    
    She cast her eyes down modestly. 'An honour, High
    Initiate.'
    
    Grevard clapped Keridil on the shoulder. 'And now
    you can return to whatever tedious business was inter-
    rupted by this little drama!'
    
    In the furore over Cyllan, he'd all but forgotten . . .
    Keridil's face broke into a broad grin. 'It was far from
    tedious, I assure you!'
    
    'Ha!' Misinterpreting, Grevard burst out laughing. 'I
    should have known! Your cheeks are as red as a Sunset,
    my friend! Give the lady my personal apologies!'
    
    Keridil held up both hands. 'Grevard, you've a mind
    like a cesspit!' Then his expression sobered, though he
    was still smiling. 'This news interrupted a celebration,
    and - you may as well be the first outside her clan to
    know, for the announcement will be public in the morn-
    ing. Sashka Veyyil and I are to wed.'
    
    Sister Erminet's head came up sharply, then as
    quickly she bent back to her patient. Grevard stared at
    Keridil in delighted astonishment for a few moments,
    before delivering a punch to the shoulder that almost
    sent the High Initiate to the floor.
    
    'So you've finally asked her! Well done, Keridil, well
    done! There'll be a celebration as great as the Inaugura-
    tion itself!'
    
    Keridil flushed again. Thank you. I appreciate your
    good wishes.'
    
    'You'll have the good wishes of the world, my friend,
    make no mistake. A beautiful girl; beautiful . . . and a
    just reward for you both after all that's happened. Your
    father would have been very happy.'
    
    The two men headed towards the door, still talking,
    and Erminet paused to watch them go. Her bird-bright
    eyes were unfathomable, but one corner of her mouth
    was lifted in an expression that faintly suggested
    contempt.
    
    Chapter 13
    
    When Cyllan began to sweat and struggle in delirium,
    and scream out an alien-sounding name, Sister Erminet
    bustled the serving-woman sent to assist her out of the
    room, placating her with the assurance that this was only
    to be expected in such a case and she could cope per-
    fectly well. Once alone with her patient, she turned to
    her collection of herbs and prepared a draught whilst
    listening intently to the panicked ramblings from the
    semi-conscious girl.
    
    Yandros . . . she'd heard the name before some-
    where, and recalled a connection with the condemned
    Adept. And that tied in with her suspicions concerning
    another apparently insignificant discovery she'd made in
    this room. A bowl of fruit which had been broken and
    pulped to no obvious purpose . . . and the fruit stones,
    scattered in an apparently random pattern on the floor.
    Stone-reading, she knew, was a form of geomancy pecu-
    liar to the East - so it seemed that the girl had been
    playing with fire, and - quite literally - had burned
    herself.
    
    Cyllan's ranting had by now degenerated into word-
    less mumbles, and when Erminet looked at her again her
    eyelids were fluttering spasmodically. Consciousness
    was returning . . . good. The old woman carried her
    prepared draught to the bed, sat down and drew Cyllan's
    head forward.
    
    'Here, now. Drink this; it'll unlock your muscles and
    calm your mind.' She held the cup to the girl's lips,
    watched with satisfaction as a good mouthful went
    down. 'That's the way . . . oh, Aeoris preserve us, girl,
    you're spluttering it everywhere; look at that mess!'
    
    Cyllan had gagged on the drink, but Erminet's involun-
    tarily sharp reprimand seemed to pierce her clouded
    mind. She batted feebly at the cup, then her eyes
    opened.
    
    They looked at each other, Erminet curious, Cyllan
    hostile and wary. She had been dreaming monstrous
    dreams, haunted by Yandros's coldly sardonic face -
    and the shock of waking to find herself confronted by a
    Sister of Aeoris dismayed her.
    
    'Well, are you simply going to stare at me as though I
    were your grandmother's ghost?' Erminet demanded.
    'Or have you something to say for yourself?'
    
    Cyllan lay back, but her gaze didn't leave the old
    woman's face. 'Who are you?' she demanded huskily.
    
    'Sister Erminet Rowald. I see they don't teach good
    manners in the East,' Erminet retorted tartly.
    
    Cyllan scowled. 'I didn't ask you to tend me.'
    
    'Indeed not; but someone did, and so I'm here
    whether you like it or no.' She brandished the cup.
    'Finish your drink.'
    
    'No . . . you're trying to drug me.'
    
    She was as perverse and obstinate as Tarod, Erminet
    thought, and sighed. 'It's nothing more than a simple
    restorative. Here; I'll show you. I don't doubt my need's
    greater than yours anyway!' She drank half the cup's
    remaining contents and held it out once more. 'Now are
    you satisfied?'
    
    Dubiously, Cyllan took the cup from her and finished
    the draught. It tasted pleasant enough; spiced wine with
    a hint of honey and other, subtler flavours, and her
    stomach was glad of it. Erminet, meanwhile, had risen
    and crossed the room, her movements apparently
    casual, and was stirring something on the floor with one
    foot. Cyllan glanced at her - then felt her lungs constrict.
    The stones . . .
    
    'The old Eastern geomancy,' Erminet said musingly.
    'I'd thought the technique was all but dead.' And when
    Cyllan didn't reply, she smiled. 'So you're a seer, eh?'
    
    'No!' The denial was too vehement, and Erminet saw
    fear in Cyllan's eyes.
    
    'There's little point in denying the obvious, child, not
    when your guile doesn't extend to hiding the evidence!'
    Abruptly, and to Cyllan's surprise, her tone softened.
    'Just be thankful that as yet I'm the only one to have

    divined your secret. The others all think you harmless
    enough, despite the protests of that spoiled little
    Margrave's son.'
    
    'Drachea . . . ?' The word came involuntarily from
    Cyllan's lips; her hostility wavering in the face of puzzle-
    ment and a growing curiosity.
    
    'Is that his name? Yes; the arrogant brat's still here,
    and no doubt his proud father and the entire brood will
    soon be on their way from the South to bask in his
    reflected glory.' Erminet's voice was acid, and Cyllan's
    confusion redoubled. Such harsh words, from a Sister of
    Aeoris? She didn't understand . . .
    
    Suddenly Erminet came back to the bed and stood
    looking down at her. 'Who is Yandros?'
    
    The change of tack caught Cyllan by surprise - as the
    Sister had intended - and she couldn't collect her wits in
    time to hide her chagrin. She swallowed. 'I've never
    heard the name.'
    
    'Oho, you haven't! So unfamiliar it is to you that you
    called on it no more than a dozen times in your fever!'
    The old woman bent closer. 'You babbled a pretty par-
    cel of words while you slept, girl. If I was a suspicious
    woman, I'd have sworn on my oath that they were a
    litany designed to call up something better left
    undisturbed!'
    
    Oh, yes; the arrow had struck its target. Terror and
    guilt flickered in Cyllan's eyes before she could hide
    them. Then the peculiar amber gaze hardened.
    
    'And if it was, Sister?' she replied venomously. 'Do
    you see a legion of demons ranged around the walls of
    this room? Do you see a supernatural army storming the
    Castle gates to my rescue? Whatever I might have tried,
    I failed!'
    
    She was lying; Erminet knew it as surely as she knew
    the Sun would rise tomorrow. 'Did you?' she said softly.
    'Or does that wound on your arm tell only half the story?'
    
    Cyllan frowned, then looked quickly at her left wrist.
    The livid mark had been treated with a healing salve, but
    its ferocity was undiminished. She flexed her fingers and
    remembered Yandros's knowing, unhuman eyes as he
    bent to touch his lips to her wrist. Excitement and a sick
    fear churned in her - then it was real; it had truly hap-
    pened . . . Chaos had answered her summoning . . .
    
    Slowly she drew her arm close against herself, as
    though to protect the scar the Chaos Lord had inflicted
    from Sister Erminet's scrutiny. As odd, not quite
    rational smile distorted her mouth.
    
    'Whatever story it tells or doesn't tell,' she whispered,
    'you can't change it. Not you, not Keridil Toln; no one.
    It's too late.'
    
    Erminet felt uneasy, and began to wonder if, in her
    determination to see justice done, she had made a grave
    error. She was in no doubt now that Tarod hadn't made
    a second mistake by putting his trust in this girl. She
    would do anything to save him, no matter what the
    consequences to herself or anyone else, and such single-
    minded devotion could be deadly. Tarod, they said, was
    of Chaos - an accusation he hadn't denied. If it was true,
    then it followed that he might have allies who also owed
    their existence to that same evil; allies who could be
    called upon in an hour of need . . .
    
    She looked at Cyllan again and told herself that the
    idea was nonsensical. Chaos was dead - if Aeoris had
    failed in that task, her own Sisterhood would never have
    been created to keep faith with the memory of such a
    titanic victory. And the girl was no sorceress. She had a
    seeing talent, but that was all. It was love that drove her;
    and Sister Erminet empathised all too well with such a
    motivation.
    
    And so she had to decide between duty and con-
    science. Stickler though she was, Erminet's code of
    honour was peculiarly personal - and whatever the High
    Initiate or her own Sisterhood might dictate, she had
    given her word on one matter, at least. . .
    
    She met Cyllan's angry gaze once more, and said
    without any preamble, 'I have a message for you.'
    
    The girl's defiance wavered, but she wouldn't allow
    herself to ask the question that lurked in her eyes.
    
    Erminet licked her lips. 'He said to bid you remember
    your first visit to the spire . . . and that he took nothing
    you were unwilling to give.'
    
    She knew there would be a reaction, but was
    unprepared for its nature. Cyllan froze, her mouth
    opening as though trying to speak - then her body
    heaved and she broke into agonised sobs, covering her
    face with both hands and crying as though her soul were
    tearing apart.
    
    'Child!' Chagrin made Erminet forget her studied
    acerbity, and she put her arms around Cyllan's shoul-
    ders. 'Child, don't weep!'
    
    Cyllan tried to push her away as a surge of fear and
    grief and desperate longing overtook her. She had tried
    to contain her emotions as best she could, knowing that
    they were the worst form of self-torment; but Tarod's
    words, so carelessly conveyed by this old woman, had
    brought back all the bitterness of the memories which,
    now, were all she had of him. Struggling to find an
    outlet, her feeling could only express itself in two help-
    less, futile and broken words.
    
    'Oh, gods
    
    Erminet cursed herself for not stopping to think of the
    effect her lover's message might have on Cyllan. A
    shared secret, a private jest between them - no wonder
    the girl wept at the ugly circumstances under which the
    message had been sent and delivered. She could easily
    have wept with her.
    
    'Cyllan, listen to me!' Her fingers pressing on Cyllan's
    shoulders were rough, but she knew no other way to call
    her out of the depths of her misery. 'You must listen!'
    
    Cyllan drew a great, heaving breath. Her hands drop-
    ped away from her face, and the eyes that stared into
    Erminet's were wild with loathing.
    
    'Why should I listen to you?' she retaliated fero-
    ciously. 'You're no different from any of them! Tarod
    has never harmed you, but you'll stand by and nod your
    sage approval when they take him to the Marble Hall to
    
    kill him won't you?' She was shaking from head to foot,
    close to hysteria. 'And all the while you keep me locked
    in here, and I love him, and I can't do anything to stop
    this madness, and Tarod's going to die!'
    
    Erminet, horribly moved by the outburst, gazed
    steadily back at her and said, 'Not if I can help it.'
    
    Her words took a moment to register, but when they
    did Cyllan's face froze. 'What. . . '?
    
    'You heard me.' Aeoris help me, she thought, what
    have I said? She'd spoken on impulse, responding to the
    girl's distress and to a discomforting and growing sense
    of injustice in her own mind. When she left Tarod's cell
    she had been angry - partly with herself, partly with him
    for resigning himself to death so passively, but mostly
    with the uncontrolled chain of circumstances which had
    led to the condemnation of a young and vital life. Now
    she understood Tarod's reasoning, and pitied both his
    and Cyllan's plight. Romantic old fool that she was, she "
    wanted to help them - and because of that quixotic urge,
    had let her tongue run away with her. But she wouldn't -
    couldn't - go back on her word.
    
    She made as if to move back, but Cyllan's hand shot
    out and locked on her wrist. Behind the shocked immo-
    bility of her expression, Cyllan's thoughts were in a
    turmoil of stunned astonishment, disbelief and hope.
    This strange old woman had brought her a message
    which could only be from Tarod's own lips - and that
    must mean that Tarod trusted her. Sister Erminet didn't
    want him to die . . . and Yandros had said that help
    would come from within the Castle; that when it came
    she would recognise it ...
    
    'Sister -' Cyllan's voice was hoarse with desperation.
    'Please - can you help us?'
    
    Erminet stood up, pulling her arm free and suddenly
    unsure of herself. 'I don't know . . . '
    
    Cyllan twisted her hands together, hardly aware of
    what she was doing. Almost in a whisper, she pleaded,
    'You have the key to this room. You could let me go free
    
    .
    
    'No.' Erminet took a deep breath. 'I want to help you.
    
    The gods know why, but I've taken a liking to your
    Adept; I pity him, and I pity you. But it isn't easy - you
    must understand that. I can't simply let you slip away
    into the night. If it were to be known that I . . . ' she

    faltered. 'That my sympathies were - against the tide -
    I'd have no defence. And I value my life, albeit that I
    haven't many more years left to me.' A trace of her old
    tartness returned as she smiled. 'I've no wish to meet
    Aeoris just yet - at least, not with such a deed on my
    conscience.'
    
    Cyllan subsided, fighting back her disappointment as
    she acknowledged that Erminet was right. Besides, free-
    dom alone wasn't enough. She had to have the Chaos
    stone if she was to save Tarod and fulfil her pledge to
    Yandros.
    
    She bowed her head nodding. 'I'm sorry, Sister. I
    thought - hoped . . . but I understand.' Through the
    curtain of her hair her expression was intense. 'Will you,
    then, answer me a question?'
    
    'If I can.'
    
    There's a stone . . . Tarod used to wear it in a ring,
    and the High Initiate took it from him when he was first
    captured.'
    
    Erminet remembered the gem. She had seen it on
    Tarod's hand at their earliest encounter; and rumour ran
    that it contained his soul . . .
    
    'I know it,' she said cautiously.
    
    'Do you know where it is now?'
    
    A snatch of conversation, overheard as she went about
    her work in the early aftermath of Time's return . . . 'Yes
    . . . ' said Erminet.
    
    Cyllan's eyes lit feverishly. 'Tell me!'
    
    'Why is it so important?'
    
    Cyllan hesitated, then decided that she had no choice
    but to tell Erminet at least a part of the truth. She
    remembered Yandros's words, and said softly, 'Because
    it must be returned to its rightful owner.'
    
    If the tales concerning that gem were true, then to
    reunite it with its rightful owner could bring ruin on
    them all. Soulless, Tarod was formidable enough . . .
    
    but with the stone in his possession he would be a far
    more deadly adversary. Erminet had to be sure of what
    she was doing. Chaos or no, that black-haired Adept
    was a man of honour. If he gave his word that no harm
    would come to the Castle through him, she would trust
    that promise. Not the girl, though - she'd use the stone
    against anyone, friend or enemy, who tried to thwart
    her. And however just her motive, Erminet couldn't
    take such a risk.
    
    Aloud, she said, 'No. I won't tell you, Cyllan; not yet.'
    And as the girl began to protest she held up a firm hand.
    'I said, no. I don't trust you, girl. And I don't intend to
    put my head on the execution block for your sake.' She
    turned and began to gather up her philtres. 'But I will
    see your Tarod again, and I'll speak with him. If - ' she
    swung round, wagging an admonishing finger, 'and only
    if he gives me his word that no harm will come to this
    Castle through any aid I might give you, then I'll recon-
    sider what you've asked of me.' She gave Cyllan a grim
    but sympathetic little smile. 'I can do no more.'
    
    It was so little . . . and yet it might be enough. Cyllan
    met Erminet's gaze, and hope flickered in her odd
    amber eyes.
    
    The old woman smiled grimly. 'In the meantime, do
    you wish me to give him any word from you? I've been a
    go-between once; I might as well be one again. Besides,
    he's as suspicious as you are - if I don't bring him some
    word, he'll accuse me of keeping his message from you,
    and I could do without bearing the brunt of his temper.'
    
    In spite of herself, Cyllan couldn't help returning the
    smile. 'Yes . . . say to him that the wound was quickly
    healed.'
    
    ' "The wound was quickly healed".' Erminet repeated
    the words to commit them to memory, then gave Cyllan
    an old-fashioned look. 'Another cryptic riddle! No won-
    der you two are so well suited; you're as bad as each
    other for intrigue. Not that I care what your private jests
    might mean . . . ' Then her expression softened. 'Don't
    worry child. I'll tell him.'
    
    Cyllan nodded, and the look on her face tore at
    
    Erminet's heart. 'Thank you, Sister,' she whispered
    almost inaudibly.
    
    The tawny bird looked this way and that from its perch
    on the master falconer's arm, surveying its audience
    with something approaching disdain in its beady eyes.
    The falconer - a swarthy, hook-nosed native of Empty
    Province - leaned forward and whispered to the bird; it
    screeched in reply, extending its wings, then settled.
    
    The falconer glanced at the High Initiate and smiled
    faintly. 'If your message is ready, sir . . . '
    
    Keridil stepped forward out of the small crowd which
    had gathered in the Castle courtyard. In one hand he
    bore a single sheet of parchment rolled into a small, tight
    scroll. The falconer took it, and with a deft hand
    attached it to a looped thong that dangled from one of
    the bird's legs, ignoring its attempts to peck his fingers.
    His smile broadened to become a vulpine grin.
    
