Chapter 1

558 TR

"Elven blood, I say, and some barbarian too. Nothing good will come of it!"

Artace glanced up and saw the speaker was a man sitting at the next table, sideways to him, jabbing his finger at his four companions as he made his point. He was a large surly man, with a shock of black hair and a puckered purple scar that ran down the left side of his face. Artace, sitting in a dark corner of the tavern, sipped his beer slowly, trying to ignore the loud mead-soaked words that were coming from the next table. His body ached with the tiredness of a long day's ride. It was usual to take three days from Aleath to Edino, but after years of scholarship Artace was eager to start the next stage of his life. So, he had been up early enough to be the first one through the gates of Aleath when they opened this morning, and he had ridden hard all day. This inn, northwest of Kedis, was more than halfway. Tomorrow he would be in Edino. Tonight he desired a quiet solitude so he could reflect on what he was going to say to his brother.

"But Mascar, he be the lord's brother," one of the man's companions protested.

"Only a half-brother, and a bastard to boot," Mascar spat. His voice lowered to an ominous tone. "Nobody knows what devil blood flowed in his mother's veins."

They were talking about him! The realization hit Artace like a slap in the face. At the insulting mention of his mother, a red heat flared up inside him. Artace's hand flashed to his sword, and he opened his mouth to shout hot words of challenge to this man, Mascar. But before the words were out Artace heard his father's voice. A nobleman doesn't brawl in a tavern like a commoner. With an effort he removed his hand from his sword and closed his mouth. His hand shook with curtailed anger as he took a long slow drink of his beer. If he were to fight every man who stared at his long white-blonde hair, his slight frame, and the jaw-dropping, amazing sight of his amber eyes, he would be fighting from sunrise to sunset.

His beer finished, Artace started to rise, but stopped and sat back self-consciously. To leave now would show to all that he was running away. He sat down and pulled back into the shadows. That man Mascar was an ignorant fool. Artace concentrated on blocking out the voices, preferring to dwell on what lay ahead for him in Edino.

However, the men were deep in their cups, and it was impossible to ignore their slurred and bellowing voices.

Another voice, young and eager to be heard proclaimed, "Lord Eladas, now there be a real Kand. His father were the best warrior in the empire, but it's said that Lord Eladas be the best man with the sword that ever lived. Has he not the red hair and blue eyes that say he be a true Kand?"

Another voice, old and shaky chimed in. "Aye, that be so. But mark you the half-brother--no red hair or blue eyes him. That 'un be a cuckoo in the nest."

Then came a fourth voice, thick with drink, "More times than I have fingers and toes I saw young Eladas in a tavern. Blessed Peoni strike me if he were not known in every drinking room from Aleath to Dyrisa. Now there were a man who could out-fight, out-drink, and out-wench any man born."

The air filled with competing voices, each trying to outdo the others with stories of Eladas's drinking and wenching prowess.

It was Mascar's voice that overpowered the others. "That be then, but he been in no tavern since his father died and he became lord."

There were mumbles of agreement. "Aye," said the old shaky voice. "Who would think he'd stop his wild ways, let alone marry Lady Esayri and sire a pup?"

The young voice said, "Now Lord Eladas be warning his legionnaires to stay away from drink and tavern wenches, and to get a full measure of sleep."

"None so pure as the newly reformed," said the old voice. A burst of coarse laughter exploded out into the room.

After the laughter had died down, Artace heard Mascar's sour voice. "Eladas is a soldier, but the bastard--he be bad luck. I hear he be coming back from Aleath, and ..." he paused, taking a noisy swallow of his mead, letting the others wait for him to finish. "He been learning all these years. Lord Eladas, now, he threw away his books and took to the sword when he were only twelve like a proper gentleman should. The bastard, he be learning all this time. How old he be now?" Mascar answered his own question, giving no one a chance to interrupt. "Twenty he be. He ought be doing an honest job years ago." Mascar lowered his voice into an ominous whisper that could be heard in every corner of the tavern. "He been at one of those temples in Aleath. Learning dark arts no doubt. Mark my words. The winter will linger and the crops will fail."

The thin reedy voice spoke again. "I can tell you been talking to Feeslee. I never seen a man carry hate like Feeslee do for the bastard."

Artace stopped pretending to himself that he wasn't listening. Feeslee was Eladas's bailiff. Artace hadn't been back to Edino for two years but it required no effort to picture Feeslee's sour face, his long nose and his twitching eyes. A scene from his childhood sprang instantly to mind. Feeslee, wide-eyed with horror, was on his knees. Artace could hear his panicked, whining voice. "Don't tell Lord Tenada. Please, young Lordling, please."

The feeling of disgust had not waned over the years. Artace remembered all too well Feeslee's sniveling and begging, his hands clutching Artace's cloak, his chest heaving madly as he desperately gulped for the air that panic was stealing from him. "They will burn me after they have taken out my eyes with hot irons. Sweet Goddess--please, not that! Please, dear little Lord. I will be your servant forever. You don't want to hear me scream as I burn. It would be on you. I would haunt you forever."