    'Now we'll see if she's learned her lessons well.' He
    whispered to the bird again, and again the creature
    screeched, as though issuing a challenge to some unseen
    enemy. This time it extended its wings to the full, and a
    few of the crowd gasped in surprise at their span. The
    falconer flung his arm high; the bird sprang, the great
    wings cracking the air, and hung for a few moments
    hovering some ten feet above his head. Then with a
    speed that drew further astonished exclamations it
    hurled itself upwards, arrowing into the clear, cold sky
    until it was barely more than a dark speck against the
    blueness. It hovered again - then it was winging away
    South towards the mountains, vanishing in seconds
    beyond the high Castle wall.
    
    A ripple of spontaneous applause broke out from the
    watchers, and Keridil clasped the falconer's gloved
    hand.
    
    'An auspicious beginning, Faramor.'
    
    The swarthy Northerner's face wasn't designed for
    expressing pleasure, and his answering smile was laced
    with embarrassment. 'She's a long way to fly yet, High
    Initiate. But if all goes as it should, the return bird
    
    should arrive by the time the Sun sets tomorrow.' He
    blinked as the tall, chestnut-haired girl who had stood at
    Keridil's side for the small ceremony stepped up and
    bestowed a dazzling if faintly condescending smile on
    him.
    
    'And then it will be no time at all before the whole
    world has heard our good news.' She linked her arm in
    Keridil's possessively. 'Isn't that so, my love?'
    
    Keridil covered her hand with his fingers and
    squeezed it. 'Certainly. You have our thanks, Faramor.'
    
    As they moved away, the falconer was besieged by
    eager questioners - mostly from the ranks of the
    younger Initiates, Keridil noticed with amusement.
    Assuming that this early experiment succeeded, he
    thought, Faramor and his kind would have no shortage
    of apprentices to learn the new skill.
    
    The idea of using birds as messengers was something
    that the High Initiate knew could prove to be a very
    valuable asset to the Circle. Falconers from Empty
    Province had been experimenting during his father's
    lifetime, trying to train the ferocious birds they normally
    used for hunting; but it had taken years and a great deal
    of patience for this first apparent success to be achieved.
    Now, Faramor's bird was winging its way towards
    Chaun, where - in theory, at least - another falconer
    would retrieve it and send his own bird back to the
    Castle with an acknowledgement of Keridil's message.
    From Chaun, he would also despatch other trained birds
    to other provinces to spread the news carried by
    Faramor's hawk. And if all went according to plan, the
    announcement of the High Initiate's betrothal to Sashka
    Veyyil would spread around the entire land in a matter
    of days, rather than the weeks that even relays of the
    fastest horsemen would need.
    
    Keridil had chosen to broadcast this particular news
    mainly to please Sashka, but also - more pragmatically -
    because there could be no harm done if the experiment
    should fail. But he had high hopes, for although much
    depended on the birds' reliability, there was little else
    that could go wrong. Hawks had no natural predators,
    
    and they flew far too high to stray within the range of any
    irresponsible archer on the ground. If Faramor's faith in
    the idea proved sound, it would mean an unimaginable
    change in the ability of all manner of people to commu-
    nicate at long distance. The Circle could reach its own
    Initiates in far-off parts of the world; Sisterhood cots
    could maintain closer contact with one another; Mar-
    graves in need of aid or advice would no longer suffer the
    frustration and sometimes the dangers of waiting . . .
    the possibilities were more than impressive; they were
    astounding.
    
    It was an innovation, and one that was sorely needed.
    In the aftermath of his father Jehrek's death, Keridil had
    promised himself that he would make changes at the
    Star Peninsula. The Circle had stagnated for too long,
    losing touch with the realities of the world beyond these
    Castle walls to become little more than nominal
    upholders of the gods' laws, with a diminishing active
    role in the land's affairs. They had become figureheads;
    and the danger with figureheads was that they could all
    too easily turn into anachronisms. It was time - high
    time - that such a downhill tendency was stopped,
    before it got out of hand -
    
    And suddenly Keridil felt sick as he remembered
    where he had heard such words before.
    
    'You have no good reason to exist!' In his mind he
    could hear the silver voice with its edge of shattering
    malevolence; see the cruelly unhuman face with its ever
    changing eyes . . . Yandros, Lord of Chaos, who had
    stood among the ruined statues of the Marble Hall and
    smiled with pitying disdain as Keridil tried to bind him
    with the Seventh Exhortation and Banishment, the
    Circle's highest rite against recalcitrant demons. He
    might as well have tried to topple the Castle with his bare
    hands . . . and yet he recalled, with a shudder, the
    awesome power that Tarod had conjured so effortlessly;
    power enough to send the Chaos Lord back whence he
    came . . .
    
    'Keridil?' Sashka was gazing at him and frowning.
    'Are you unwell?'
    
    He had stopped walking, he realised, and was sweat-
    ing profusely. Those memories . . . they always seemed
    to ambush him when he least expected or wanted them.
    This was supposed to be a moment for celebration . . .
    
    He took a deep breath. 'I'm fine, love. A chill,
    perhaps.'
    
    'You should take better care of yourself.' Sashka, who
    was warmly wrapped in a fur-trimmed coat over her
    brocade gown, glanced up at the icily clear sky. 'It isn't
    Summer yet, but you haven't so much as a cloak about
    you.'
    
    He laughed, grateful to her for dispelling the darkness
    at the back of his mind. 'You're not my wife yet!'
    
    'I am in all but name.' Her answering smile was faintly
    lascivious. 'And I know some very pleasurable ways to
    warm you . . . '
    
    Frayn Veyyil Saravin and his prim, rake-thin wife
    were crossing the courtyard to intercept them, and
    Keridil squeezed Sashka's hand in an admonitory warn-
    ing. 'Hush! D'you want your parents to overhear us?'
    
    Sashka smiled enigmatically. 'There are none so blind
    as those who don't find it in their interests to see!'
    
    They walked on, as the small crowd began to disperse.
    
    The celebration to mark the High Initiate's betrothal
    was to be an interim measure, a foretaste of the far
    greater festivities amid which the marriage itself would
    take place. Sashka wanted to wed as soon as practicality
    allowed, but for once Keridil had refused to indulge her,
    and at last, knowing when to exercise discretion, she had
    given way.
    
    Keridil hadn't confided his reason for the postpone-
    ment to her, but it was strong enough to override any
    other considerations. He wanted nothing more than to
    marry Sashka now - but if he did, he would be haunted
    by the spectre of Tarod, and that would be a hard ghost
    to banish. Although he had reconciled his conscience
    where his one-time friend was concerned, Keridil still
    had occasional nightmares, and the thought of going
    ahead with his marriage while Tarod still lived was
    
    something he couldn't face. The death-rite had to be
    prepared - the same gruesome ritual which had been
    thwarted before - and, as High Initiate, he couldn't
    escape the burden of carrying it out personally. It would
    be impossible to prepare for his own wedding with any
    pleasure while that prospect still hung over him . . .
    especially in view of Tarod's own past involvement with
    Sashka. But once Tarod was finally dead, the ugly taste
    would fade and he'd be free to look to the future. It
    wasn't guilt that motivated him, so Keridil told himself
    over and again - it was simply expedient common sense.
    
    And despite the shadow of the pending execution, he
    was determined to enjoy the betrothal celebrations. In
    two days there would be a banquet at the Castle, at
    which the announcement would be officially ratified by
    the Council of Adepts. Sashka had sent a fast rider to her
    home in Han to fetch appropriate clothes and jewellery
    for the occasion, and Keridil would present to her the
    gold ring set with three huge emeralds that for centuries
    had been worn by the High Initiate's consort. Since his
    own mother had died giving him birth, the ring had been
    locked away in its carved wooden box among his father's
    possessions, and the thought that, after so many years,
    there would again be a consort to wear it had delighted
    the Circle, and the Council in particular.
    
    There would, of course, be a good deal of disappoint-
    ment mingling with the congratulations from certain
    quarters. Since he reached adolescence Keridil had been
    the focus of attention from every high-ranking clan with
    an eligible daughter in the land, and recently had come
    close - though unwillingly - to a match with the pretty
    but vacuous Inista Jair, from a wealthy and influential
    Chaun Province family. Jehrek Banamen Toln had
    approved of the liaison, Keridil had dreaded it; though
    had Sashka remained beyond his reach, he might well
    have wed Inista eventually for want of any happier
    option and because Jehrek had wished it.
    
    But his father, he knew, would have approved of
    Sashka. Suitable though Inista Jair might have been as a
    daughter-elect, Sashka had the breeding and strength of
    
    character to fit her perfectly for an exalted position. Her
    beauty, her sophistication, her intelligence all promised
    to win her many friends. No clan could take insult at the
    thought that one of their own had been passed over for a
    less favourable candidate.
    
    Sashka's parents had joined them by now, and as they
    reached the main doors Keridil excused himself and left
    the others to continue on into the Castle while he turned
    along the pillared walkway towards the library and the
    Marble Hall. Reaching the door that led down from the
    courtyard, he stood back to allow three servants, each
    dragging a heavily laden sack, to emerge. The staircase
    beyond was filthy with dust in which the prints of a
    myriad feet could be seen, and Keridil eyed the bulging
    sacks before speaking to the first of the three men.
    
    'How's the work progressing?'
    
    Sweating, the man straightened and touched a finger
    to his brow respectfully. 'Well, sir. Perhaps another
    three or four days, and it'll be complete.'
    
    Thanks be to Aeoris, Keridil thought. He nodded,
    smiled, and moved on down the stairs. A few more days,
    and the seven black statues which had stood in the
    Marble Hall throughout the Circle's history would no
    longer exist ... it chilled his blood to think that, for
    century upon century, the Initiates had believed those
    seven titanic figures to represent Aeoris and his six god-
    brethren, mutilated beyond recognition by the old race
    when they transferred their allegiance from Order to
    Chaos. That belief would have continued, had Yandros
    not revealed, with careless malice, that the revered
    images were those of Aeoris and his kin's seven dark
    counterparts - the old, sinister gods of Chaos, carved by
    their corrupt servants before the forces of Order sent
    them to oblivion. Keridil had ordered the destruction of
    the statues, and for two days now an army of the Circle's
    higher Adepts - who were the only people allowed, by
    ancient tradition, to set foot beyond the silver door- had
    been toiling to break up the huge figures, reducing them
    to rubble which servants then hauled from the Castle
    and threw over the edge of the stack into the sea. When
    
    the task was complete, a series of complicated rituals
    would be required to purify and rededicate the Marble
    Hall before the taint of Chaos could finally be
    eradicated.
    
    As he approached the library, Keridil reflected bit-
    terly that the legacy Tarod had left the Circle would take

    far longer to die than its perpetrator. Recent events had
    taught the Adepts that the centuries hadn't diminished
    the need for constant vigilance against the dark forces,
    and it had been a hard lesson. The peace that pervaded
    the Castle now was no more than a veneer; danger and
    turmoil still lurked beneath the surface, and would con-
    tinue to haunt them until both Tarod and the stone were
    finally destroyed.
    
    He entered the library vault, lost in his uneasy
    thoughts. A few Initiates sat in isolated corners, study-
    ing books or manuscripts, and muffled sounds drifted
    from the distant Marble Hall as the Adepts went about
    their work. Keridil headed towards the low door in the
    alcove - then started as someone plucked at his sleeve.
    
    'High Initiate . . . ' Drachea was standing at his
    elbow, and Keridil tried to keep irritation from his
    expression as he stared down at the young man. Grateful
    though he was to Drachea for the service he had per-
    formed - and he couldn't deny that without him, the
    Castle's inhabitants would still be languishing in limbo -
    Keridil couldn't help a growing dislike for him. Drachea
    had begun to presume on the position in which he found
    himself; he dogged Keridil's footsteps, bombarded him
    with questions concerning his plans for Tarod and
    Cyllan, and was too ready at the least opportunity to
    offer his own opinion as to what should be done with
    them. Only two days ago Keridil had come close to
    losing his temper when the Heir Margrave had tried to
    insist that Cyllan, too, should face execution as soon as
    Tarod was despatched, arguing that a promise made to a
    demon had no validity and that the High Initiate would
    be right to break it for the sake of safety. Keridil, well
    aware that Drachea wanted personal revenge on the
    girl, had curtly reprimanded his temerity in questioning
    
    the High Initiate's judgement, and the young man had
    retired to his room to sulk.
    
    Now though, the reprimand was apparently forgotten
    as Drachea said, 'High Initiate, I wonder if I might crave
    a few minutes of your time?'
    
    Keridil sighed. 'I'm sorry, Drachea; I'm very busy -'
    
    'I'll take no more than a moment, sir, I assure you!
    I've been wanting to speak to you before my father
    arrives from Shu Province, on a matter which is crucial
    to my own future.'
    
    He was going to prove persistent . . . resignedly,
    Keridil waited for him to continue. Clasping his hands
    behind his back, Drachea said, 'As you know, sir, I am
    my father's eldest son, and therefore destined even-
    tually to become Margrave of Shu. However, although
    I'm very sensible of my position and my duty, I have for
    some years felt that my aptitude lies in a different
    direction.'
    
    Keridil stroked his own chin. 'Our duty doesn't always
    correspond to what we might desire, Drachea. Some of
    the responsibilities of my own position are ones I'd
    prefer not to have to shoulder, but - '
    
    'Oh no; it's not the responsibility,' Drachea inter-
    rupted him. 'As I said, it's a question of aptitude. I'm
    sure that I could assume the Margravate without diffi-
    culty; but I feel that in doing so I'd be . . .'He hesitated,
    then smiled hopefully. 'Perhaps wasting a potential that
    could be put to better use.'
    
    Keridil looked at him. 'You know your abilities better
    than I do, of course - I don't quite see how I can be of
    assistance to you.'
    
    'Ah, but you can, High Initiate! In fact, there is no one
    else who has the authority to grant or refuse my request.'
    The young man drew himself up into a formal stance. 'I
    wish to ask, sir, that I might be considered as a candidate
    for the Circle.'
    
    Keridil stared at him, astonished, then realised that he
    must have been a fool not to have anticipated this.
    Suddenly all Drachea's dogged persistence was
    explained - and, too, his anxiety to plead his case before
    
    the arrival of Gant Ambaril Rannak, his father. The
    Margrave, Keridil imagined, would not be pleased to
    hear of his son's ambitions - and the idea of Drachea
    qualifying as a Circle Initiate seemed more than a little
    far-fetched. Though psychic analysis wasn't his forte,
    Keridil was a shrewd enough judge of character to know
    that the young man stood little chance of passing even
    the lowest of the Circle's many inaugural tests.
    Drachea's motivation had far more to do with self-
    aggrandisement than with any desire to serve the gods;
    and Keridil also suspected that his mind wasn't stable
    enough to cope with the rigorous application needed to
    become an Initiate. He seemed to think that his position
    alone would qualify him for admission - and it would be
    a hard task to explain to him why this was not so.
    
    Keridil couldn't face that task in his present mood: he
    had more important matters on his mind than one arrogant
    youth's presumption, and it would do Drachea no harm
    to remain in suspense for a while. Aloud, he said,
    
    That's not something to which I can give you an
    answer now, Drachea. As you've already admitted, you
    have responsibilities - and of course, your father would
    have to be consulted.' He smiled. 'I'd be failing in my
    own duty if I were to interfere in his plans for you
    without so much as a by-your-leave. And for a young
    man in your place, it's a change that can't be undertaken
    without a good deal of forethought.'
    
    'I've thought about it, sir! In fact, I've thought about
    little else since I was a child.'
    
    'Nonetheless, you must curb your impatience.' Aware
    that he'd have to offer the young man some sop, how-
    ever small, if his own life wasn't to be made intolerable,
    Keridil added, 'When your father arrives, I'll discuss the
    matter with him. I'm sure he'll be agreeable to your at
    least being interviewed by the Council of Adepts.'
    
    Drachea flushed with pleasure. 'Thank you, High
    Initiate!'
    
    Keridil inclined his head. 'And now, if you'll excuse
    me . . . ' He moved towards the alcove door, but
    Drachea followed.
    
    'Sir, I wonder if I might accompany you to the Marble
    Hall?' he asked eagerly. 'I'd enjoy the chance to witness
    the destruction of those monstrous idols!'
    
    The High Initiate's face hardened. 'I'm sorry; that's
    not possible. The Marble Hall is closed to all but the
    higher Adepts.'
    
    'But . . . ' Drachea looked affronted. 'I hardly think
    such a rule applies in my case, sir. After all, it was in the
    Marble Hall that I helped you to - '
    
    Keridil had had enough. Well aware that he was about
    to lose his self-control, he said sharply, 'One of the first
    lessons that a Circle candidate learns, Drachea, is not to
    question an order of the High Initiate.' He nodded
    curtly. 'I'll speak to your father, as I promised, but I can
    confer no further favours. Good day to you.'
    
    He walked away towards the door, leaving Drachea
    staring after him with a mixture of chagrin and indigna-
    tion on his face.
    
    Chapter 14
    
    Sister Erminet unlocked the door of Tarod's cell and
    paused on the threshold for a few moments to let her
    eyes adjust to the gloom before securing the door behind
    her.
    
    'Adept. . . ?' Even as her vision improved there was
    no sign of him. Then she saw a tall, gaunt shadow
    leaning against the opposite wall.
    
    Tarod raised a hand and ran his fingers idly over the
    dank stone surface. 'There was a window here once, by
    all accounts,' he said. 'You can feel the outlines of the
    mortar where a new stone was used to block it.'
    
    His voice sounded flat, remote. Erminet advanced
    into the room. 'Doubtless it was filled in to protect the
    food stores against rats.'
    
    He smiled thinly at her and examined a smear of dirt
    on his fingers before wiping his hand carelessly on his
    shirt. 'Doubtless.'
    
    Looking at him as he moved to slump down on the
    heap of old sacks and rugs that was all this cell provided
    by way of a couch, Erminet judged that his will - or what
    remained of it - was rapidly fading. Despite their pre-
    vious conversation, he seemed to have shrugged off all
    hope in the same careless way that he shrugged off the
    thought of his impending death. He was grimy,
    unshaven, and his mind seemed to match his physical
    state, giving her the uncomfortable feeling that, though
    for the first time she had something concrete to offer
    him, it might have come too late.
    
    Tarod watched her as, too discomforted to say more,
    she busied herself with her now familiar bag of
    nostrums. Erminet was wrong in believing that he had
    
    lost hope; but since her visit of the previous day he had
    been savagely trying to crush the spark out of existence,
    telling himself that to believe in miracles was a thankless
    and fruitless exercise. The Sister might well have seen
    Cyllan, and might well have brought a response to his
    cryptic and very personal message; but beyond that
    there could be nothing. Even to convey the message had
    been a kind of cruelty; better if he'd given Cyllan the
    chance to forget him now, rather than prolong her suf-
    fering. And he, with the spark of hope firmly under
    control, would drink the narcotic potion Erminet gave
    him, and sleep away the hours, and move another day
    closer to dying ... it didn't really seem to matter.
    
    But the prospect of the death that awaited him trig-
    gered off another chain of thought. Instinct told him that
    something was afoot in the Castle, and though he had
    neither the will nor, in his present condition, the ability
    to discover its nature, imagination had led him to an all
    too obvious conclusion. And even without a soul, he was
    still human enough to dread it.
    
    He said, hoping that his voice carried a convincing
    degree of bored disinterest, 'There seems to be a good
    deal of activity in the Castle.'
    
    Erminet's bird-bright gaze fastened on his face. 'What
    would you know about that?'
    
    He shrugged, perversely pleased by her surprise. 'My
    senses aren't dead yet.'
    
    Her mouth pursed as though in disapproval. 'Well,
    they certainly don't lead you astray. There's all manner
    of upheaval - masonry being hurled around as though
    the whole place were being rebuilt, experiments with
    messenger birds . . . and of course preparations for the
    banquet following the High Initiate's announcement - '
    she stopped.
    
    'Announcement?'
    
    Erminet scowled. She hadn't intended to let that
    slip . . . ' Of his betrothal,' she said with some
    reluctance.
    
    'Betrothal.' Tarod's dark eyebrows lifted slightly.
    'Ah. And need I ask who - '
    
    'You need not. Sashka seems to think that the name of
    Veyyil Toln will suit her very well.' She watched him
    intently to see how he would react, but his face was
    impassive. Slowly, carelessly, he raised his hands and
    studied them, then touched the ruined silver base of the
    ring on his left index finger.

    'A pity,' he said at last. 'Had circumstances been
    slightly different, it might have been amusing to kill her.'
    
    Erminet was shocked by the unhuman detachment in
    his voice, and admonished uneasily, 'You shouldn't har-
    bour such vengeful thoughts. They're unhealthy - and
    the little bitch isn't worth it.'
    
    Tarod's green eyes met hers, coolly candid. 'I've no
    interest in revenge, Sister. It would simply be amusing;
    nothing more.' He smiled. 'As it is, I wish them joy of
    each other.'
    
    'I wish I knew whether or not I could believe you.'
    
    The smile widened slightly, but there was little
    humour in it. 'Does it matter? I'd have thought the
    consideration was academic.'
    
    'It may not be,'
    
    Even in the gloom the sudden awakening of a new
    light in Tarod's eyes was unmistakable. He leaned for-
    ward, and the hope which he thought he'd succeeded in
    stifling came surging up again. 'You've seen Cyllan -'
    His voice was a harsh whisper.
    
    Now or never . . . Erminet's conscience was horribly
    split between duty and instinct, but she'd known even
    before she came here that instinct would win.
    
    'Yes, I saw the girl,' she said, dropping her own voice
    as if afraid of being overheard. 'I gave her your message.
    It made her cry, but I gave it to her nonetheless. And I
    made her a promise.'
    
    Tarod waited silently for her to continue, and she
    cursed his ability to keep his feelings so firmly under
    control. He was making her task no easier . . .
    
    'She wants the stone,' she went on at last. 'The stone
    from your ring ... I wouldn't tell her where it's kept,
    because I don't trust her.'
    
    'What do you mean?'
    
    Erminet looked at him candidly. 'I mean that I don't
    trust her not to use any means at her disposal to free you.
    She'd kill the entire population of the Castle if she could,
    for your sake.'
    
    Tarod laughed softly, and the old woman grimaced.
    
    'Oh, I can sympathise with her feelings - but I won't
    be a party to any wrongdoing. I could release her, but
    she won't flee the Castle; not without the stone, and not
    without you. And if I tell her where the stone is hidden,
    she'll find it ... and she'll use it.'
    
    Still Tarod said nothing, and Erminet prompted
    uncomfortably, 'There's more to that stone than I know,
    isn't there? Perhaps more than anyone knows, save you
    
    »
    
    He sighed, the sound echoing oddly in the dark room.
    'I've never denied what I am, Sister Erminet; nor have I
    denied the nature of the stone. Without it, I'm only half
    alive; yet it's more than a receptacle for ... well, my

    spirit, for want of a better word.'
    
    'Your soul?'
    
    'If you like. Whether it's an evil gem or not depends on
    how you view such things. But the Circle can't control it,
    even with me gone.' He looked up at her, and his eyes
    burned intensely. 'Cyllan's right. I need it, if I'm to survive.'
    
    It was what she had expected to hear, and Erminet
    nodded with some reluctance. 'Then I'll ask just one
    thing of you.'
    
    'What is it?'
    
    'Your word on a single question. Either you're a man
    of honour, or I'm a fool - and I think I've learned sound
    judgement in all my years. If Cyllan is released -
    escapes, shall we say - and she retrieves that stone and
    brings it to you . . . what will you do then?'
    
    It was a question Tarod hadn't dared to ask himself
    during his imprisonment. Once, he had held an idealistic
    belief that the stone must be destroyed, even if it meant
    his own annihilation - but the humanity that was so
    paradoxically tied to the stone, and which had been lost
    with it, had wiped that slate clean. Cyllan had added her
    own influence, albeit one that he welcomed, and Tarod
    
    no longer knew what his ultimate goal would be. All he
    knew - and knew without a shadow of uncertainty - was
    that he wanted to live.
    
    He lowered his gaze. 'I'd become what I once was. I'd
    be - complete.'
    
    'Yes,' said Erminet. 'I know.' She wouldn't allow
    herself to ask for the assurance she needed. It must come
    from him, unprompted, or it would be worth nothing.
    
    A long silence ensued. Then, at last, Tarod said,
    'Vengeance would achieve nothing, Sister. I don't crave
    it - I like to think I'm above such emotions, even if that
    sounds like arrogance. If the stone was in my possession
    once more - ' Now he looked up again, and Erminet
    read a terrifying message in his eyes. He could, if he
    chose, destroy the Castle and all who dwelt within its
    walls. He could erase them from the face of the earth, and
    laugh off any power short of that of Aeoris himself that
    tried to stop him. And that would only be the beginning

    The fire faded from his look, and she let out her breath
    with a sharp exhalation. 'If the stone was in my posses-
    sion,' Tarod said gently, 'Cyllan and I would leave the
    Star Peninsula, and neither you nor anyone else here
    would ever hear of us again.'
    
    'And what would you leave behind you?'
    
    'The Castle. The Circle. As they are, with not a soul
    harmed by my hand.'
    
    Aware that she was at a crossroads, with no retreat
    offered to her, Erminet said, 'Do I have your word on
    that, as an Adept?'
    
    'No.' He smiled. 'I'm no longer an Adept, Erminet.
    But you have my word.'
    
    She twisted her hands together, licked her lips and
    wished that her throat wasn't so dry. That's good
    enough for me.'
    
    'Then -'
    
    Erminet didn't let him say what he'd been about to.
    'I'll tell her where the gem is kept,' she said, so quietly
    that Tarod could barely hear her. 'And if I should forget
    to lock the door of her room behind me, when the
    
    good people of the Castle are sound asleep in their beds...'
    
    He smiled. 'No one will ever know the truth.'
    
    I hope not, Erminet thought, and nodded. 'There's a
    banquet in two nights' time; it's probably the only safe
    chance there'll be. She'll come to you then.'
    
    He rose, but didn't approach her. 'I don't know what
    to say to you. Thanks are so inadequate . . . '
    
    'I want none. I've enough of a burden to carry without
    your gratitude to add to it!' Erminet was near to tears
    without knowing why, and to counteract the emotion
    she raked him with a contemptuous glare. 'In the mean-
    time, I'll bring you water to wash with, and a blade to
    shave yourself. If you confront the girl looking as you do
    now, she'll change her mind and I'll have risked myself
    for nothing!'
    
    It was the first time she had heard Tarod laugh unre-
    servedly and wholeheartedly. When at last it subsided,
    he said solemnly, 'I wouldn't have that, Sister. Not for
    the world.'
    
    Her cheeks reddened. 'So be it, then.' She glanced
    down at her bag. 'I've prepared a further dose of the
    drug that's supposed to keep you quiescent. I'll leave it
    here — but I don't want to know whether you take it or
    not.'
    
    'If anyone chooses to visit me, they'll find me as
    stupefied as ever.' Tarod smiled. 'You'll be seen to have
    done your duty.'
    
    Erminet nodded quickly. She poured the prepared
    concoction, pressed the cup into his hands and made to
    leave. At the door she paused. 'Ah ... I all but forgot.
    She said to tell you that the wound was quickly healed.'
    
    'Yes. I thought she might say that . . . bless you,
    Sister Erminet. I'll never forget what you've done.'
    
    She returned the look almost sadly, he thought.
    'Good fortune go with you, Tarod.'
    
    He listened to the heavy key turning stiffly in the lock,
    and to the sound of Erminet's footsteps diminishing
    along the passage. When all was silent again he let out a
    pent-up breath, and felt a new strength flowing through
    
    him. He had hope where there had been nothing - hope
    of life, hope of a future. He could hardly yet believe it
    
    Sinking down on to the heaped rugs again, Tarod
    closed his green eyes and forced his muscles to relax, to
    ward off the excitement that threatened to overtake
    him. He must stay calm, expect nothing . . . the path
    from this moment to freedom was still a long and haz-
    ardous one, and rather than allow himself to indulge in
    speculation, he'd be better advised to conserve his
    energy lest some unforeseen trouble might occur. Even
    without the Chaos stone he had power, and the Circle's
    attempts to weaken him had had less effect than Keridil
    hoped - but he was by no means invincible. He must
    make contingency plans . . . and make them quickly.
    
    Turning his head and opening his eyes again, he
    reached for the cup which Sister Erminet had left. For a
    moment he weighed it in his hand; then with slow delib-
    eration he poured its contents on the floor. The liquid
    mingled with the detritus on the flagstones, forming a
    dark pool which gradually spread and faded as it soaked
    into the porous stone. If need be, he could put on a good
    enough show of stupefaction for the Circle . . . and he
    needed all his senses intact now.
    
    Settling himself as comfortably as he could, and aware
    of the rapidity of his pulse which no amount of will could
    control, Tarod closed his eyes once more as his mind
    began to reach out tentatively towards the future.
    
    Cyllan knew that some untoward event was taking place
    in the Castle. Watching from her window - there was
    little else to occupy her during the daylight hours - she
    had seen the bustle of activity increasing since early
    morning, and her first horrified thought had been to link
    it with the High Initiate's plans for Tarod's execution.
    But as the Spring day declined into a pleasant if chilly
    Sunset, it became obvious that this was a celebratory
    rather than a solemn occasion. People in their finest
    clothes converged on the main doors from all parts of the
    Castle, the tall windows of the main hall blazed with
    
    light, and as darkness fell she heard faint strains of music
    in the distance.
    
    As the courtyard emptied, Cyllan left the window and
    sat on her bed, relieved from her immediate fear yet still
    fretting with impatience. It was three days since Sister
    Erminet had made her promise; three days during which
    the old woman had not been to visit her, and Cyllan's
    initial hope was fast turning to despair and anger.
    Surely, unless she was the victim of some complex
    scheme or joke, there should have been word by now?
    Several times during the agonising wait she had been
    tempted to try calling on Yandros a second time, but
    memory of his warning had stopped her. He had said he
    couldn't come to her again . . . she had no choice but to
    be patient. And to look to Aeoris for an answer to her
    prayers was hardly appropriate . . .
    
    The music was louder now, and it irritated her; in her
    present predicament it seemed an intrusion and an
    insult. The Castle revelled while she waited, fear and
    uncertainty gnawing like rats at her stomach ... it
    fuelled the anger that was growing inside her, made her
    want to strike out, yet gave her nothing to strike against.
    The tension she felt was almost unbearable - and when a
    key turned unexpectedly in the lock of her door, she
    jumped as though under the onslaught of a physical
    blow.
    
    Sister Erminet came in. Her face was pale and taut,
    but she managed a quick, wry smile as she closed the
    door quietly at her back.
    
    Cyllan sprang up from the bed. 'Sister - '
    
    Erminet put a finger to her lips. 'Quiet, child. There's
    no one about, but no point in tempting the fates.'
    
    Lowering her voice, Cyllan asked, 'What news do you
    have of Tarod?'
    
    'He's well enough, if not exactly prospering.' Erminet
    paused, studying the girl's face. 'I gave him your reply to
    his message, and asked for his word on the safety of this
    Castle, as I said.'
    
    'And . . . ?'
    
    'He gave it.' Quickly, as though afraid of changing her
    
    mind, Erminet unlooped one of the keys that hung from
    her belt and held it out. 'This will unlock his door. I can't
    take the risk of releasing him myself. And you'll find the
    jewel in the High Initiate's study, locked away in a box
    he keeps in his cupboard.' Her gaze wavered. There's a
    banquet about to begin, to celebrate Keridil's betrothal
    to Sashka Veyyil. I doubt if you'll ever have a better
    opportunity to find the Castle deserted.'
    
    Very slowly Cyllan reached out and took the key.
    Then, catching Erminet completely by surprise, she sud-
    denly and impulsively flung her arms round the old
    woman's neck, hugging her tightly. She couldn't express
    what she felt, but the mute gesture was far more eloquent
    than any words. Flustered, Erminet extricated herself.
    
    'Now, don't be so foolish!' she scolded, trying to cover
    the fact that she was touched. 'You've a long way to go
    yet, and this is no time to indulge in emotion.' She stood
    back to study Cyllan critically. 'That gown, for example.
    The colour's dangerously distinctive, and with your hair
    it makes you too recognisable.'
    
    Cyllan frowned down at herself. The dress was the
    one that Tarod had given to her, and she didn't want to
    relinquish it. 'They brought me fresh clothes,' she said.
    'But I don't want them.'
    
    Erminet, however, was adamant. 'Want or no, you'll
    change your attire now, or look forward to being recap-
    tured! Here.' She examined the garments which had
    been left for Cyllan on Keridil's orders. 'This will do -
    it's neutral enough.' She held up a dove-grey woollen
    skirt with a darker long-sleeved top. For a moment
    Cyllan seemed about to protest, then she shrugged her
    thin shoulders and reluctantly slipped off the red gown.
    While she changed, Erminet instructed her as to Tarod's
    whereabouts and made her recite the directions twice
    over to ensure she had memorised them, then finally
    handed her a short black cloak with a hood.
    
    'This will hide your hair well enough. Keep to the
    shadows, and if anyone approaches you, walk the other
    way as quickly as you can without drawing attention.
    Are you ready?'
    
    Cyllan nodded.
    
    'Very well. I will leave first - I'm expected at the
    banquet, and there might be comment if I'm late. When
    all's quiet, make your way across the courtyard. It's unlit
    now; safer than the corridors.' She gave her charge one
    last look, then nodded. 'I wish you luck, child - even
    more for my sake than for yours. Aeoris help us all if you
    fail.'
    
    Cyllan remembered her encounter with Yandros, and
    smiled. 'I won't fail, Sister Erminet.'
    
    She stood back, watching as the old woman opened
    the door and peered out into the corridor. They

    exchanged a last glance, Erminet smiled conspir-
    atorially, then she was gone. Cyllan waited, counting
    every painful heartbeat and hardly able to believe that
    what had happened wasn't a dream from which she
    would wake at any moment. Then, when she could hear
    no sound beyond the door, she crossed the room and
    slipped out into the passage. Erminet had disappeared
    towards the main stairs; Cyllan paused to pull the cloak's
    hood over her hair, then turned in the opposite direction
    towards a secondary flight which would, she had been
    told, lead her by a circuitous route to a side door of the
    courtyard.
    
    And as Cyllan hastened away, the light of one of the
    wall-torches illuminated the rich velvet clothes and bril-
    liant jewels of someone who stepped out of a side pas-
    sage . . .
    
    Sashka had been taking her time, despite her mother's
    pleas, in preparing for what was to be her triumphant
    night. She had changed her mind and her gown three
    times before finally deciding what to wear, then had
    spent an hour under the careful hands of a trusted ser-
    vant while her hair was coiled and dressed. At last her
    parents had been forced to leave without her, and she
    had spent a few private and pleasant minutes luxuriating
    in anticipation of the evening. She would be the focus of
    all attention, elevated in a single night to a status that
    every eligible woman in every province would envy, and
    Sashka was determined to make the most of it. Let the
    
    guests await her arrival - she'd make that much more of
    an impression when she finally did grace them with her
    presence.
    