Artace had been young at the time, just into his eleventh year. He had been practicing stalking as taught to him by Nega, his father's one-armed Gozyda scout, and Artace's closest friend. Seeing Feeslee bent over something in the woods had only been an opportunity to practice creeping up without being detected. The shock of seeing Feeslee with a disemboweled pig, its organs arranged in a neat pattern around masks of gruesome red and black faces, had made him want to vomit. Even at that young age Artace knew a Morgathian ceremony when he saw it, and was well aware that such worship was proscribed. Feeslee was stating no exaggeration: they would jab red-hot pokers into his eyes and burn him at the stake. There would be no question of guilt or innocence. Artace's word, as the son of Tenada Kand, Lord of Edino, would be more than sufficient.

The begging and sobbing was so distasteful to the young Artace that he had wanted nothing more than to leave, to bathe in a cool stream and feel clean again. He had let Feeslee swear an oath to worship only Peoni or Larani and to destroy all these foul things. In his young idealism, he had been sure that Feeslee would not break an oath sworn on his immortal soul and in the name of the Goddesses. In turn he had sworn not to reveal what had happened. Since he had become lord, Eladas put too much trust in Feeslee, and Artace felt guilty that he was oath-bound and unable to warn his brother about this bitter man's true character.

Mascar's loud voice broke through Artace's thoughts. "Feeslee has served the Kands ever since Tenada Kand was anointed lord, and he knows the bastard better than anyone at Edino." Mascar filled his voice with dark warning, "If you could hear the stories he be telling ..."

What was Feeslee saying about him? If Feeslee was filling Eladas's ear with poison, what kind of homecoming would this be? Eladas was Deputy Governor of the Aleathian province of the empire, commander of the local legion, and Artace's liege lord to whom he had sworn solemn fealty. He needed his brother's permission to become an officer in the legion, to wear the red cape as his father had done. His father had made the enemies of the empire fear the Kand crest of a white wolf head on a red shield. Eladas had fought bravely in many battles, furthering the family reputation. Artace wanted to show that he too could lead men into battle and bring honor to the Kand clan, under the banner of the white wolf. He had always thought that Eladas's permission would be willing and automatic, but now he felt a stirring of doubt. He put that aside. Of course Eladas would support him. He should pay no heed to tavern gossip.

As he stood up to go, his cloak caught his flagon and knocked it to the floor. Artace quickly bent down to pick it up, and when he looked up found himself staring into the eyes of the men who had been gossiping about him.

Mascar spat on the floor, and swore in surprise, "Larani's breasts. The bastard hisself." He lurched to his feet, his face purple from drink and anger. Jabbing a finger at Artace he shouted, "You been spying on us!"

The old man at his table tried to pull him back down. "Leave it, Mascar. He be the lord's brother."

Mascar flung the man's hands off his arm, and took two stumbling steps forward. He stood in front of Artace, swaying on his feet. "Not till he tells me he be sorry for skulking in the shadows and spying on honest men."

There was an uncomfortable murmur around the table. The whole tavern fell quiet. Some men studied the ways to the exits, ready to flee if trouble broke out. Others watched with small smiles and gleaming eyes. Artace stood his ground, keeping his weight balanced, ready in case Mascar made a move.

A part of Artace's brain was checking around to see if Mascar had any allies, all the time calculating distances, possibilities, and risks. Artace was surprised to find he wasn't afraid, that indeed a strange coolness had overtaken him. He realized that he had never been in a real fight, only practice. Artace raised his voice so all could hear, making sure it was controlled and confident, saying, "You are in your cups. You've been talking loudly enough so no one could miss your words. If you come to me sober and repeat to my face what you have been saying to your friends, we can settle it any way you please." As he said the words Artace realized he was close to condemning Mascar to death. Striking a nobleman would be enough to earn him a trip to the gallows. Artace took his hand off his sword. The man was disagreeable enough, but Artace had no wish to see him dead.

Mascar's face darkened and he reached to his belt for his knife. But before Mascar could draw it free, Artace closed his slight hand over Mascar's larger one and, with a quick twisting motion, jerked Mascar's wrist so the knife spun away, clattering harmlessly to the floor.

Mascar swore, then swung wildly at Artace. Artace easily ducked under the blow and pushed Mascar, who fell backward into the table, arms windmilling as flagons flew in all directions. Mascar lay there, dripping wet with mead, too drunk to get up.

Artace met the eyes of the men around the table to see if any would challenge him. One by one, they looked away. Artace nodded, turned, and, without haste, walked out of the tavern. He had the consolation that his brother would not be forced to take official action. Mascar wouldn't realize it until the morning, but in pushing Mascar down before he could land a blow, Artace had saved him from the gallows. As Artace climbed the rickety wooden stairs to his room at the back of the inn, he couldn't help but think about the things Mascar had said. He lay in his bed, unable to sleep, while his mind probed and poked at the idea that his reception at Edino might not be what he had been anticipating.

***

The next day, Artace rode out on the last leg of his journey. It was a wet winter day, and a cold rain ran down his neck. His cloak and leggings clung to his body with a chilling, clammy wetness. He ignored it. His father, Lord Tenada, had always said that a legionnaire must be able to endure constant discomfort.

The weather would not improve. Of that Artace was sure. It was three weeks before the winter solstice and all the signs told him that the storms of this winter would be unusually harsh.

Cold rain and thoughts of coming storms couldn't diminish the warm wash of pleasure that Artace felt when he crested a hill and saw the squat tower of Edino Keep in the distance. He was coming home to the place where he had been raised, and it brought back memories of his father.

He pulled his horse to a stop so that he could survey the familiar haunts of his childhood. Far away was the splash of green that marked the grassy common where he had acted out famous battles with his father. He could see some of the trails twisting through the dark woods where they had ridden together. Down by the banks of the wide, muddy Eryn was the place where they had sat while his father told him about the rights and duties of being noble.

He cherished these happy memories, but they also brought back his grief. His father had died on a far-away campaign when his position was overrun by orcs. His legion had been forced to retreat, and Lord Tenada's body had never been recovered. It was said that orcs ate the dead of the enemy. Artace pushed that thought down to the dark place where he locked up things he didn't wish to think about.

There were more immediate things to consider. He was coming back to Edino to make a life here. How would he be received? The scene in the tavern last night was unusual only in that he had overheard it. He had no doubt that many said the same things in taverns all around Edino.

After all, he could not deny that he was indeed a bastard. However, he was an acknowledged bastard, something many people chose to ignore. Many times his father had told him never to forget that he was born of clan Kand, that he was born gentle, and hence could claim all the rights and duties of a nobleman. Artace loved his father for that, but he learned quickly that his father could see sun where others saw clouds.

Already he missed Aleath. He missed the calm, almost empty rooms in the Seminary, and he missed Suloran Allesson's calm, controlled voice as he tore one of his students' arguments to shreds. A port city has many strangers, and there a man was judged by his bearing and deeds. Here at Edino, Artace could not escape his history, in particular the question surrounding the identity of his mother. All that was known was that Lord Tenada had rode out in a great hurry, and returned with a newborn baby. Lord Tenada had given him his name, Artace, and had acknowledged himself as the father. As to whom the mother was, Lord Tenada had refused to say, taking that secret to his grave. That refusal left a void that the village gossips were more than happy to fill. Sometimes Artace resented his father for that. Surely his mother was worthy of acknowledgment.

Artace started his horse forward. There was nothing to be gained by fretting over his lot in life. His twentieth birthday was but four days behind him. By custom, he should have assumed an adult role by his sixteenth birthday, or, at the latest, his eighteenth. Lord Tenada had kept him late at his studies because he believed in education. Artace was sure that Eladas had further prolonged his studies, not from a love of learning, which Eladas regarded with suspicion, but to delay the inevitable decision as to the duties Artace was to perform as a member of the Kand clan. Now Artace was twenty and it was long past time to assume the role of an adult.

As he approached the town of Edino, a jumbled huddle of shops and houses scattered around the protective walls of the keep, he came across Nega waiting by the road. Artace felt a warm pleasure as he stopped and smiled at the one-armed man with the long tail of brown hair and the animal-skin clothes.

Nega was a Gozyda, a barbarian from the wild rugged hills to the east. No one knew why this tall man with his dark honey complexion had come to serve Tenada Kand, not even Artace. When he was younger, Artace had demanded to know the why of it with the blunt curiosity of a young boy. Neither his father nor Nega would tell him, saying it was a matter beyond discussion. Eventually he had come to accept it as another of the mysteries of his life. Still, Nega had been like a second father to him.

The story behind Nega's missing arm was, like Artace's maternal lineage, a source of much speculation in the tavern. Some said he had fought over a woman and was banished, while others said that Tenada Kand had cut it off and had taken him as a retainer in recompense.

Whenever Artace came home from Aleath, Nega was always there waiting beside the road. Somehow he knew the very day Artace would arrive. The townsfolk told Artace that he was never seen waiting on any other day. Nega had been a Gozyda shaman, and all shaman had the sixth sense. Nega also had a special affinity with the woods, the streams, and the weather. His tribe roamed the wild and dark Mimea hills which lay to the east, and often Artace would find him staring towards his homeland with a longing, haunted look.

Artace smiled as he swung off his horse and held up both hands. Nega reached up with his single hand and pressed his palm against Artace's two palms in the Gozyda manner of greeting.

"Oyinath cries tears of welcome for Ezel." Nega spoke in Gozyda, which he had taught Artace, as well as Gozyda hunting, tracking, and fighting skills. Ezel meant 'little lord', and was used as an endearment. His mention of his God, Oyinath expressed the depth of his joy at seeing Artace. Nega loved the rain, and always called it the tears of Oyinath. Indeed, he was standing there with his hair plastered to his head and rivulets of water running down his face, making no attempt to shelter from the deluge. Nega always said that he would die hot and dry, as had been foretold by a great shaman. So he loved the rivers and the rain. He knew every inch of the Eryn around Edino and would swim even when the river was high and raging. He somehow could choose the flows of water that would take him where he wanted to go. The villagers said it was mad to try the river in those conditions but Nega believed he could never die as long as Oyinath kept him wet.