    At last, judging the moment to be right, she rose and
    made to leave, scorning the proffered arm of her father's
    steward and telling him curtly to stay behind and mind
    his place. There would be a guard of honour waiting to
    escort her to the main hall; she needed no one else.
    
    And so she had left her suite of rooms and walked at
    leisure towards the stairs. And, as she was about to
    emerge into the main corridor, Sister Erminet had
    walked briskly across her path.
    
    Sashka instinctively drew back, irritated. She
    despised Sister Erminet, and the thought of having to
    walk with her and make at least an attempt to be civil
    soured her mood. Fortunately, however, the old woman
    hadn't seen her ... so she waited until the quick
    footsteps had diminished before emerging into the
    corridor.
    
    It was sheer chance which made her pause as she
    started towards the stairs, and look back over her shoul-
    der. And she was just in time to see a small, cloaked and
    hooded figure turning out of one of the rooms at the far
    end and hurrying away.
    
    Sashka frowned. Something about the figure struck a
    chord in her memory, but she couldn't place it. Yet. . .
    wasn't that the room where the Eastern girl, Tarod's
    little drover slut, was kept? Sashka's instinct for trouble
    assailed her, and she licked her lips speculatively. It was
    a ridiculous idea . . . but it would take only a moment to
    be sure.
    
    Glancing about to make sure she was unobserved, she
    picked up her skirts and ran along the corridor.
    
    The door from which both Sister Erminet and the
    mysterious figure must have emerged stood alone, and it
    was closed. Sashka grasped the latch-ring, turned it,
    pushed - and the door swung open.
    
    The room was lit, but empty. Sashka's gaze took in an
    unmade bed, a plate of food, half eaten - and a red silk
    gown discarded over a chair. Remembering the one time
    
    she had seen Cyllan, when Keridil had tried and failed to
    talk some sense into her head, Sashka recognised the
    dress immediately, and her heart began to pound suf-
    focatingly. The slut had escaped - and Sister Erminet was
    implicated!
    
    A peculiar sense of elation filled Sashka. She could
    raise the alarm now, and within minutes Cyllan would be
    apprehended - but there might be more to gain by
    waiting a while. She felt certain that Cyllan's disap-
    pearance wasn't the result of a simple mistake on
    Erminet's part; the old woman was involved somehow in
    a deliberate plot, and Sashka felt certain that it might
    spring from a desire to spite her personally. Yet without
    direct evidence, she could prove nothing. Better, then,
    if she bided her time for just a little while, until she could
    trick Erminet into saying something that would damn
    her when she was confronted with the truth. The ban-
    quet would provide the perfect opportunity - it would
    also provide as many witnesses as anyone could desire -
    and she herself could secure the double triumph of
    ensuring Cyllan's apprehension, and exposing a traitor
    in their midst.
    
    To aid and abet a minion of Chaos was a serious
    matter . . . Keridil could surely no longer argue in
    favour of clemency for the drover-girl, and the thought
    that Sister Erminet might well suffer alongside Cyllan
    gave Sashka a good deal of satisfaction. As for Tarod
    . . . his hopes of escape would be thwarted, and he'd die
    as Keridil intended. All in all, Sashka thought, a more
    than satisfactory solution . . .
    
    She turned quickly out of the empty room, closing the
    door behind her, and made her way with unhurried
    grace towards the main stairs.
    
    Gyneth Linto, Keridil's steward, leaned to pour wine
    into the two heavily ornamented silver cups that stood
    together at the high table. It was more than thirty years
    since these ancient chalices had been used to toast the
    betrothal or marriage of a High Initiate of the Circle,
    and Gyneth had insisted on taking personal charge of
    
    this duty, despite the fact that some might think it men-
    ial. A silence fell on the assembly as he completed his
    task with a flourish and stepped back. Keridil met
    Sashka's eyes and as one they raised the cups, touching
    the rims together as the entire gathering rose. Every
    gaze in the hall was upon them, and Sashka felt a thrill of
    excitement course through her as, slowly and clearly,
    Keridil spoke the formal words of the betrothal pledge.
    
    'I call on Aeoris to witness this day that I, Keridil
    Toln, High Initiate of the Circle at the Star Peninsula, do
    pledge and bind to you, Sashka Veyyil of Han Province,
    to be protector and provider to you from the day of our
    marriage until my life's end.'
    
    Sashka cast her eyes down, and her measured con-
    tralto carried through the hall. 'And that I, Sashka
    Veyyil, do pledge and bind to you, Keridil Toln, to be
    helpmeet and comforter to you, from the day of our
    marriage until my life's end.'
    
    For a moment there was silence, as Keridil and Sashka
    each held their cup out to the other, and both drank
    from the other's chalice. It was a signal for the
    assembled guests to follow suit, and every man and
    woman raised their drinking vessels.
    
    'Keridil and Sashka!' The toast was taken up, rippling
    through the hall in a swell of sound and interspersed with
    a few cheers from younger and bolder Initiates. Sashka's
    beautiful face smiled beneficence on the crowd, and the
    musicians in the high gallery began to play again now
    that the small ceremony was over, while servants hur-
    ried forward to begin serving food to the guests.
    
    The feast was to be an informal affair. Since his
    father's death Keridil had, by slow and careful degrees,
    begun to make changes in much of the Circle's more
    esoteric practice. Remembering from his own childhood
    and adolescence the stultifying boredom of ceremonial
    banquets - endless speeches, hours spent stiff and
    uncomfortable on a hard bench, protocol demanding
    that he speak only to his nearest neighbours - he felt the
    use of too much ceremonial unnecessary, and was deter-
    mined, as gently as possible, to persuade even the older
    
    Adepts to his way of thinking. Tonight's celebration was
    the ideal opportunity - it was very much his personal
    festivity, had no direct link with Circle ritual, and he
    would offend no one by dispensing with the more fam-
    iliar formal traditions. And so, as the guests began to
    eat, they also began to move and mingle around the hall,
    and the swell of conversation and laughter almost
    drowned out the subtle background of music. A steady
    stream of people made their way to the high table to
    offer congratulations to Keridil and Sashka, and among
    their number was Sister Erminet, who approached with
    a small group of Sisters who had arrived from West High
    Land that morning. Faramor the hawk-master's experi-
    ment had proved successful, and as a result Kael Amion,
    the elderly Senior at the West High Land cot, had sent a
    deputation of the women in her charge to the Castle to
    bring her personal good wishes.
    
    Sashka disguised her amusement behind an artificial
    yawn as the Sisters approached. Erminet was smiling,
    but her eyes betrayed her, and Sashka believed she
    detected jealousy in their disdainful coldness. She
    forced down a desire to laugh. If all went well, Sister
    Erminet would have cause to regret her attitude before
    too long . . .
    
    'High Initiate.' Erminet clasped Keridil's hand. 'A
    very gratifying occasion. On behalf of Lady Kael Amion
    and the Sisters of West High Land, may we offer warm-
    est congratulations.'
    
    Sashka gave Keridil a faintly pitying glance as she
    realised he was taken in by Erminet's unctuous manner.
    He thanked the old woman with great courtesy, and
    then Erminet turned to the girl at his side.
    
    'My dear Sashka. This is a wonderful day for us all at
    the Cot - the Lady is very proud of you.'
    
    Sashka smiled sweetly. 'Thank you, Sister; I'm very
    gratified by such praise.' Her voice oozed modesty, and
    Erminet nodded and made to move on. But before she
    had taken a step, Sashka added, as though the thought
    had just occurred to her, 'Oh - Sister Erminet ... I
    don't wish to raise an unhappy subject, but . . . ' Her
    
    eyelashes flickered, though her gaze was steady, 'I
    gather that you are now in charge of both the prisoners
    held here at the Castle.'
    
    Keridil frowned, surprised, but if Erminet was dis-
    concerted she didn't show it. 'Yes,' she said evenly, 'I
    am.'
    
    Sashka smiled again. 'It's just that ... I'd so much
    appreciate your assurance that all's well and there's no
    danger of any trouble.' She reached out and took
    Keridil's hand. 'I'm sure the High Initiate will think me
    foolish, but I'd enjoy tonight so much more without the
    fear that something might go amiss.'
    
    Erminet hesitated. She knew full well that Sashka had
    no fear of Tarod, Cyllan or any other living creature, but
    couldn't imagine what her motive for such an uncharac-
    teristic question might be. Keridil, however, came
    unwittingly to her aid.
    
    'My love, there's no need for any doubt,' he said,
    smiling fondly at Sashka. 'I understand your feelings in
    the circumstances, but I can give you my assurance,
    there's not the smallest chance of any threat to our
    happiness.' He looked up at the old woman. 'Isn't that
    so, Sister Erminet?'
    
    Erminet inclined her head. 'Indeed, High Initiate.'
    She glanced at the auburn-haired girl. 'I looked in on the
    girl Cyllan not half an hour ago, and the Adept - the
    former Adept, I should say - a little earlier. Both are
    secure - in fact, the girl was sleeping when I left her. You
    have my assurance of that.'
    
    Sashka smiled. 'Thank you, Sister. Your assurance is
    all we could ask.'
    
    When Erminet and the other Sisters had moved on,
    Keridil said in Sashka's ear, 'It's not like you to be
    nervous, love. Why are you so troubled?'
    
    She gave a little shrug. 'Ohh . . . perhaps I'm super-
    stitious, Keridil. Forgive me - I'll be well enough now.'
    
    'Sister Erminet's more than capable.'
    
    'I know.' Sashka smiled sweetly at him in the way she
    knew could disarm him without a word spoken. 'Oh, I
    know.'
    
    Cyllan heard the strains of dance music as she ran on
    silent feet through the maze of passages that permeated
    the Castle like a warren. In trying to avoid the main hall
    she had misjudged her own knowledge of the corridors,
    and had taken two wrong turnings before finally emerg-
    ing uncomfortably close to the double doors that stood
    between her and the banquet.
    
    Slipping into an alcove that masked her with its shad-
    ows, she stopped to catch her breath and get her bear-
    ings. Thus far, luck had been with her - she had
    encountered no one in the courtyard, and the one
    woman servant who had hurried past her as she crossed
    the entrance hall had paused only to bob a curtsey to the
    cloaked and hooded figure whom she had clearly taken
    for a late-arriving guest. But luck, Cyllan knew from
    bitter experience, had a habit of running out when least
    expected. If she was to fulfil her task, she must tread
    with the greatest of caution.
    
    She had already made up her mind to steal the stone
    from the High Initiate's rooms before she made her way
    to the cellars where Tarod was imprisoned. In honesty,
    she had to admit that she would only feel safe when the
    jewel was in his hands; and while she might be no more
    than an anonymous figure to anyone she chanced to
    meet, he was known to the entire populus of the Castle
    and would be recognised immediately should he be
    seen.
    
    The music, muffled beyond the heavy hall doors, was
    a light, lilting dance tune, underpinned by a murmur of
    many voices. The celebrations were at their height, and
    Cyllan dared waste no more time. Peering cautiously in
    both directions and seeing the corridor empty, she left
    her hiding place and hurried away in what she hoped was
    the direction of the High Initiate's apartments.
    
    Her instincts proved true this time - and the outer
    door was unlocked. She suffered an agonising moment
    as she pushed the door fractionally open, half expecting
    to be challenged from within - but the suite of rooms was
    unlit and empty.
    
    A box, locked in his cupboard, Sister Erminet had said
    
    . . . Cyllan moved cautiously across the floor, skirting
    the massive table that dominated the room, and found
    the ornately carved cabinet a little to one side of the
    fireplace. The handle refused to give when she turned it,
    and swearing under her breath she began to search for
    something that would force the lock. Her search was
    hampered by the darkness, but she had nothing with
    which to make a light even had she dared to. Groping
    across the table she knocked over an inkstand which fell
    with a crash, splattering its contents across table top and
    floor. Cyllan froze, sweat breaking out on her skin, but
    the noise brought no one to investigate, and after a
    minute or so she resumed her hunt.
    
    The table-top yielded nothing of any use, and it was

    only when she turned her attention to the drawer set
    beneath it that she found the knife. It was a wicked
    blade, glinting like wet slate in the dimness as she drew it
    from its sheath, but it would suffice well enough. There
    was no time for finesse, and she gouged out the lock of
    the cupboard in three fierce movements, wrenching the
    door back and feeling inside for her quarry.
    
    A glass bottle, a sheaf of papers . . . and the box.
    Cyllan drew it out and put it on the floor, crouching over
    it as she prised at the lid with her blade. Like the
    cupboard it was locked, but it was made of soft pewter,
    lead lined, and gave at her second attempt. She lifted the
    lid ... and stared with a chilling fascination at what
    confronted her.
    
    The Chaos stone lay alone in the box, and it glowed
    with an inner light of its own; a cold, dim radiance that
    spilled on to Cyllan's hands and turned them ghostly
    grey. For a moment she baulked at the idea of touching
    it - but then she gathered her courage, reached into the
    box, and her fingers closed around the gem. An unnerv-
    ing sense of elation filled her as she felt its hard contours
    against her palm; her arm tingled and, just for a brief
    instant, she felt a heady sense of power, as though some
    unnameable force had flooded her mind from the stone's
    depths. She took a grip on herself - she was by no means
    triumphant yet, and jubilation must wait - and hastily
    
    shut the box, putting it back in the cupboard and closing
    the ruined door as best she could. With the stone in her
    left hand she picked up the knife once more. She'd keep
    it, at least until both she and Tarod were safe . . .
    
    Finding her way to the door, she bumped noisily
    against a chair, but again the noise was insufficient to
    raise an alarm. She waited until her heart stopped
    racing, then eased the door open . . .
    
    The passage awaited her, seeming brilliant after the
    dark room. Cyllan stepped out -
    
    And a figure moved across her path.
    
    Cyllan's eyes widened in horror. She tried to dodge
    back into the High Initiate's apartments, but it was too
    late - he had seen her, stopped, recognised her as the
    hood fell back to betray her distinctive pale hair - and
    she found herself transfixed by the stunned stare of
    Drachea Rannak.
    
    Wo . . .' Cyllan croaked the word, her voice unrecog-
    nisable even to herself. 'No . . . Yandros, no!'
    
    Drachea too had sworn aloud, and his hand went
    immediately to the short sword he had lately taken to
    carrying. He had slipped away from the banquet, bored
    and, he had to admit to himself, more than a little jealous
    of the High Initiate, and had been pacing moodily along
    the corridor at the very moment when, by sheer chance,
    Cyllan had emerged with her prize. Now he faced her, and
    as the initial shock which had frozen them both faded
    Cyllan saw realisation and alarm dawning in his eyes.
    
    'Gods!' The sword rattled from its scabbard. 'You
    bitch, how did you - oh, no!' He brought the blade up in
    a wild, slashing movement as Cyllan made a desperate
    dive for freedom, and she reeled back against the wall to
    save herself from its shearing arc.
    
    'Oh, no!' Drachea said again, harshly. 'Not this time,
    you demon - not this time!' And over his shoulder he
    yelled, 'Help! Servants, here - quickly!'
    
    The Chaos stone pulsed suddenly hot in Cyllan's
    hand, and a storm of bitter ferocity surged into life
    within her. Drachea had thwarted her once; he had
    brought about Tarod's downfall - but not again! Never,
    
    never again! Like a vision seen in the instant of a bolt of
    lightning her mind pictured Yandros's proud, sardonic
    face, and his eyes seemed to reflect the colourless radi-
    ance of the gem -
    
    Drachea started as her left hand came up, and a
    sudden glare of light sprang from between her fingers.
    On the verge of shouting the alarm again the words stuck
    and died in his throat, and when he tried to draw breath
    his lungs seemed to fill with ice. He swayed, staggered -
    Cyllan took a pace forward, brandishing the stone like a
    weapon, and her face illuminated by the gem's glare was
    mad, insensate. Drachea tried again to yell out; his voice
    broke in a cracking scream, and as the sound of it echoed
    through the passage Cyllan sprang at him, the knife in
    her right hand flashing up in a deadly stroke that took
    Drachea in the stomach and sheared through to his
    breastbone. His scream choked off into a bubbling howl
    of pain and he doubled over, spinning around and
    almost falling on his own sword. Seeing him down,
    Cyllan's senses gave way to an explosion of rage and she
    hurled herself on him a second time, the knife-blade
    hurtling down and biting deep into his shoulder. She was
    beyond all reason, driven by something she could
    neither comprehend nor control; something that awoke
    an insane, unhuman craving to kill, destroy, avenge -
    
    A shriek that was neither her voice nor Drachea's cut
    through the madness in her head, and she jumped back
    as though jerked by a rope. Two servants, a man and a
    woman, had come running in answer to Drachea's bel-
    lowed summons, and had rounded the corner to be
    confronted by the sight of what seemed to be a white-
    faced demon, face and hands spattered with blood,
    hacking with a gore-soaked knife at the struggling
    Drachea. The woman fainted dead away and the man
    stared at Cyllan, jaw gaping, gathered his breath to yell
    at the top of his voice -
    
    Sanity came back with a violent jolt. Drachea lay
    between Cyllan's feet, dead or dying. The Chaos stone
    was ice-cold in her left hand, the knife slick and slippery
    in her right; her clothes a mess of new crimson stains. . .
    
    Cyllan's stomach heaved, and, galvanised by nothing
    more than animal instinct, she turned and ran. The
    corridor veered crazily before her, and at her back,
    diminishing yet thundering like drums in her head, she
    heard the servant's high-pitched, frantic voice yelling a
    desperate alarm.
    
    Chapter 15
    
    The music from the gallery was loud enough to mask any
    commotion from beyond the heavy doors of the dining-
    hall, and from slow and formal set pieces the players had
    now progressed to lighter but more vigorous dance
    music. A few couples had taken the floor already, and
    the dancing would increase as the night wore on, con-
    tinuing until the small hours when hot mulled wine and
    biscuits would be served before the revelry ended.
    