Artace's smile widened as he greeted Nega in return. Despite the cold rain, Artace felt a glow of warmth when he remembered that one day, in Gozyda tradition, Nega would give him a man's name. That would be his name day and Nega would be his zayi, or name-giver. The relationship between zayi and za-ur , name-son was, in some ways, closer than that of a birth father to son.

Artace lead his horse as they walked towards the village, talking in Gozyda. Artace was pleased with the chance to practice his Gozyda. He had a talent for languages. Suloran Allesson had taught him several, including some of the temple-tongues, the secret languages of the priests of various religions. Despite their being proscribed, Artace knew the basics of Ormauk, the dark guttural language of the Morgathian priests, and Surikal, the secret tongue of Agrikan priests. To that he could add a few from the Lythian continent, and even a few words in the strange language of the elves.

To speak with Nega, Artace had to put himself in the mindset of the Gozyda. Most things were expressed in images of nature and the weather. "How blows the wind through the village?" Artace asked.

Nega's face darkened. "Dutu blights the very trees he walks beside."

Dutu meant black tongue. It was Nega's name for Feeslee. Feeslee was in charge of collecting rents and taxes, as well as administering the complex rights and privileges of the townspeople and tenant freemen. Rent collectors were never well liked, but Artace gathered from Nega's remarks that Feeslee had taken that office to a new level of unpopularity. Normally Gozyda names had a positive and a negative meaning, which expressed the Gozyda belief that a man had two destinies and it was up to him which he followed. There was no positive meaning to dutu . Its secondary meaning was "tongue-rot disease," which was used as a word for any kind of pestilence. This more than anything proved to Artace the depth of Nega's hatred of Feeslee.

Artace remembered what he had overheard in the tavern. "Does his breath fill Eladas's ear?"

Nega rotated his head in a clockwise circle, which was the Gozyda equivalent of nodding. "Every dawn draws him closer. The lord takes no path without Dutu's advice." Nega searched for a word before speaking. Sometimes it was hard for him to express the concerns and workings of the nobility and the towns in Gozyda. There were no terms in Gozyda for the complex set of taxes, fees, and interlocking responsibilities that governed the lives of everyone in the Corani Empire. He and Artace used some Gozyda words in ways no Gozyda would understand, to be able to discuss such issues. "Dutu has claimed that the healing woman who lives by the river must pay extra for the right to fish the river. She and her mother before her, and her mother's mother before that, they have always fished there."

Artace was amazed at such callous treatment. His father would have never done such a thing. Tenada Kand was known to be generous to his tenant farmers. In his day, any right established by tradition was upheld without question.

"Surely Eladas granted her appeal." Artace used the word om which meant more begging than demanding of rights, but it was the closest he could come.

Nega shook his head. "Our chief wouldn't hear her. He has no time for such matters. He cares only for playing war with his warriors on the flat place by the river."

They walked for a while in silence, past the small muddy fields. Cottages surrounded by bare fruit trees were dotted around the countryside, smoke holes emitting gray streaks that struggled skyward against the rain. Artace sensed that something had changed. The smell of tart, fresh, wood smoke mixed with the smell of wet earth and sodden leaves was as he remembered it. Yet, many of the fields were choked with weeds and some of the houses were deserted, slumped over from neglect. The once tidy orchards were overgrown with weeds.

Nega nodded towards a horse standing uncared for in the field, its bones visible under its mangy pelt.

"Dutu increased the abel , and the man didn't have it. So now the land lies unused."

Artace stared in anger at the starving horse and the deserted house behind it. The word abel meant, lord-take, which he and Nega used for taxes. There was no Gozyda word for taxes. Of course, abel , could also mean lord-theft, which summed up Nega's feelings on the subject. Edino had been a prosperous fief under Tenada Kand, blessed by fertile soil, and well situated on the banks of the Eryn, which offered easy transport to the markets of Aleath. It was inexplicable to Artace why Eladas would inflict such a divisive and disruptive force as Feeslee on this peaceful village.

Then again, he had never been that close to Eladas. For brothers, they had not been together much. Eladas was three years older and took to soldiering as naturally as a bird takes to wing. As a young boy Eladas was a head and a half taller than his playmates and he trained with the legionnaires before his eleventh birthday. By his early teens, bored by books and tutors, he was campaigning with the legions and seldom home. When Eladas was at Edino, Artace was usually away, studying. Even when they were both in Edino, Eladas was fully occupied in brawling, wenching, and drinking, and had no time to spare for his strange half-brother.

Four years ago, when they received the news of Lord Tenada's death, Eladas had come back to assume the title Lord of Edino and the position of Deputy Governor. It would seem that Eladas found that he had no taste for the details of running estates, and had delegated more of his duties than caution would dictate.

Before long they entered into the town of Edino. Artace studied the small collection of thatched buildings huddled around the dark stone of the keep like children keeping close to the protective skirts of their mother. The town was busy, echoing to the usual noises: a blacksmith's hammer clanging a slow rhythm, women shouting at children, and the sound of a carpenter sawing wood. Artace could feel the stares. The whole village would know by now of his arrival. It would seem that many had suddenly found pressing reason to come to the town square. Artace squared his shoulders and studiously ignored the stares and whispered comments. As he and Nega walked across the town square to the entrance of the keep, Artace had a feeling that someone was staring at him with something more than mere curiosity. He glanced up and back, and saw Feeslee standing in a window glaring at him. Feeslee's face was twisted into a mask of malevolent hatred.

Nega followed the direction of Artace's glance and grunted, muttering in Gozyda, " Dutu wears his anger and hatred as a bear wears his pelt."

Artace didn't respond. The sight of Feeslee reminded him of the secret they shared. The man was just a bailiff, not noble. What harm could he do?

As he mounted the steps to the second-floor entrance to the keep, Artace heard a distant peal of thunder. He made the dagger sign of Larani on his chest. When the Gods argued in the heavens, some man was fated to suffer misfortune.

Chapter 2

Melderyn

Bonlia rode slowly, pondering on which gown she would wear to her cousin's wedding--the blue velvet one with the lace trim or the bright green one with the black silk edging. Her long black hair looked good on the blue velvet, but the green one brought out the intense green of her eyes. Suddenly, a woman's high-pitched shriek shattered her thoughts. Bonlia pulled up and looked around, seeing nothing but the bare trees that lined the dirt road. She certainly hadn't imagined it, but there was no one in sight.

Another shriek split the air, louder than the first. A young woman in dirty clothes, her hair entangled with leaves and twigs, burst out of the woods and grabbed the bridle of Bonlia's bay gelding. Her eyes were wild and her breath came in panicked gasps. Bonlia wrenched at the bridle, trying to pull it free as her horse reared up, pawing at the air with its hooves. Bonlia pulled on the reins and fought to calm the horse down.

  Was this woman trying to attack her? Bonlia discarded the thought immediately. Who would attack a noblewoman on one of the king's roads? Only the most desperate bandit would attempt such a crime, and this woman was certainly not that. Bonlia glanced back at the road to see if her guard, Caghill, was coming. He had ridden back to look for a scarf Bonlia had dropped. Of all the bad luck. Caghill would be much better at handling a commoner.

But Caghill was nowhere in sight. She would have to deal with this herself.

The woman was skinny as a crofter's chicken. Her dirty fingers clutched Bonlia's bridle, her gray eyes darted left and right in panic. "Help me. They're after me," she whimpered.

Bonlia heard the terror in the woman's voice and felt a wave of pity for this poor disturbed creature.

"Who is after you?" Bonlia asked, trying to speak in a soothing tone as she stroked the neck of her bay moving nervously beneath her.

"They're going to kill me!"

The woman's voice was so plaintive, so full of despair, that Bonlia felt her heart wrench. She slid off her horse and moved closer to feel the woman's aura. It was a jangled mess of light flashes, smells, and muted cries like thousands of people in pain. People's auras came to Bonlia as any one of the five senses and sometimes, as in this case, a combination of senses. It was her secret talent. She had learned as a young girl that people didn't understand when she tried to explain it. It allowed her to determine when people were telling the truth, and to accurately assess their feelings about things. She could also slightly influence people's auras, making them feel things, such as hunger, cold, heat, or affection. A talent, but a minor talent at best. Not anything close to the power of a mage.

Bonlia had to steel herself against the assault of this confused aura. She had never sensed anything like it before. There was no doubt the woman was in a state of total panic. Bonlia kept her voice soothing, trying to project calm at the same time, "What is your name?"

The woman looked at her with wild suspicious eyes, and then shifted her gaze around as if she were revealing a dreadful secret. "Alaine. My name is Alaine. Please, you must help me."

Alaine's aura flared in a burst of smells that reminded Bonlia of being downwind from a slaughterhouse. Bonlia wrinkled her nose and commanded herself not to gag. The distant screaming sounds were louder. Her attempt to project calm was having no effect. How awful to have a madness that made you so afraid.

Suddenly, without warning or any apparent cause, Alaine spun around, staring wildly as if she were surrounded by something that wasn't there. "Not now!" Alaine screamed. "Please, not now!"

She completed a full turn and ended with her eyes staring right through Bonlia to something behind her. Bonlia had a strange feeling, as if she were invisible. Alaine's hand reached out, fumbling like a person in the dark. Her fingers found the sleeve of Bonlia's calfskin jacket and she grabbed hold with a surprisingly strong grip. Bonlia winced at the pain from those claw-like fingers but she did not pull back.

There was a sudden change in the light and Bonlia saw the trees, the road, the sky vanish into a small point. Bonlia felt her head spin as if she had been whirled around like a top. She was falling down a dark hole. Before she could scream she felt hard stone beneath her knees.

She looked down. Flagstones--she was kneeling on flagstones. Where had they come from? Quickly Bonlia scrambled to her feet. Alaine was still clutching her with that death-like grip.