    At first, Keridil didn't notice the two men who
    entered the hall and began to push their way urgently
    through the throng towards him. He was making con-
    versation with Sashka's father, while at the same time
    privately reflecting on the success of the evening - and
    only when Sashka touched his arm and said, in an odd
    voice, 'Keridil . . . ' did he look up and see them
    approaching.
    
    The looks on their faces were enough to tell him
    something was wrong, and as they reached him he rose
    to his feet. Curious onlookers strained to hear the brief,
    whispered conversation, but even Sashka was none the
    wiser when Keridil hurriedly proffered his apologies and
    strode out of the hall with the two men at his heels.
    
    The servant who had raised the alarm was sitting with
    his back against the corridor wall, face hidden in his
    hands and shaking as though he had the palsy. A steward
    crouched beside him, speaking in low, urgent tones,
    while another man, grey-faced, was attempting to cover
    a body with his cloak and hide it from view. There was
    blood on the floor, on the wall, and spreading through
    the cloak in a dark, ugly stain.
    
    'Wait.' Keridil spoke to the man as he was about to
    
    cover the corpse's face. The servant drew back, and the
    High Initiate stared down at the victim.
    
    He didn't need Grevard to tell him that Drachea was
    dead. The young man's eyes were half open and sight-
    less, and blood still trickled from his mouth, though
    by the looks of it, Keridil reflected grimly, there must
    be little enough in his body left to be shed. Whoever
    had killed him must have attacked him as though pos-
    sessed ...
    
    Feeling sick, he signed to the servant to cover the
    body once more, and turned to face the steward.
    
    'Does anyone know who did this?' His voice was low
    and dangerous.
    
    The steward got to his feet. 'Pirasyn here witnessed
    the whole thing, sir, and I think he recognised the killer.
    But it's hard to get any sense out of him.'
    
    Keridil nodded and squatted on his haunches in front
    of the distressed man. 'Pirasyn. It's Keridil Toln. Listen
    to me - you must help us, if you can. Try to remember
    who it was you saw attacking the Heir Margrave.'
    
    The man looked up and swallowed, and Keridil tried
    to smile reassuringly. 'He'll be apprehended, never fear.
    But we'll hunt him down all the quicker if you can
    identify him to me now.'
    
    Pirasyn swallowed again, then shook his head. 'Not
    him . . . '
    
    'Not whom?' Keridil was puzzled.
    
    'Him.' the man repeated. 'Not him. Her. The girl-the
    one who aided the demon. White hair. Yellow eyes.
    And that face . . . ' He covered his eyes again and
    started to sob.
    
    A liquid sensation clutched at Keridil's stomach and
    slowly he straightened up. Cyllan? It wasn't possible -
    she was safely locked up! He'd had Sister Erminet's own
    assurance not an hour since . . . But impossible or no,
    he also had Pirasyn's testimony . . . and a terrible
    intuition to add weight to it.
    
    He swung round to the two men who had summoned
    him. 'Get up to the room where, that girl's kept - check
    that she's still there. And hurry!'
    
    They left at a run, and as their footfalls diminished
    Sashka appeared from the direction of the main hall.
    'Keridil? What's to do?'
    
    He went to her, catching her by the shoulders and
    halting her before she could see the carnage. 'Love, you
    shouldn't have followed me.'
    
    She gazed levelly back. 'When you're pulled from my
    side by some obvious crisis, do you expect me to sit and
    meekly await your return? I want to be of help - please,
    tell me what's amiss.'
    
    Keridil sighed. 'I didn't want to expose you to this, but
    . . . Drachea Rannak has been murdered.'
    
    Her lovely eyes widened in shock. 'Murdered? Here,
    outside your own apartments?'
    
    The words brought him up short; it hadn't occurred to
    him that there might be more than coincidence involved in
    the location, but now he began to wonder. And if Pirasyn
    had spoken the truth, there was one obvious motive . . .
    
    He took a torch down from its bracket on the wall and
    opened the door to his rooms - then Sashka heard a soft
    oath escape his lips. She ran after him as he disappeared
    inside, and found him staring at the detritus which
    Cyllan had left. Spilled ink, scattered papers -
    
    'Keridil, look!' she said harshly. The cupboard door-
    the lock's been smashed!'
    
    Keridil saw it, and ran across the room. He snatched
    the pewter box from its shelf, and even before he opened
    it the broken lid told him what he would find.
    
    'It's gone,' he said.
    
    The stone . . . ?'
    
    Keridil nodded. The mystery was beginning to piece
    itself horribly together, and as Sashka peered into the
    empty box he said softly, venomously, 'Cyllan . . . '
    
    'What?'
    
    Briefly, he told her what Pirasyn claimed to have seen.

    She had never seen him so angry before, though he did
    his best to control the rage in him, and she made no
    attempt to mollify him. Rather, she thought, it would
    serve her purpose the better if his fury could be chan-
    nelled ...
    
    'Keridil,' she said as he was about to return to the
    corridor, 'Keridil, I was thinking . . . '
    
    'What is it?' He was more curt than he had intended,
    but she seemed not to notice.
    
    'About Sister Erminet . . . she told us that the girl
    was safely locked away. She gave us her word on it. I
    think she was lying to us.'
    
    He frowned. 'I don't understand you. Whyever
    should Sister Erminet lie?'
    
    'I don't know. But . . . well, I thought I must have
    been mistaken, but now I'm not sure.' And she told him
    of the hooded figure she had seen leaving Cyllan's room
    in Erminet's wake. As she related her story - though
    making no reference to the fact that she had checked the
    room herself - Keridil's jaw muscles tightened and his
    hands clenched.
    
    'If she's in league with them . . . ' he said at last.
    
    'It's possible. Isn't it possible?'
    
    He was struggling to be fair, not to let anger cloud his
    judgement, but the evidence was hard to ignore. Sashka
    wasn't a liar . . . and Cyllan could surely not have
    escaped without help . . .
    
    From outside the door he heard running footsteps,
    and a voice calling his name. Quickly he took
    Sashka's hand and led her out, in time to confront the
    two men he had sent to check on the girl. They were
    sweating and breathless, but their message was clear
    enough.
    
    'She's gone sir! The room's been left unlocked!'
    
    Keridil's mouth set in a narrow line. 'Very well.
    Organise as many searchers as you need, and make sure
    each one is armed. Tell them to gather in the dining-hall
    as soon as possible - we'll comb the Castle from end to
    end until she's found! I want the main gates guarded -
    oh, and set two men to watch that demonic lover of hers!
    It's ten to one he's behind this, and that she'll try to
    reach him. Whatever else happens, she mustn't succeed
    in that! Do you understand?'
    
    'Yes, sir.'
    
    Then get about it, quickly!' And as they hastened
    
    away he turned to Sashka, his face grave. 'I'm sorry that
    this has to ruin our celebration, love.'
    
    She shook her head. 'It doesn't matter. The girl must
    be found - that's far more important. But . . . what
    about Sister Erminet?'
    
    'Ah . . . yes. I wish I could be sure . . . '
    
    Sashka nibbled at her lower lip. 'As yet, no one in the
    dining-hall knows what's amiss, Sister Erminet
    included. Perhaps if, before you break the news to them,
    she could be - invited to repeat her assurance?' She cast
    her gaze down. 'I know it's a devious thought, Keridil,
    but if we do have a viper in our midst, surely a little
    trickery is justified?'
    
    She was right; and Keridil thanked the gods for her
    common sense. 'Very well. It's a shrewd suggestion, and
    we'll follow it. Though the gods know, I find it hard to
    credit that she should be a traitor.'
    
    Sashka shrugged. 'Erminet was always unpredictable.
    At the Cot we lived in fear of her moods and fancies . . .
    and besides, we should remember that as well as guard-
    ing Cyllan, she's been responsible for tending to Tarod
    these last days.'
    
    'You mean that she might be under his sway? I hardly
    think so - he's been kept drugged; I doubt if he can
    control his own mind, let alone influence another's.'
    
    'We may have underestimated him.'
    
    It was possible . . . and it could explain Erminet's
    perfidy.
    
    'Well, there's only one way to be sure,' Keridil said.
    'Let's return to our guests.'
    
    Their entrance was greeted with relief and a great
    many curious questions. Keridil soothed anxieties with
    the promise of a full explanation, then sought out Sister
    Erminet, who - suspiciously, it now seemed to him - sat
    alone at a table and appeared disinterested in the furore.
    
    'Sister Erminet.' He smiled as he approached her. 'I'm
    sorry to intrude on you with a medical matter, but -'
    
    She looked up quickly, and he thought he detected
    relief on her face. 'Medical matter?' she said. 'Has
    someone been taken ill?'
    
    'In a manner of speaking. It concerns one of your
    charges, and I'd like to clear up a little confusion.'
    
    'Ah . . . ' said Erminet warily.
    
    'The girl, Cyllan -I believe you said she was sleeping
    when you left her; is that correct?'
    
    People were gathering round them . . . Erminet
    hesitated for a moment, and it was clear she was discon-
    certed. 'Did I? Perhaps so ... yes, I believe she was.'
    
    'And you did take care to lock the door behind you
    when you left?'
    
    Now the old woman's face was unhealthily pale, but
    she rallied herself and smiled at him.
    
    'Naturally, High Initiate. I have the key here at my
    waist, as always.' She held it up, but her hand wasn't
    quite steady. 'It never leaves my person.'
    
    It was all Keridil needed. Leaning forward, he said
    softly, but ferociously. 'Then can you explain to me,
    Sister, how it was that Cyllan was able to leave her
    locked room, and commit cold-blooded murder in this
    Castle not fifteen minutes ago?'
    
    The little colour that remained drained from Erminet's
    face, leaving it the shade of dried cement. She tried to
    rise, but her legs wouldn't support her, and her expres-
    sion would have damned her without a word spoken.
    
    'Oh, gods . . . she didn't. . . she couldn't have . . . '
    She covered her mouth with one hand.
    
    Keridil called forward two Initiates. 'Please conduct
    Sister Erminet Rowald to her room, and see that she
    doesn't leave until I send for her personally.' And to
    Erminet he added, 'I believe, Sister, that you have been
    guilty of an act which I would have thought unthinkable
    for one of your calling. I hope you'll prove me wrong,
    but I have very strong doubts. You'll have your chance
    to speak when Cyllan Anassan has been apprehended.'
    He nodded curtly to the old woman, and signed for the
    Initiates to lead her away. Shocked silence fell on the
    hall as they passed through the crowd to the door, then
    Keridil picked up an empty wine jug and banged it down
    hard on the table to call their attention. Every face in the
    vast room turned towards him.
    
    'My friends,' Keridil said, the anger still tingeing his
    voice, 'I'm sorry to have to draw the evening's festivities
    to a premature close, but I have a very grave announce-
    ment to make, and I would appreciate the co-operation
    of every able-bodied man and woman here tonight.'
    
    Beside him Sashka sank on to a convenient chair, her
    eyes cast down, and the faintest of smiles on her face.
    
    *****
    
    She was lost. Her terrified, headlong flight from the
    scene of the grisly encounter with Drachea had taken
    her deep into an unlit and remote part of the Castle,
    where only endless black walls and silence confronted
    her. Blind instinct had led her down twisting flights of
    stairs and along narrow passages, until at last she was
    certain that her pursuers - if pursuit there had been -
    were left far behind. Then she stumbled to a halt, and
    collapsed exhausted to the cold stone floor.
    
    Slowly the broken fragments of what had happened
    were beginning to form a coherent recollection, as the
    blankness of stark fear was succeeded by a peculiar
    calm. She had killed Drachea. In dark moments as she
    sat alone in her locked room she had often craved the
    chance to take vengeance on him, and her imagination
    had run riot. Now the fantasy had become reality, and
    the reality was bloody and ugly and shocking. Yet she
    couldn't feel remorse . . . her hatred of Drachea was
    too strong, the desire for retribution too great.
    
    With an inward shiver she remembered the Chaos
    stone coming to life in her hand, the blazing glare of cold
    light that had transfixed Drachea where he stood. The
    stone had given her the opportunity she needed to strike
    - and it had also fed on her hatred, focusing it into a lust
    for destruction and mayhem that had eclipsed her
    reason and turned her into a savage assassin. The stone
    was quiescent now, nestling in her left hand. Her fingers
    ached from gripping it, and she had to prize them open
    in order to look at the gem where it lay in her palm. It
    seemed nothing more than a simple jewel, yet her flesh
    
    tingled as she felt an echo of the sensations it had
    awoken in her. She was beginning to understand Tarod's
    ambiguous feelings, part loathing and part need,
    towards it ... he was right; it was a deadly gem. And
    now she realised why Yandros had agreed to aid her.
    
    Quickly, half afraid that the stone might affect her
    further if she continued to hold it, she thrust the jewel
    into the bodice of her dress. Her hand came away
    smeared with crimson, and she realised that she was
    spattered from head to foot with Drachea's blood. The
    sight of it brought a lurch of physical revulsion and for a
    moment she thought she would be sick; but the spasm
    passed as cold logic took over once more.
    
    What was done was done, and right or wrong she
    didn't regret it. Drachea was dead - no one could survive
    such a savage attack - and she had kept her freedom, at
    least for the moment. But the hunt would already be up,
    and the chances were that her identity was known. She
    couldn't hope to evade capture for long while she
    remained in the Castle confines, and once she was
    caught there would be no second chance, and no
    reprieve this time. She would die, hanged or more likely
    beheaded, and Tarod would die too.
    
    She had to reach him. She had to give him the Chaos
    stone, and plead with him to use it, if necessary, to save
    them both. Without his strength and power to aid them,
    the net would close and they'd be lost; they needed the
    stone, however deadly it might be.
    
    Unsteadily Cyllan got to her feet, smoothing down
    her dress and ignoring the stains. The knife she tucked in
    her sleeve, unwilling to relinquish it lest she should need
    it again. Luck — and Yandros - had been with her once,
    but she dared not rely on them a second time. If she
    could keep to the Castle's unpopulated corridors until
    she found her way to the cellars where Tarod was
    imprisoned, well and good - but she would kill again if
    she had to, to reach her goal.
    
    She pulled the hood of the short cloak up over her hair
    once more, and set off along the passage.
    
    Cyllan had no way of telling how much time had passed
    before, at long last, she reached a place where steep
    stairs led down into the Castle's foundations, and knew
    she was close to her goal. From Sister Erminet's instruc-
    tion she recognised the way to the storage cellars and
    began to hasten down the flight, until a sudden uneasy
    intuition made her pause. It might have been imagina-
    tion, or a deceptive echo from somewhere, but she
    fancied she'd heard a sound from below, as though a
    foot had shuffled on stone. Holding her breath, and
    thankful for the dark clothes which helped her to merge
    with the shadows, she advanced a cautious pace, then
    another, until she reached the foot of the stairs. Here a
    narrow tunnel crossed her path, and, flattening herself
    against the dank wall, she peered round, holding the
    cloak hood close against her cheek.
    
    Tarod was in the third cellar along, so Sister Erminet
    had said. And there, outside that very door, were two
    men. One leaned against the wall, hissing softly through
    his teeth while he whittled at a small piece of wood with
    the blade of a vicious-looking knife; the other sat gazing
    at the tunnel roof, seemingly lost in his private thoughts.
    But their apparent lack of attention was belied by the
    long-bladed, powerful sword that each bore at his hip.
    They had been set to guard the cell, and Cyllan knew
    that she had no hope of avoiding them should she try to
    reach Tarod.
    
    Slowly and quietly she withdrew back into the dark-
    ness, her mouth dry with fear and anger. She was too
    late - the hunt was up for her, and she should have
    known that Keridil's first action would be to set a guard
    on Tarod's cell. They must by now have discovered that
    the Chaos stone was missing, and that would be enough
    to redouble their efforts to find her. Silently she cursed
    herself- by losing her way she had wasted precious time,
    and the High Initiate had thwarted her. Despair tied her
    stomach in knots of fury and frustration - she had to get
    word to Tarod somehow, let him know that she was free,
    for until he could be certain, he'd do nothing that might
    jeopardise her. But the chance was lost. She couldn't
    
    even reach one of the storerooms and hide there in the
    hope that the guard might change and Tarod be left
    unattended for a few minutes; the instant she stepped
    out from the stairs she'd be seen and apprehended. And
    she couldn't remain here, indecisive - she was too
    exposed; all it would take was one man to start down the
    stairs from above and she'd be trapped. And after what
    had happened to Drachea, they'd probably run her
    through without a second thought . . .
    
    Wraithlike, she turned and crept away up the stairs,
    back in the direction from which she'd come. Her mind
    was gnawing frantically at her predicament, but she
    could see no possible answer. Yet she had to find a way-
    she had to ...
    
    A small shape moved across her path and she started
    violently, biting her tongue and almost losing her foot-
    ing on the steep flight. The shape, too, paused, then
    raised its head and uttered a soft, querying cry. Cyllan's
    thundering pulse slowed as she recognised it for one of
    the telepathic cats that inhabited the Castle. She had
    already encountered two on her way here, felt their
    tentative probing into her mind. Their telepathy was a
    little like that of the aquatic fanaani, though of a lower
    order, and as she was about to move on past the creature
    Cyllan felt the delicate strands of its thoughts penetrat-
    ing and mingling with her own. She hesitated - and
    suddenly, in her inner vision, she saw a blurred image of
    Sister Erminet's face. The cat mewed, urgency in its
    tone . . .
    
    'What is it, little one?' Cyllan whispered, afraid that
    the echoes of her voice might carry to the tunnel below.
    'What are you trying to tell me?'
    
    She had bent down, and the cat reared on its hind legs,
    crying again. Cyllan's heart started to pound and she
    crouched, trying to steady her thoughts and open her
    mind to the creature's attempts to communicate.
    
    'Tell me, little one, 'she said softly.'I'm listening . . .'
    
    The Imp, Sister Erminet's adopted pet, knew that it
    had found the one it was seeking. It had left the old
    woman's room by its usual route, through the window
    
    and along a dizzying maze of incredibly narrow ledges to
    the ground, then, following instructions which it only
    barely comprehended, had headed for the cellars.
    
    It was only the fact that the cat liked the Castle's
    underground rooms with their plethora of unexplored
    crannies and fascinating scents that had persuaded it to
    carry out the mission with which it had been entrusted -
    that, and the unmistakable urgency in its human friend's
    attempts to communicate. It had been curled asleep on
    her bed when she returned, and had resented being
    disturbed. But a combination of determination and
    blandishment had won through, and the cat's curiosity
    was aroused. The old woman wanted it to find someone,
    and the creature's mind formed a picture of another
    human, coloured grey and pale yellow, and of amber-
    hued eyes that were just a little like its own. And the
    cellars ... it liked the cellars. And so when finally the
    old woman had refused to feed it, and refused to speak
    to it any more, it had reluctantly padded across the
    room, sprung up to the window-ledge, and slipped away
    into the night.
    
    Now, it had found the object of its search, and
    immediately it sensed a mind with which it could com-
    municate far more easily than it had ever done with
    Sister Erminet. And that mind needed help of a kind
    which, the cat understood smugly, it alone could give. A
    hand reached out towards it, stroking its hard little head,
    and the human began to project an image of someone
    the cat knew . . .
    
    Cyllan didn't comprehend the cat's connection with
    Sister Erminet, but she understood enough of its nature
    to grasp at this slender hope as a drowning man might
    clutch a driftwood spar. She couldn't reach Tarod - but
    the animal could. No one would think to stop a cat if it
    passed by on some secret exploration. And if she could
    make it understand the message she wanted it to convey,
    and persuade it to find its way to Tarod, there was a
    chance - more than a chance, she prayed fervently - that
    Tarod would pick up enough of that message from the
    creature's strange, capricious mind to realise what was afoot.
    
    She dropped to her knees and gazed into the cat's
    eyes, opening her thoughts to its mental scrutiny. It was
    curious; that was a good beginning. She projected an
    image of Tarod's face and saw its whiskers twitch with
    interest, then tried, though whether the cat could under-
    stand such human concepts she didn't know, to ingrain
    in it the idea that she was free.
    
    'Tell him . . . ' She mouthed the words silently to
    reinforce her urgent thoughts. Tell him, little one. I am
    free. I am free!'
    
    The Imp closed and opened its brilliant eyes in a long,
    slow blink. If the gesture meant anything, Cyllan
    couldn't interpret it. Then it uttered its peculiar little cry
    again, tail flicking - and before Cyllan could stop it or
    speak to it again it had turned and loped away, melting
    into the darkness, and was gone.
    
    She sat back against the wall, not knowing what to
    think. She couldn't judge whether the cat had under-
    stood the message she had tried to instil into its mind;
    and if it had, whether it would choose to convey it or,
    with the perversity of its kind, would be distracted by
    some new interest and forget its mission. But she silently
    thanked Sister Erminet for her ingenuity and kindness in
    sending the creature to her. It was a slender chance, but
    it might succeed . . . and it was all the more imperative
    that she should find a hiding place where she would be
    safe until she knew whether the cat had reached Tarod
    with its message. If it did, he would find her. Somehow,
    he would find her . . .
    
    The stairway was silent, the deep shadows still. Cyllan
    rose to her feet and began to climb again, alert for the
    smallest sound or sign of movement. If she could find a
    sanctuary before dawn broke she could wait in safety, at
    least for a while, and soon enough she would know. The
    waiting would be torment . . . but now, at least, the
    spark of hope had been rekindled.
    
    Tarod woke from an uneasy sleep with the echo of a
    dream in his mind, and for a moment his senses were
    
    confused. Then, as his vision cleared, he remembered
    where he was.
    
    He hadn't intended to let himself sleep . . . tonight
    was the night of the banquet, and Sister Erminet had
    told him that it was her one opportunity to release
    Cyllan. Yet there had been no word; and he surmised
    that by now the night must be well advanced. There
    were so many possible pitfalls in Erminet's plan that he
    feared something might have gone wrong, and the fear
    gave him a sharp, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
    Tense, he rose, flexing stiff muscles, and paced as far as
    the cell's confines would allow, railing against the lack of
    a window that prevented him from seeing the sky and
    judging the hour.
    
    An empty cup stood on the floor - Erminet had main-
    tained the charade of bringing him the regular dose of
    the drug ordered by Grevard, to avoid arousing suspi-
    cion - and in the gloom he kicked it over, so that it rolled
    noisily across the bare stone. As it came to rest, a hiss
    sounded from the shadows where the cup lay, and Tarod
    swung round, his green eyes narrowing. Something
    moved - and a small, silver-grey cat emerged from
    behind a pile of discarded sacks. Its coat was streaked
    with dust and there were cobwebs on its whiskers. It
    paused, then looked up at him and mewed what sounded
    like a resentful protest.
    
    'Imp . . . ' Recognising the creature, Tarod spoke
    softly, squatting down and holding out a hand. The cat
    approached with caution and sniffed his fingers, then
    suffered him to brush the offending cobwebs from its
    face, shaking its head and sneezing. Then it sat down
    and, infuriatingly, began to wash itself.
    
    Tarod watched it speculatively. Pitted though these
    ancient walls were with cracks and crevices, it was no i
    mean feat for even such a small and agile animal to find
    its way through from the next cellar; and he suspected
    that the cat must have some ulterior motive for paying
    him a visit. In the past, he had had a way with most
    animals that enabled him to influence them; the most ill-
    tempered horse had been malleable to his will, and the
    
    telepathic cats - though less easy to command - were
    very receptive to his thoughts. Whether he still
    possessed those skills he didn't know . . . but he had
    already sensed an urgent imperative lurking in the cat's
    mind which, perversely, it was choosing to ignore, and
    he had no time to waste in waiting.
    
    'Imp.' This time his voice was less cajoling, and the cat
    looked up quickly, pink tongue protruding slightly from
    its mouth. Tarod focused his mind, relieved to find that
    much of the old steel sharpness was there only waiting to
    be unlocked, and held the creature's gaze. Its slit pupils
    dilated to black orbs and he searched its alien con-
    sciousness, seeking the motivation which had brought it
    to him.
    
    An image: distorted but recognisable . . . an old,
    wizened face that abruptly shifted and became younger,
    startlingly familiar. A pale nimbus that was the cat's
    concept of human hair; eyes with an amber-gold light
    to them . , . and a sensation; not a word, not even an
    idea, but a fundamental, primal emotion. Freedom.
    Freedom . . .
    
    The cat was trying to tell him that Cyllan had escaped.
    
    Tarod felt his pulse rate quickening until he could
    hear the rhythm of his own blood in his ears. If he had
    interpreted the creature's consciousness rightly, and if
    the message it brought was true, then why had Erminet
    sent the cat to tell him? His cell was unguarded, or so he
    believed - the old Sister had said that Cyllan would have
    the key and would come to him.
    
    He straightened, uneasy. Something was wrong.
    Even if Erminet had secured Cyllan's release - and he
    didn't entirely trust the confused images in the cat's
    mind - something was preventing her from reaching
    him, and until he could be sure she was safe, he dared
    make no move. Moreover, without the soul-stone he
    was still vulnerable. Freed from the influence of the
    narcotic, he had regained his full wits and much of his
    former strength, but he didn't know how far his powers
    would extend. Certainly he was by no means the sor-
    cerer he had once been . . .
    
    He looked at the cat again. It hadn't resumed its
    interrupted wash, but was still staring at him, doubtless
    picking up the surge of emotion that was running
    through him. As their gazes met it yowled, loudly, and
    he crouched down again.
    
    'Quiet, little Imp.' His hand reached out and caressed
    its head as he mentally calmed it. 'I understand you. But
    it isn't enough. I dare not - ' And he stopped, as a key
    grated in the lock of the cellar door.
    
    The Imp hissed, and darted into a corner out of sight.
    Tarod turned, still half crouching, taken by surprise as
    hope and suspicion vied for precedence - then the door
    swung open and he was staring into the face of a burly
    man with an Initiate's badge at his shoulder.
    
    'Aeoris!' The word broke out between the Initiate's
    clenched teeth. 'Brahen, here! This devil's supposed to
    be unconscious, but - '
    
    He got no further. Tarod had no time to make a
    conscious decision, and instinct, coupled with a sudden,
    violent resurgence of the anger he had spent so many
    days trying to quell, took over. In one swift, fluid move-
    ment he was on his feet and his left hand came up in a
    gesture as familiar to him as breathing, summoning and
    focusing a power that swept from the depths of his
    consciousness like a striking Warp. Light glared crimson
    in the cell, throwing walls and roof and piled debris into
    stark and shocking relief, and as the bolt struck him the
    Initiate shrieked, his body a mad silhouette of flailing
    limbs in the bloody instant of the lightning flash. Dark-
    ness crashed down as the glare vanished, and Tarod had
    time to glimpse a huddled, motionless shape on the floor
    before a flare of poorer, natural light danced in the
    doorway as the second guard snatched up a torch and
    ran in from the passage.
    
    By the flickering light of the brand he held, the surviv-
    ing guard saw a sight which made his stomach churn in
    fear. His companion lay broken like a discarded doll by
    the cellar wall; while Tarod - who should by rights have
    been lying senseless on his pallet - stood like a dark
    angel of death, his eyes glittering and murder in his look.
    
    Stunned, and incapable of thinking clearly or wisely,
    the guard brought his sword rattling out of its sheath.
    Tarod tensed like a hunting cat - he was unarmed, and
    the bolt of energy he'd conjured had sapped him; there
    was no time to rally himself for a second. Instead, he
    sprang.
    
    The Initiate hadn't expected such an attack, and he
    brought his sword up clumsily, hampered by the blazing
    torch in his other hand. So fast that he had no time to
    react, Tarod's right hand shot out and snatched the torch
    from him; then with a savage swing of his arm he slashed
    the burning brand across the man's face. The guard
    howled in agony and spun around, dropping his sword
    and clapping both hands to his eyes. Tarod knew the
    blow had been enough to disable him, but the fury had
    taken hold and was unstoppable. He snatched up the
    sword - it was a heavy weapon, deadly in strong hands -
    and as the guard staggered yelling in a crazy zig-zag
    across the floor, Tarod swung the sword as a woodsman
    might swing an axe. A jarring shock ran through his
    arms and shoulders as the blade bit flesh and bone, and
    the Initiate's body crashed, decapitated, to the floor.
    
    Tarod's breathing was harsh against a silence broken
    only by an unpleasant liquid sound as the corpse's blood
    drained away on to the flagstones. He let the sword drop
    with a clashing echo and backed towards the door,
    unmoved by the sight of the two dead men. At his feet
    the torch blazed sporadically; he stamped the flame out
    and darkness returned to cloak him.
    
    He had broken his promise to Erminet. The thought
    occurred to him in a detached way, and he regretted it.
    Not the deaths of the two Initiates - he had no illusions
    about their willingness to kill him, if he hadn't struck
    first. But he had given his word that he would harm no
    one, and he didn't like the necessity of going against it.
    
    Yet the thing was done . . . he'd gain no advantage
    by feeling remorse now. Quietly he moved out into the
    passage, closing the cellar door behind him. This place
    was too deep in the Castle's bowels for the guard's
    shouts to have been heard, and for the moment it
    
    seemed unlikely that he would encounter anyone else.
    Well and good; it gave him the time he needed. The fact
    that Keridil had set men to guard him where before
    there had been none proved that something had gone
    awry with Erminet's scheme, and he guessed that
    Cyllan's absence had been discovered and the alarm
    raised. Were the Circle still searching for her, or had she
    been recaptured? She was unfamiliar with the Castle's
    maze of rooms and corridors, and Tarod knew that she
    couldn't hope to evade a full-scale search for long. He
    had to find her - and, with or without the stone, he had
    to get her out of the Castle.
    
    Erminet, he thought, was his best hope. If the hunt
    was up for her, Cyllan would be too frightened and too
    preoccupied for him to reach her mind and guide her.
    But Erminet might know her whereabouts.

    Tarod knew every stick and stone of the Castle, and
    could make his way through it without encountering one
    of Keridil's search parties. He also, for the time being,
    had the advantage that as yet the Circle was unaware of
    his escape. If he could reach Erminet before the two
    dead guards were discovered, the odds in his favour
    would increase . . .
    
    He started to move noiselessly away along the pas-
    sage, then hesitated and, on an impulse, turned back
    and re-entered the cellar. The smell of blood made his
    nostrils flare as he stepped through the door; he avoided
    the headless corpse and moved to stand over the Initiate
    he had blasted. The man was dead enough, but the body
    relatively undamaged, and Tarod bent down to unfasten
    the hide cloak the guard had worn as a protection against
    the damp cold of the cellars. Beneath it, an Initiate's
    badge gleamed gold; he unpinned it and fastened it to his
    own shoulder, smiling faintly as he realised how long it
    had been since he wore a similar emblem. Then he cast
    the cloak around himself-it was hardly a disguise, but it
    made his black shirt and trousers a little less distinctive -
    and left the cell to its silence and the stench of death.
    
    Chapter 16
    
    Tarod emerged from the maze of passages below the
    Castle by a route known only to the more adventurous of
    those who had grown up within its confines. The court-
    yard was dark, but the Moons had set and in the East the
    stars were beginning to fade, telling him that dawn was
    little more than an hour away. For a moment he stayed
    hidden among the leaves of the overhanging vine which
    grew rampant over the ancient black walls, savouring
    the sweetness of clean air after his confinement. Then he
    cautiously moved out of the vine's shelter - and hastily

    stepped back again as a nearby door opened and three
    armed men came out. They passed by only three paces
    from where he stood motionless, but though he hoped to
    overhear something that would give him a clue to how
    Cyllan fared, they didn't speak. As soon as they were
    gone, Tarod moved away, keeping to the deep shadows.
    He didn't know where Erminet's room was located, or
    even if she would be there, but guessed that she would
    have been assigned one of the guest suites normally
    reserved for more senior Sisters in the East wing.
    
    As he crossed the now empty courtyard towards a
    small door that led to another of the minor and little-
    used passages, he realised that there was indeed
    unprecedented activity in the Castle. Although lights
    blazed from the main hall there were no sounds of a
    celebration in progress, and the sporadic flicker of
    torches from various windows on the building's different
    levels suggested that many people were moving about.
    He smiled, faintly amused by the thought that Cyllan
    had caused such a furore and ruined Keridil's celebration,
    then, gaining the door, slipped inside and headed for a
    
    flight of spiral stairs that would take him to the guest
    wing.
    
    It seemed that the search wasn't concentrated in this
    section of the Castle; logical enough, as Keridil would
    have no wish to alarm his guests unnecessarily, and
    Tarod reached the corridor he wanted without encoun-
    tering anyone. The Sisters' rooms were at the far end,
    and the only way to reach them was to walk the length of
    the lit passage in full view of any casual observer who
    might emerge from one of the other suites. Tarod cast
    the hide cloak back enough to expose the purloined
    Initiate's badge, then, trying not to think of what he
    might be forced to do if challenged, stepped out into the
    corridor.
    
    He was halfway along when a tell-tale gleam of light
    from a side passage ahead made him stop in his tracks.
    There was no chance to turn, nowhere to hide himself-
    and a moment later a girl of some sixteen years or so
    hurried out of the passage and, seeing him, squealed and
    almost dropped the lantern she was carrying.
    
    'Oh!' Her eyes widened as she stared up at him, then
    her surprise matured into alarm as she recognised the
    Initiate's badge. She tried to bow after the fashion of the
    Sisters, but it was a clumsy and inexperienced attempt.
    
    'Oh, sir -I beg your pardon! I was returning to Sister
    Erminet; I wasn't neglecting my post, sir, but the Sister
    very much wanted another light, and there was no one
    else to send because they're all so busy searching . . . '
    Her garbled apology tailed off under Tarod's steady
    scrutiny and she blushed scarlet, stammering out, 'I'm
    sorry, sir . . . '
    
    Tarod had seen the gauzy white veil that covered the
    girl's hair, and realised that she was a Novice in the
    Sisterhood. He had never set eyes on her before . . .
    and she hadn't recognised him. Aware that he might
    turn this to his advantage, he nodded curtly. 'No one
    would chastise you, Sister-Novice, for obeying the
    orders of your senior . . . you are, I presume, under
    Sister Erminet's tutelage at West High Land?'
    
    'Well ... I was to have been, sir. But of course, I
    
    doubt if I will be now, after what's happened. I came
    with the party conveying the Lady's congratulations to
    the High Initiate.' Gaining confidence, she smiled at him
    shyly. 'I've only been a Novice for two months, sir, and
    I'm very grateful for such a privilege.'
    
    After what had happened . . . Unwittingly, the girl
    had given away the truth, at least in outline. Tarod said,
    'I'm glad you're sensible of it, Sister-Novice. But I hope
    you're also aware of your duty. You seem very young
    and inexperienced for such a responsible task.'
    
    The girl reddened again. 'There was no one else, sir.
    What with the search for the prisoner who escaped . . .
    but I understand what I must do.' She looked up at him,
    hoping for approbation. 'I've not let anyone see the
    Sister without authority, as I was told.'
    