Bonlia snapped her head left and right trying to locate herself. Where was the road, the trees? They were nowhere to be seen. She was in a city. Not a normal city, a city in total chaos. A building only ten paces away roared and crackled with high flames and thick black smoke. As Bonlia stared at it in disbelief, the stone wall of the building collapsed, dumping burning timbers and stone blocks into the street, only a few paces away. Bonlia pulled Alaine away from the dangerously-teetering pile of debris and dragged her down the street. The smoke stung Bonlia's eyes and seared her throat, making her cough. A sickly smell tinged everything; it reminded Bonlia of cooked meat. With a shock she realized it was the smell of burning flesh. And the sound-- from all directions came a crashing wave of screams. Shrieks of panic, moans of fear and the ear-tearing screeches of sharp, searing agony filled the air with unrelenting intensity.

Through a gap between houses Bonlia saw a stream of people fleeing. Behind them were black-cloaked soldiers, their swords and hands stained red with blood. Bonlia watched in horror as a soldier slashed a woman in the back. As she fell screaming to the street, he hacked at her until she no longer moved. Bonlia's stomach heaved with threatening nausea. She willed it away. Surely there must be a rational explanation for this.

Alaine pulled at her arm. "We must go, they will kill us!"

Where was she? What was happening?

She must be swept up in Alaine's hysteria. Bonlia took a deep steady breath and closed her eyes. If she regained her calm, the real world would return. "I'm not here," she said to Alaine. "We're on a road in Melderyn." But the hardness of the stone under her feet and the choking stench of smoke and blood told a different story. Her ears were assaulted with the roar of fire and the constant unrelenting screams. Hoarse male voices bellowed orders, and there was a sound like wood being chopped that Bonlia couldn't identify. There was no denying the reality of it. Never had Bonlia had a dream so vivid. She opened her eyes and she was still in the city. She reached down and rapped the stone hard. The pain flared in her knuckles. Either she was totally mad or she had indeed been transported to some other place.

"They will kill us," Alaine screamed. "You can die here."

Where was 'here'? Bonlia looked around for a clue. The air about her was warm, and the sun, low in the sky, was hot. Bonlia had been in the cold air of winter but a moment before, and her breath had been visible. Now it was hot and muggy, and she was sweating in her winter clothes. Wherever they were it clearly wasn't winter. It was summer. It wasn't daytime, it was before sunset.

The city was large. Buildings stretched away from her. A massive tower soared skyward to the southeast. Down another alley, she saw a great garden with grass and trees. Dark objects were swinging from all the branches. With a chill of horror, Bonlia realized they were the bodies of people, hanging like ripe fruit. Behind the garden was a gigantic palace with five red domes, two of them on fire. Screams came from behind her, and Bonlia looked back and saw soldiers herding people. Nausea welled up in her as she realized the sound of chopping she had heard was the incessant rain of swords on people as they fell in front of the soldiers.

Save K'nor, God of Wisdom, what kind of evil had she been flung into?

Then her eyes caught an inscribed block of stone in the wall of the building beside her. It had the usual etched symbol of a mason, a horizontal line embedded inside a square. Carefully etched beside the symbol was a year, 563TR.

It couldn't be. This was the year 558!

Bonlia stared at the sign, reading and re-reading the year several times, unable to accept what it said.

Alaine yanked on Bonlia's arm, urging her to move. Reluctant to leave the mystery of the building, Bonlia let herself be pulled down the narrow street.

"They're coming," Alaine screamed, pointing behind Bonlia. Bonlia turned. Two black-cloaked soldiers ran towards them, blood-stained swords high. Their faces were daubed with red blood around the eyes and mouth. They opened their mouths to reveal bloodstained teeth and screamed "Balshaaaaaaa" as they charged.

Alaine turned and started to run, letting go of Bonlia's arm.

Bonlia slipped in the mud and her feet went out from under her. She braced herself for the pain of landing on the flagstones--but she landed on soft ground--grass. She sat there, bewildered, as cold wetness seeped into her clothing.

She was back on the road. Back in Melderyn. The winter cold bit at her skin, which was still sweating from the summer heat in the city.

In front of her, running back and forth across the grass, Alaine screamed, her eyes fixed on something, something terrifying--even though there was nothing in front of her. Bonlia scrambled to her feet and watched Alaine run in ever-tightening circles until she stopped and collapsed to her knees, sobbing helplessly. Alaine's head jerked back and forth and her eyes were wild with panic. She moaned and held up her hands to cover her head, terrified of something or someone standing over her--clearly a vision that wasn't there. It was incredible to watch the woman act like that. Bonlia ran to her and grabbed her shoulders. Alaine screamed frantically as Bonlia's hands grasped her. She struggled so hard, thrashing around with her hands and elbows, that Bonlia was forced to let go. Alaine's nails scratched down Bonlia's cheek and she jumped back in pain.

Think what it must be like for her, Bonlia told herself. Alaine was in that other world, and Bonlia grabbing her must have felt like being grabbed by invisible hands--terrifying her even more than she already was, if that was possible. Bonlia stood back and watched as Alaine looked to one side and then the next, her head tilted back as if looking up at people standing in a circle around her. Her head suddenly jerked towards Bonlia as if someone had struck her face with a heavy blow. She turned her head around as if looking at the striker, and to her horror, Bonlia saw a jagged gash of blood on the side of Alaine's face.

It couldn't be--but the blood was there.

Alaine screamed and fell back, her head slamming to the ground. She pushed her hands frantically towards her knees as if trying to push something back, but somehow her skirt was pulled up and bunched at her waist. Her undergarments were ripped aside and Alaine lay with her legs spread, screaming in pain.

Bonlia knew she was witnessing the woman being raped by someone in the future.

She had to do something, but what?

Bonlia remembered a charm she had been taught by an old woman. It was a spell designed to wake people who had been put under a sleep spell. It was all she could do.

She raced over to Alaine, who was lying naked from the waist down, screaming and writhing on the ground. Bonlia put her hand on Alaine's forehead:

Can that cairn can care be cane,

Doth that doff to dogs dim day,

Give that gap that grows the gain,

And bane the bole that binds the bay.

Like most incantations it sounded silly when she first recited it, but with each repetition she felt the power of the words. Somehow the very rhythms and order of the consonants summoned the energy that powered magic.

She concentrated on Alaine's writhing body, repeating the incantation again and again, raising her voice each time, until she was shouting it. Just as she was convinced she had failed, Alaine stopped thrashing. She turned her head this way and that, a look of blank puzzlement on her face. "Where ...?" she looked down and saw her nakedness and frantically pushed down her dress. Then she lay back, sobbing.

Bonlia reached out and hugged her close. "It's all right. I've got you."

Alaine stared at her, tears streaming from her eyes, and gasped gulping sobs.

Without warning, the sound of breaking branches and heavy feet came from the woods. Two men burst out of the trees. One man was big, with matted hair on his huge arms and bared teeth like a snarling dog. The other was small, with bulging eyes and a tic that pulled his mouth into a lopsided grin every few moments. Their auras made Bonlia sick to her stomach. The big one's aura was the smell of excrement and the other had an aura that gave Bonlia the feeling of worms slithering over her skin.

"Go on away from her," the big one said, pulling a long dagger from his belt.

How dare this man threaten her on her father's lands! Bonlia stood up and put her hands on her hips. "This woman is hurt, she needs help."

"This be no business of yours. She be ours to worry about," the smaller man said with a twitch. He pulled a short sword from a scabbard.

Bonlia looked at him, feeling her lip curl as she did so. A mere commoner. He obviously didn't know to whom he was speaking. "I am Lady Bonlia, daughter of Lord Taladin. These are Taladin lands. If you don't put your weapons away and keep a civil tongue in your head, I will have you flogged."

The men paused and Bonlia could see their eyes scanning the road. It was deserted. Where was Caghill?

The small one smiled mockingly. "Fine breeding won't help you here." The large one pulled back his sleeves so his weapon was not impeded. Bonlia noticed a brown square with a jet black disc in the middle tattooed on his arm. They actually had the audacity to move towards her! She noticed the tensing of the big one's muscles. He was going to attack her. The signs were obvious. Bonlia felt the weight of her dagger in the sheath hidden under her sleeve. Thank goodness her father had insisted she learn its use. With a practiced twist of her wrist the dagger dropped into her hand.

The large man charged, his dagger low and flashing up in a stabbing arc. Bonlia stepped to the side at the last moment. The man's knife grazed her sleeve. Her sudden move put him off balance, and as he stumbled past her, she sliced his arm with the razor-sharp edge of her dagger.

The man fell to his knees, looking down with incredulity at the blood welling out of the deep cut. Bonlia waited with her dagger ready. She had caught him unawares. He scrambled to his feet. He growled like a wild dog and, ignoring the blood streaming down his arm, he started towards Bonlia. He was wary this time, watching her carefully, weaving his knife back and forth, looking for an opening to attack.

Bonlia backed up. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the other man circling to get behind her. She knew there would be no advantage of surprise when the next attack came.

The sound of hooves on the road. Caghill! Bonlia felt a wave of relief. The two men stopped and looked up to assess this new development.

Caghill spurred his horse forward and leapt out of the saddle, landing lightly beside Bonlia. His sword was in his hand in a flash. He was a stocky man who moved with assurance, each foot planted firmly before he moved the other.

"I'm glad to see you," Bonlia said.

Caghill nodded, looking at the large man's bleeding arm. "It would seem you have the situation well in hand, My Lady."

The two men were taking in Caghill's assured stance. Bonlia saw the caution in their movements. She could tell they recognized the signs of an experienced warrior.

The small one pointed at Alaine, who sat sobbing on the ground, seemingly unaware of the conflict over her. "We take her and leave. No need for trouble"

Bonlia said, "She is under my care now."

The men exchanged a look, and they started forward.

Caghill said, his voice cold, "Don't try it--unless you want to breathe your last on this road."

The men stopped, weighing the odds. The larger one said to the smaller, "Why not leave the miserable bitch, she be in no condition to talk."

The smaller man shook his head, "You know our orders. If our master finds out ..." His voice trailed off.