    'Indeed. And what else were you told?'
    
    Fortunately for him, the child was naive enough to
    think that she was being tested. As though repeating a
    catechism, she said, 'Not to engage in conversation with
    the Sister, sir, on any matter other than her immediate
    needs. I. . .' She hesitated. 'I was told she has betrayed
    the Sisterhood and the Circle, sir. And that she is to be
    questioned and possibly . . . tried.'
    
    Gods; so they'd discovered what Erminet had done
    . . . Alarmed, but keeping his face expressionless,
    Tarod said. 'That's knowledge you should keep to your-
    self, Sister-Novice. I want to hear of no gossiping among
    the other girls, do you understand me?'
    
    'Yes, sir.' The girl licked her lips nervously. 'Should I
    return to my post now?'
    
    The child was easy enough to dupe; he could think of a
    way to get rid of her once he was face to face with
    Erminet. Aloud, Tarod said, 'You should; but I want to
    see for myself that the Sister is still where she should be.
    If all's well, count yourself lucky - and don't desert your
    duties again, whatever the reason!'
    
    'No, sir. I'm sorry, sir . . . ' In an agony of shame and
    terror, the girl made another inept bow and hastened
    away along the passage, the lantern shaking in her hand.
    She stopped at the furthest door, fumbled inexpertly

    with a key, and at last persuaded it to turn in the lock. A
    soft glow spilled out, and Tarod gestured curtly for the
    Novice to remain where she was while he entered the
    room.
    
    Erminet lay on her bed, asleep. Glancing over his
    shoulder to make sure that the girl hadn't misun-
    derstood his order and followed him, Tarod crossed the
    room and bent over her, lifting her hand.
    
    'Sister Erminet . . . '
    
    There was no response, and the hand hung limp in his
    grasp. Intuition told Tarod the truth before he looked at
    her face. She was smiling, a small, secretive smile, and in
    a peculiar way she looked younger, the lines on her
    cheeks smoothed and her skin waxy. And on the table
    beside her bed stood several phials from her collection
    of potions, a wine flask, and an empty cup.
    
    Tarod spun round, all caution forgotten, and his
    voiced barked out, 'Sister-Novice!'
    
    The girl ran in, alarmed by his tone. 'S-Sir . . . ?'
    
    Tarod pointed to the small vanity table in one corner.
    'Fetch that mirror! Quickly!'
    
    She almost dropped it in her haste, and as she stum-
    blingly approached Tarod snatched the glass from her
    hand and held it in front of Sister Erminet's face. The
    mirror's surface remained clear while he counted his
    own heartbeats; seven, eight, nine ... He flung the
    mirror aside, hearing it smash on the floor, and the girl's
    squeak of fright fired him with contempt and loathing.
    He turned on her and, in a voice low and savage with
    grief, said, 'Do you know what you've done?'
    
    The girl was shaking like a leaf, one hand to her
    mouth. 'She isn't . . . she can't be, sir, I - I was only
    gone for a few minutes!'
    
    'And a few minutes was enough! She's - she was a
    herbalist, a skilled herbalist! And you deserted her for
    long enough for her to take her own life!' He advanced
    towards her, hardly knowing what he was doing, and as
    he approached the girl gave a cry of distress, picked up
    her skirts and ran, darting out of the room like a
    frightened animal. Tarod stopped, listening to her
    
    running footsteps, his fists clenched at his sides so that
    the nails dug in to his palms. Then, shaking, he turned
    back to the bed.
    
    'Erminet . . . ' He sat on the coverlet and took both
    her hands, as though his voice and his touch could bring
    her back to life. But her eyes remained closed, and the
    fixed little smile was frozen on her face.
    
    She must have known what she was doing . . . and
    she must have chosen a drug that would act too quickly
    for anyone to save her. He took a shred of comfort from

    the thought that she must have felt no pain, but had died
    peacefully and by her own will. But that didn't change
    the cruel fact that she had died because of him.
    
    Tears stung his eyes, and he squeezed the old
    woman's bloodless fingers until his grip all but crushed
    them. Erminet had been a true friend, putting aside duty
    for a more personal loyalty. And this was her reward
    . . . Her deception discovered, she had known what her
    fate would be if she was convicted of abetting him, and
    had chosen to do the Circle's work for them, to give
    herself the dignity of dying, if die she must, in her own
    way and in her own time. And her death, the cruel
    needlessness of it, fuelled Tarod's hatred of Keridil and
    the Circle, and their warped idea of justice. If he could
    avenge her - but she wouldn't want that. She had made
    him promise to harm no living soul in the Castle, and he
    had already broken that pledge by killing two men.
    There must be no more. He owed her that, at very
    least.
    
    Tarod realised that some time had elapsed since the
    Novice had fled from the room, and knew that he must
    go, if he was to avoid being found when the girl returned
    with help. The Circle would understand quickly enough
    when she described the black-haired Adept she had met

    in the corridor, and the hunt would be redoubled as they
    sought him, too. He had little fear of recapture, but it
    would be a grim irony if Cyllan were found before he
    could reach her and Erminet had died in vain.
    
    He folded the old Sister's hands across her breast,
    then bent to kiss her forehead gently. His left hand still
    
    rested on hers - he raised it, then made a small gesture
    over her heart. The gesture was a blessing, but no bless-
    ing that had ever been given by a servant of Aeoris.
    Then he rose to his feet, and swiftly and silently left the
    room.
    
    The High Initiate received the news of Sister Erminet's
    suicide with chagrin and distress - and also, reluctantly,
    with the acknowledgement that her action was positive
    proof of her guilt. But when he heard, from the tearful
    Sister-Novice, of the mysterious Adept whom she had
    encountered and who couldn't be found, the pieces of an
    ugly puzzle fitted together all too well.
    
    Of the four men despatched to check on Tarod, the
    youngest was violently sick when he saw the carnage in
    the cellar and the other three had difficulty controlling
    their stomachs. Keridil heard their reports in the privacy
    of his study, thankful that he had at last persuaded
    Sashka to retire to her parents' suite until morning.
    There could be no sleep for him - especially now that
    Cyllan wasn't the only enemy they had to contend with -
    but at least she had been spared this . . .
    
    'I want the search intensified,' he told Taunan Cel
    Ennas, who was the Circle's most experienced swords-
    man, as they stepped out of the Castle's main entrance
    and stood at the top of the sweeping steps in the sickly
    first light of dawn. 'Double the guard on the gates, and
    make sure they're not opened for any reason without my
    authority.' He hunched his shoulders and stared about
    him at the towering black walls, which seemed suddenly
    oppressive. 'The gods know there are enough crannies
    in this damned place for them to hide in. But we'll find
    them, Taunan. We'll find them, if we have to take the
    whole Castle apart stone by stone!'
    
    Taunan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in an
    attempt to clear his vision. Despite his tiredness he knew
    Keridil was right; there could be no rest until their
    quarry was run to earth. He only wished he could share
    the High Initiate's certainty that they would succeed.
    
    'It's easy to forget that we're not dealing with an
    
    ordinary man, Keridil,' he replied wearily. 'Tarod has
    the cunning of Chaos, and a good many of its powers.'
    
    'Not without the soul-stone,' Keridil reminded him.
    'And we know that's in the girl's possession.'
    
    Taunan grimaced. 'And if they should find each other
    before we find them . . . ?'
    
    'We can't afford to let that happen. We must
    apprehend one of them - and I don't care which - before
    they have the chance to meet. If we fail in that, the gods
    alone know what the consequences might be.' Keridil
    squinted up at the lightening sky. 'I've called a meeting
    of the higher Adepts in an hour, to discuss what occult
    methods we can call on, but before that I -' He stopped,
    his eyes narrowing.
    
    'Keridil?'
    
    The High Initiate took hold of Taunan's arm, and his
    voice was dry with unease when he spoke. Taunan . . .
    look
    
    The older man followed his gaze. 'What is it? I
    don't - '
    
    'Look to the North. And listen.'
    
    Taunan sucked in a sharp breath as he understood,
    and stared beyond the towering bulk of the North-
    ernmost spire. It seemed that another dawn was break-
    ing in the far distance, challenging the true dawn in the
    East; the grey arc of the sky was tinged with a pale, sickly
    spectrum of colour that seemed to be shifting, moving,
    like a vast, dim, slowly turning beam of light. The wind
    was fresh in off the sea, but underlying its faint susurra-

    tion was another sound, far off - a thin, unearthly wail as
    though, hundreds of miles out beyond the coast, a hur-
    ricane was raging and speeding in towards them.
    
    The bands of colour in the sky were intensifying
    slowly but surely, and even as the two men watched a
    vivid slash of orange flickered across the heavens like a
    scar, followed by another, smaller streak of harsh blue.
    
    'It's going to be a bad one . . . ' Keridil said quietly.
    
    Taunan nodded, his throat dry. Even protected as
    they were by the Maze which held the Castle in a frac-
    tionally different dimension from the rest of the world, a
    
    Warp was a terrifying experience; and Keridil was right;
    the flickering colours in the sky presaged an abnormally
    powerful storm. Taunan forced down the mind-numb-
    ing terror of these weird and deadly phenomena which
    he shared with every living man, woman and child, and
    tried to smile.
    
    'I'd defy even Tarod to try to flee the Castle during a
    Warp.'
    
    Keridil glanced at him in surprise, then his face
    relaxed and he, too, smiled. 'You're right . . . and
    perhaps it's the first time in history that the Warps have
    been to our advantage!' He looked up again, and shiv-
    ered. 'Come on. Let's go back inside. Advantageous it
    might be, but that doesn't mean I want to watch it
    coming.'
    
    From her hiding place in a storeroom that adjoined the
    Castle's stables Cyllan saw the first threatening changes
    in the dawn sky, and felt the faint vibration beneath her
    feet that presaged the onset of the storm. The thick
    stone walls blotted out the sounds of the approaching
    Warp, but couldn't protect her from the primordial fear
    that turned her stomach to water as, through a narrow
    window, she watched the bands of colour growing
    stronger, marching out of the North. Sick with fright,
    she crawled into a dark corner and pulled the cloak hood
    over her head, but she couldn't escape; though sight of
    the coming horror was blotted out, the vibration
    increased until it seemed to permeate her bones and
    beyond them to her soul.
    
    She wished she had chosen another hiding place.
    She'd tried to reach the North spire, thinking that per-
    haps Tarod, if he too was free, would look for her there,
    but in trying she had almost run across one of the search
    parties and only a chance piece of good luck and quick
    thinking had saved her. She'd fled to the stable wing as
    the nearest sanctuary, and since then hadn't dared to
    emerge.
    
    Now, even without the Warp to imprison her here, the
    coming of dawn had made it too dangerous for her to
    
    move. If anything the search seemed to have intensified,
    and though she hoped it might be a sign that Tarod had
    escaped, it did nothing to help her immediate predica-
    ment. He'd never think of searching here for her, and
    when a few minutes ago she had tried to focus her mind
    and reach him subconsciously, her own thoughts were
    too confused by fear of the Warp to allow her to
    concentrate.
    
    A door at one end of the storeroom led directly to the
    stables themselves, and beyond it she could hear a res-
    tive stamping and snorting as the Castle's horses sensed
    the approaching horror. Cyllan left her corner and crept
    towards the door, reasoning that, now of all times, no
    one in their right mind would have need of a horse, and
    the company even of animals would be better than the
    terrors of solitude when the storm struck. She tried not
    to glance at the window as she went, but couldn't help
    seeing the strange play of sickly light over her hands and
    clothes. Swallowing the bile which rose in her throat and
    threatened to choke her, she pushed the door open a
    crack and peered through.
    
    Tall, dim shapes moved in the gloom beyond; brown
    and grey and warm chestnut; one black with a wild,
    white eye. The nearest horse, a big bay, saw her and
    stamped back in its stall, ears flattened; she slipped
    through the door and approached it, speaking softly to
    pacify it. These Southern-stock beasts were more kindly
    tempered than the shaggy little Northern ponies she had
    ridden as a drover, and the bay quietened quickly under
    her hands, nudging at her as though grateful for human
    company. Cyllan passed down the line, talking to each
    animal in turn and glad of the chance to divert her mind
    from what was happening outside. At last the horses
    began to settle a little, and she reached the end of the
    line. Here straw bales for fresh bedding had been piled
    in a corner, and she sank down on them, pulling the
    cloak tightly around her body. She could do nothing but
    wait until the Warp had passed . . . shivering, she
    hunched deeper in to the straw and tried not to think
    about the storm.
    
    The spectral bands of blue and orange and green that
    advanced across the sky were rapidly changing to dark,
    evil-looking shades of purple and livid brown when a
    man burst from the watchtower by the Castle gates and
    pelted head down across the courtyard. He took the
    wide steps three at a time, burst through the main doors
    just as a surprised servant was about to set the bars in
    place, and skidded to a halt, gasping for breath.
    
    'Where's the High Initiate?'
    
    The servant, nonplussed, gestured towards the
    dining-hall, and the man raced away.
    
    Keridil was eating a hasty breakfast which his stew-
    ard, Gyneth, had persuaded him to take, when the
    gateman came running in.
    
    'Sir!' the man croaked, his lungs heaving, 'Riders! A
    party, coming across the causeway - '
    
    'What?' Keridil got to his feet, pushing his plate away.
    'Now, of all times? Damn it, the Warp's about to strike!
    Who are they?'
    
    The gateman shook his head. 'Don't know, sir. But
    there's a herald with them, and a retinue - '
    
    Keridil swore. He had enough to worry him without
    strangers needing sanctuary from the Warp at this last
    moment, but he could hardly leave them outside to face
    the coming horror. He turned on his heel and shouted at
    a servant who was putting up the hall's shutters.
    
    'Leave that! Find Fin Tivan Bruall and tell him to get
    to the stables to take in new horses!' And to the gate-
    man: 'Can you get them through in time, do you think?'
    
    The man peered out at the dangerous sky. 'Just about,
    sir, if they don't fall foul of the Maze.'
    
    'Pray they've been here before, then - and hurry!' The
    man left at a run, and Keridil followed, swallowing back
    his terror of stepping through the doors and seeing the
    Warp in its full spate. As he approached the entrance he
    could hear the high, screaming note that accompanied
    the storm, like damned souls howling in agony, and he
    shuddered before, taking a deep breath, he forced him-
    self to walk out on to the steps.
    
    The Castle gates were already opening, swinging
    
    ponderously back with what seemed to Keridil agonising
    slowness. Overhead the sky raged and its insane colours
    tainted the walls and the flagstones, staining Keridil's
    skin so that he and the men who had followed him out
    looked like ghastly apparitions. The Warp would hit
    them within two or three minutes, and though in the
    Castle they were safe enough from its power, no reason-
    ing on earth could stand against the sheer animal terror
    of being beneath one of the supernatural storms as it
    came shrieking overhead.
    
    Now the gates were fully open, and he could see the
    approaching party. They had crossed the causeway from
    the mainland, but were having difficulty controlling
    their horses, which reared and plunged as the riders
    attempted to guide them across the darker patch of
    sward that marked the Maze. But at last the leading
    horse was through, and the others followed, kicked into
    a desperate gallop that brought them clattering and
    thundering under the great arch and into the courtyard.
    
    Seven men - and three women. Keridil's heart sank as
    he recognised the tall, slightly stooped figure dismount-
    ing from the sweating iron-grey gelding while two Initi-
    ates ran to help him. Gant Ambaril Rannak, Margrave
    of Shu Province . . . Drachea's father.
    
    He started down the steps, the Warp momentarily
    forgotten in the face of this unexpected and unwelcome
    arrival. But before he was halfway down, a commotion
    from the stables made him turn. Someone shouting, his
    bellow audible above the mindless yell of the storm -
    and a woman's high-pitched scream of protest.
    
    'High Initiate!' The stentorian voice of Fin Tivan
    Bruall, the head horsemaster, was filled with triumph as
    he and one of his stable boys dragged a struggling,
    hooded figure towards the steps. 'We've got the murder-
    ing little bitch! We've got her!'
    
    A howl from the sky, as though the Warp answered
    Fin's news with a furious protest of its own, drowned out
    all other sound, and Keridil swung his arm in an urgent
    gesture towards the main doors. 'Get those people
    inside! It's about to strike!'
    
    The Margravine and her two maids were screaming in
    terror, their male companions faring little better. They
    stumbled up the steps, while several more Initiates
    braved their fears to take charge of the panicking horses
    as Fin and his boy dragged their captive towards Keridil.
    The High Initiate glimpsed Cyllan's bloodstained
    clothes and her stark white face, grotesquely distorted
    by the whirling spectrum reflecting from the sky, saw her
    mouth twist in a shrieking snarl though he couldn't hear
    the curse she spat at him. Then an instant later the sky
    turned blue-black, like a monstrous bruise, and red
    lightning spat across the heavens as the wail of the storm
    swelled to a howling crescendo.
    
    'Get to shelter!' Keridil's cry was lost in the cacophony
    as a ferocious wind shrieked out of the North and the
    Warp came thundering overhead. Fin kept his wits suffi-
    ciently to hang on to Cyllan, hauling her bodily up the
    steps and cuffing her with a powerful fist when she
    started to struggle again. Keridil turned, started ahead
    of them - and stopped dead.
    
    The voice of the Warp dinned in his ears, the insane
    sky blotting out the rising Sun and plunging the court-
    yard into chaotic darkness. But enough light flickered
    from the violent streaks of colour exploding across the
    face of the storm for him to see the tall, gaunt figure that
    barred his way to the doors. A tangle of wild black hair
    streamed in the gale, and the face, illuminated by a
    violent explosion of green and crimson overhead, was
    demonic. An appalling memory of Yandros, Lord of
    Chaos, smashed into Keridil's brain - this apparition
    was the Chaos lord's dark twin, and a hideous premoni-
    tion of his own nemesis stunned him into immobility.
    
    But if he was paralysed, Cyllan wasn't. She redoubled
    her efforts to escape Fin's grip, and her voice sounded
    shrilly above the Warp as she screamed, 'Tarod!'
    
    Her cry broke the thrall that held Keridil. He sprang
    back, darting down the steps to where Cyllan struggled,
    and snatched his sword out of its scabbard. Tarod came
    after him - then froze as Keridil stopped a pace from
    Cyllan, whose arms were now pinned by the horsemaster,
    
    and touched the point of his blade to her heart. The High
    Initiate's face was wild with fear of the storm and the
    fury aroused by this confrontation; Tarod knew that if
    he made a single untoward move, Keridil would run
    Cyllan through.
    
    The other Initiates in the courtyard had by now
    realised what was afoot and, leaving one of their number
    to manage the Margrave's frightened horses as best as he
    could, came running to Keridil's aid. They were all
    armed, and Cyllan feared that without the stone Tarod
    couldn't hope to defeat them. She had to reach him -
    had to, whatever the risk -
    
    Keridil was taken completely by surprise when, with a
    violence born of desperation, Cyllan brought one foot
    up and out in a savage kick that took him full in the
    stomach. He went down, losing his grip on the sword,
    and Cyllan twisted around to bite Fin Tivan Bruall's
    hand with all her strength. The horsemaster yelled and
    she kicked out again, backwards this time, breaking
    away from him. Her momentum sent her staggering
    down the steps; she turned with the agility of a cat as
    Tarod started towards her -
    
    Three Initiates blocked her path, while two more ran
    at her from behind. Cyllan snarled like an animal, saw
    Tarod grappling with the first of her three assailants, and
    realised that the trap was closing around her. Over the
    shriek of the Warp she heard his voice.
    
    'Cyllan, go! Run - get away from them!'
    
    The High Initiate was on his feet, advancing - Cyllan
    turned and ran, hampered by her skirt and almost falling
    as she reached the foot of the steps. And suddenly she
    was in the midst of a group of milling, panicking horses,
    half of them running free while one young Initiate strug-
    gled to keep the others under control. A tall grey shape
    loomed across her path; she cannoned into the Mar-
    grave's gelding and reflexively clutched at a stirrup to
    stop herself from falling.
    
    'Stop her!' She heard Keridil's yell behind her, and
    the gelding whinnied piercingly. Cyllan didn't pause to
    think - she reached up, gripped a handful of the animal's
    
    mane, and sprang. She landed half over the gelding's
    neck and frantically jack-knifed herself into the high-
    pommelled saddle, hanging on grimly as the beast
    reared in frightened protest.
    
    'Tarod!' Her cry was lost in the cacophony overhead.
    Tarod!'
    
    He saw her, but couldn't reach her; two men were
    attacking him and in the chaos he could barely defend
    himself, let alone spare time for any other consider-
    ation. His mind roiled - power was surging in him,
    fuelled by the insanity of the Warp, but it was wild,
    uncontrollable, he couldn't grasp it. He evaded a wildly
    swinging blade and his left hand locked on his assailant's
    wrist, twisting, crushing - he felt a bone snap, but the
    second Initiate was coming at him again
    
    'Tarod!' Cyllan's cry this time was a shriek of alarm as
    Keridil, who had regained his own blade, ran at her with
    Fin and another man at his heels. The gelding reared
    again, almost unseating her, and snatching at the reins
    she pulled the animal into a side-stepping buck as the
    High Initiate lunged towards her. The blade missed her
    thigh by a hairsbreadth and instead sliced a shallow but
    ferocious gash along her mount's flank.
    
    The gelding screamed. It arched its body, lashing out,
    then, panic stricken, it bolted. Sparks scattered from its
    hooves as it careered across the courtyard, instinct driv-
    ing it to escape the Castle which it saw as the source of its
    terror. Cyllan crouched precariously in the saddle, haul-
    ing on the reins but to no avail - the horse was heading
    for the main gates, and the gatekeeper had deserted his
    post to help his fellows. The gates still stood part open,
    and the gelding galloped under the yawning arch, bolt-
    ing straight for the sward and freedom.
    
    Cyllan saw what lay ahead of her, saw the whirling
    chaos of black light and impossible colours that tore the
    world apart beyond the Maze. She glimpsed the tortured
    crags of the mountains twisting in on themselves,
    moulded by the Warp to hideous illusions, and in terror
    she flailed at the gelding, struggling to stop its headlong
    flight before it was too late.
    
    The horse raced across the Maze - and the scream that
    tore from its throat as it emerged on the far side was
    shredded by a howling roar as the full force of the Warp
    hurtled at them like a monstrous tidal wave. Cyllan felt
    as though her body were being torn apart - darkness
    shot with livid silver fire erupted in her face, and agony
    smashed through every nerve before the world exploded
    in oblivion.
    
    Keridil staggered to his feet, dazed by the force with
    which he'd hit the ground when he flung himself clear of
    the gelding's flailing hooves. As Fin Tivan Bruall ran to
    help him, he stared towards the gates and the maelstrom
    beyond, and his face was grey with shock.
    
    'Aeoris. . .' He made a sign over his heart. 'Fin, she-
    she-'
    
    Fin didn't answer him. He was looking over his shoul-
    der to the steps, and what he saw alarmed him. Tarod
    stood motionless near the top of the flight, and it was
    obvious from his rigid attitude that he, too, had seen
    Cyllan's appalling fate. One of his attackers lay at his
    feet, hunched and moving feebly. The other was backing
    slowly away down the steps, his sword half raised as
    though to protect himself from something no other man
    could see, and he was terrified.
    
    Fin gripped Keridil's shoulder. 'High Initiate . . . '
    
    Keridil turned, buffeted by the screaming wind, and
    his face tightened. Then he started to run, stumbling
    towards the frozen tableau on the steps. Taking their cue
    from him, the remaining swordsmen gathered their
    courage and closed in ... then Tarod turned his head.
    
    If he had ever been human, Keridil thought, his look
    now gave the lie to it. Tarod's face was demented, and
    his green eyes burned with an unholy light. His lips
    moved and he mouthed a word, though in the racket of
    the storm Keridil couldn't tell what that word was. Then
    he raised his left hand - and the High Initiate felt terror
    strike to the depths of his soul.
    
    She was gone. Tarod fought against the knowledge, but
    
    couldn't deny it; it had happened, and he'd been unable to
    prevent it. She was gone - the Warp had taken her, and
    hurled her into whatever unimaginable nightmare waited
    beyond its borders. She might be dead, or alive and
    trapped in some monstrous limbo . . . he had been so
    close to her, and again he'd lost her. And the grief that
    devoured him, far greater than the grief he'd known at
    Themila Gan Lin's death, or Erminet's, was the catalyst
    that finally woke the power in him to its full flood. Cyllan
    was gone, and all he could think of was revenge. For her
    sake he wanted to kill, ravage, destroy anything and
    everything in his path. And the focus of his blazing hatred
    was one man - his one-time friend. His betrayer. His
    enemy . . .
    
    As he gazed like a transfixed animal into Tarod's eyes,
    Keridil felt Fin Tivan Email's presence at his side. It was
    small comfort.
    
    'I tried to stop her.' He barely recognised his own
    voice.
    
    The corners of Tarod's mouth lifted in contempt, but
    he stayed his hand. 'You tried to kill her.'
    
    'No-' And the protest died as Keridil realised Tarod
    wouldn't believe him. He had one chance, he thought;
    just one. Distract him long enough for the other Initiates
    to move in and take him unawares. It was a slender
    hope, and the thought of what Tarod might do if the
    gamble failed turned his stomach to water.
    
    'We've both lost, Tarod,' he called above the gale.
    'You see - she took the Chaos stone. So now your soul's
    gone forever . . . ' He licked his lips nervously. 'I don't
    think even you can prevail against us without that.'
    
    Tarod's eyes narrowed to ferocious slits, and Keridil
    saw that the other men had, as he'd hoped, taken advan-
    tage of this brief respite to close in. One of them made a
    sudden clumsy move; Tarod's head snapped round -
    
    'Take him!' the High Initiate yelled, goaded at the
    same moment by a sudden despairing premonition that
    his warning was too late. 'Take him, before - '
    
    His words cut violently off as a titanic flash of blood-
    red light exploded outwards from where Tarod stood. It
    
    coalesced into the form of a gigantic broadsword, twice
    the height of a man and glowing with a ferocious fire of
    its own, which Tarod held balanced in both hands as
    though it weighed nothing. One of the Initiates made an
    inarticulate noise and staggered back. Lit by the flaring
    glow of the supernatural sword Tarod's face was a mask
    of pure malevolence - then he swung on his heel and the
    blade shrieked in a whistling arc that cut down the two
    nearest swordsmen before they could jump clear. Blood
    spattered Tarod's face and arms as the two severed
    bodies pitched to the ground, and as he came face to face
    with Keridil once more, the incandescent sword glowing
    with a savage hunger in his hands, the High Initiate
    recoiled in sick horror. He had sent two Adepts to their
    deaths - the others now drew back, their gazes locked on
    the monstrous blade - and by the light spilling from the
    sword he saw his own nemesis in Tarod's unhuman eyes.
    
    For a moment the howling thunder of the Warp
    seemed to abate, and in the comparative lull Keridil
    heard the slide of Tarod's foot on stone as he began,
    slowly, to advance. The blade pulsed, shimmered,
    blinding him — then without warning a blast of raw,
    uncontrolled power slammed into him like an invisible
    fist, knocking him backwards so that he sprawled on the
    flagstones. So fast that he had no time to react, Tarod
    sprang down the steps towards him - and as the daze
    cleared from his mind, Keridil found himself staring at
    the monstrous, glittering sword only inches from his
    face.
    
    He bit hard into the flesh of his cheeks, willing himself
    not to give way to the panic that threatened to engulf
    him. The philosophers said that, when death stared him
    in the face, a man recalled the events of his life in a rapid
    flow of dreamlike images. Keridil had no such experi-
    ence - his mind froze to a blank fugue and he could only
    stare helplessly at the blade and the silhouetted figure
    beyond.
    
    From the corner of his eye he saw one of the surviving
    Initiates make a convulsive move in his direction, and he
    flung out one arm in a warning gesture.
    
    'Stay back!' The man hesitated, then obeyed, and
    Keridil let his breath escape slowly between his teeth.
    When he spoke, he was surprised to find that his voice
    was steady.
    
    'Get it over with.' The storm was rising again, but he
    knew his adversary heard him well enough. 'I'm not
    afraid of dying. Have done with it, Tarod.'
    
    Tarod stared down at him. The sword in his hand
    didn't waver, but the madness in his mind was giving way
    to a clearer, colder reason. He could destroy Keridil.
    And if the blade once touched him, the High Initiate
    wouldn't merely die; for the sword was a lethal man-
    ifestation of the very essence of Chaos, a focus for the
    power that flowed through him. Keridil wouldn't merely
    die: he would be annihilated. It would be a just ven-
    geance; a fitting retribution for Cyllan's fate . . . yet
    Tarod held back.
    
    She might be living still. A Warp had brought her to
    this Castle; he himself had survived the hideous
    onslaught of such a storm when he was no more than a
    child. And if she were alive, he could find her . . .
    
    To destroy Keridil would gain him nothing. Too many
    people had already died in this unhappy affair; to add
    one more to the toll would be a bitterly futile gesture,
    and a further betrayal of his oath to Sister Erminet. He
    didn't want revenge. Reason argued that the High Initi-
    ate wasn't wholly responsible for what had happened,
    and now that the insanity which had possessed him had
    passed, the desire for vengeance had gone with it. All
    that mattered was finding Cyllan.
    
    Keridil's eyes widened in surprised confusion as
    Tarod raised the glowing, threatening blade until it no
    longer menaced him. He stared up at his enemy, sus-
    picious and uncertain, not daring to acknowledge a
    spark of hope. Tarod gazed back, and the contempt in
    his green eyes was suddenly mingled with pity.
    
    'No,' he said softly. 'I won't take your life, High
    Initiate. Enough blood has already been spilled here.'
    He renewed his grip on the sword and its brilliant corona
    flared up until Tarod stood wreathed in bloody light.
    
    Overhead, the sky howled and spat a web of silver
    lightning high above the Castle spires, and Keridil felt a
    charge of energy jolt through him as the Warp renewed
    its fury.
    
    'If Cyllan lives,' Tarod said, and despite the roar of
    the storm Keridil heard every word as clearly as though
    it were spoken within his skull, 'I'll find her. And if I do,
    I promise you that you'll hear no more of me.' He smiled
    thinly. 'Once, you refused to accept my word, and you
    betrayed my trust. I hope by now you've learned a lesson
    from that mistake.'
    
    Keridil started to sit up, moving slowly, watching the
    blade in Tarod's hands. He didn't speak; his throat was
    too dry; but his eyes were venomous. Then Tarod raised
    his face to the screaming sky, as though communing with
    the storm's diabolical power. The Warp answered with a
    howling, shrieking crescendo, and Tarod's figure
    seemed suddenly to catch fire, black brilliance shot
    through with sparking silver blazing to life about him.
    The sky erupted in a rolling bawl of thunder, and an
    explosion of white light blasted the courtyard, making
    Keridil yell out in pain and terror as the colossal flash
    seared his eyes. He fell back, flinging an arm up to
    protect his face, struck the flagstones, sprawled -
    
    There was silence. Dazed, Keridil lowered his arm,
    blinking at the dancing after-images which clouded his
    vision. Then, as his sight cleared, he realised with a fresh
    shock that the Warp was gone. The watery grey light of a
    natural dawn filled the courtyard; Eastwards the sky was
    streaked with the first faint rays of the morning Sun,
    while somewhere beyond the stack a seabird cried with a
    plaintive, mewing sound. And Tarod had vanished, as
    though he'd never existed.
    
    Painfully, the High Initiate climbed to his feet. Every
    bone, every muscle, every fibre in his body ached; his
    limbs shook, and when a hand took hold of his arm he
    leaned gratefully against Fin Tivan Bruall's burly sup-
    port. The horsemaster's face was pallid, his mouth set;
    Keridil looked beyond him at the ragged circle of Initi-
    ates who were approaching uncertainly.
    
    'Keridil?' Taunan Cel Ennas was the first to speak.
    His gaze flicked to the bodies of the two men Tarod had
    killed, then he looked away quickly.
    
    Keridil couldn't bring himself to look at the corpses.
    He said tightly, 'Have them covered and taken inside,
    Taunan.'
    
    'What -' the other man began to say, then changed his
    mind, shaking his head helplessly. The half-voiced ques-
    tion, what happened?, was too obvious, yet unanswer-
    able. He turned and stumbled towards the steps.
    
    Others were emerging from within the Castle now,
    and among them Keridil saw the anxious face of
    Drachea's father. All this, and now he had to face
    explaining the death of the Margrave's son and heir . . .
    He shook his head savagely to clear it, but a cold, angry
    bitterness remained. Behind him he heard a clatter of
    hoofs as the milling horses were recaptured and led away
    towards the stables, and - aside from the two dead men
    on the ground - the sheer normality of the scene made
    him feel sick. He should have ignored the demands of
    protocol and tradition; he should have shrugged off the
    opinions of those who insisted that he make a ceremony
    out of Tarod's death, and simply killed him without fuss
    or formality when he had the chance. Now, he had other
    deaths on his conscience. Drachea Rannak, Sister
    Erminet, the two guards in the cellar, two more here in
    the courtyard ... He remembered the pledge Tarod
    had made before vanishing, and cold, cynical disgust
    filled him. He'd no more trust the word of that creature
    of Chaos than he'd trust a poisonous snake. While Tarod
    lived, the Circle and all it stood for were imperilled: he
    had to be destroyed. But how many more lives would be
    lost before this affair was finally over?
    
    And Keridil's blood ran cold at the thought that fol-
    lowed: if it ever would be over. If the Circle could prevail
    against Chaos . . .
    
    He had been moving towards the main doors, but
    abruptly he stopped. He felt steadier now, and his mind
    was as clear as a knife blade. Tarod had bested him - but
    Keridil's heart and soul craved retribution. And for the
    
    sake of the Circle, of the whole world, he'd take it or die
    in the attempt.
    
    He looked up at the sky, which was brightening by the
    moment, and let the full flood of his bitterness and anger
    wash over him. He fingered the gold badge at his shoul-
    der, the double circle with its diagonal lightning flash;
    and spoke so softly that the attendant Fin couldn't catch
    his words.
    
    'I'll destroy you, Tarod,' Keridil whispered with sav-
    age intensity. 'By Aeoris and his six brethren, I swear I'll
    find you, and I'll destroy you. Wherever you are, how-
    ever long it might take, I won't rest until I've erased your
    taint from the face of our world!'
    
    As though in answer to the High Initiate's oath, the
    first vivid ray of the Sun touched the top of the Castle
    wall, casting a pool of light down to the courtyard.

    Keridil felt a peculiar sense of peace steal over him - the
    peace of knowing that he had spoken from his heart, and
    set himself on a right and just course which, come what
    may, he would see through to the end. He had the
    resources of an entire world at his hand; the power of the
    Circle and of the ancient gods it worshipped. Against
    such strengths, Chaos couldn't hope to triumph - and it
    was Keridil's sworn duty to see it crushed and destroyed.
    
    They were watching him still, the silent little group in
    the doorway. Keridil hunched his shoulders, realising
    that he was cold. Then he began to walk purposefully up
    the wide, sweeping steps to meet them.