"He be far away in Merethos--"

The small man turned on his companion. "Shut up, fool." He turned to Bonlia. "Give her to us or we will kill you both and take her."

Bonlia gripped her dagger, knowing there was no way she could let these two take Alaine. Whatever interest they had in the poor woman it was certainly to Alaine's detriment.

The small man pulled the dirty cloak from his back and, holding it like a shield, moved forward on Caghill. The larger man started towards Bonlia. Suddenly the small man flung his cloak at Caghill's head and thrust with his sword. Caghill was clearly expecting such a move, for he swiped the cloak down with his own sword, catching the small man's weapon and driving it to the ground. Caghill flicked his sword upwards and caught the man under the armpit. The small man howled in pain. He dropped his sword and clutched his arm to his body, bending over in agony. The other man was moving on Bonlia but stopped as he saw both Bonlia's knife and Caghill's sword pointing at him. He snarled in frustration but backed away. The two of them ran to the cover of the trees and were gone, their curses fouling the air as they departed.

Bonlia stared at the still-moving branches, wondering what business they had with this woman.

"Should I go after them, My Lady?" Caghill asked.

Bonlia could sense his aura, the smell of freshly cut wood. It vibrated with the killing lust he felt. She considered sending him after them. Such brigands preyed on innocent travelers, and were probably responsible for crimes worse than robbery, but the woods here were deep and full of swampy ground. Sending Caghill after two armed and desperate men was asking for him to be killed. She shook her head. "I will report these events to my father." She pointed to Alaine on the ground. "We will take her back to the manor."

Caghill nodded and picked Alaine up as if she were but a small bird. He mounted his horse, cradling her in front of him.

The ride to the manor house gave Bonlia time to think. Caghill was usually quiet and not given to idle chatter. It was one of the reasons she had chosen him as her guard. She liked to be in her own thoughts sometimes and Caghill was agreeable to long silences.

After half a league of riding she turned to Caghill, "Is not a black disc on a field of brown the mark of Morgath?"

Caghill nodded. "Aye, My Lady. I noticed that too. I've never known those foulworshipers to be here in Melderyn."

Silence descended upon them again. Bonlia thought hard about the future she had been dragged into by the madwoman. She carefully recalled everything she had seen. Was there anything there that would allow her to identify where it was? The "when" was more certain, sometime after 563, so that meant at least five years in the future. Of course it could be more. The building had seemed new, the inscription freshly cut, and the stone was not that weathered. So, not too many years more.

She recalled the palace she had seen. The red domes were striking; there couldn't be many buildings like that on Hârn.

Bonlia moved her horse closer to Caghill's and asked, "Do you know of any city or place that has five red domes?"

Caghill answered without hesitation. "Coranan, My Lady. The Palace of the Red Domes is the official residence of the emperor of the Corani Empire."

"Is there a large tower?"

"Aye, My Lady. Caer Coranan guards the Koban bridge that crosses the river Thard. It has a keep that seems to touch the sky."

"Coranan," Bonlia breathed. It felt right. Was it her imagination or had she gained some sense of the place when she was there? The Corani Empire was far to the west. Up to now it had just been a large colored area on the parchment maps she had studied with her tutor.

It dawned on Bonlia that Caghill could be a source of much knowledge. He had been a mercenary for a large part of his life and had traveled over most of Hârn. She now looked at him in a new light. A flush of guilt crept over her, knowing that she had treated him as if he were no more than something to do her bidding, like her horse, or a knife at the table.

"Have you traveled much in the Corani Empire?"

"Aye, My Lady, I served in a noble's guard in Aleath."

Bonlia tried to recall what she knew of Aleath. It wasn't much. It lay far to the west, on the Southern coast of Hârn. Once the capital of the independent state of Aleathia, it had been conquered by the Corani Empire over a hundred years ago. It was now the provincial capital of the southern part of the empire. That was the sum total of her knowledge. Bonlia started to regret her inattention to her lessons. It was somewhat irritating to realize that her teachers had been right when they said that such knowledge might one day come in handy.

Bonlia knew that Caghill was not extravagant with his words. "Did you travel elsewhere?" she prompted.

Caghill shifted Alaine to a more comfortable position and gathered his thoughts before answering. "I've been to the capital, Coranan, and down the Thard to Merethos." A dark frown crossed his face. "Merethos, now that's a place I'd rather not go again. They worship the dark Gods, Morgath and Agrik, and a man would do well to keep his weapons close."

Merethos! That ruffian had mentioned their master in Merethos. There was some connection between all of this--but what did it mean?

At her urging, Caghill described to her the massive walls of the capital city of Coranan and the jaw-dropping opulence of the Palace of the Red Domes. He told her of seeing the previous emperor, Shorka, pass by in a procession. "He were surrounded by weird gray-beards who chanted in unknown tongues and wore robes covered in strange signs. The emperor himself had blue lips and his face was covered in a white powder. Most of the people thought he looked daft but didn't dare say so. The present emperor, his nephew Medak, is a stern Laranian. I hear he had all those mystics impaled upon gaining the imperial throne."

Bonlia shuddered at the thought of that brutal way to die. The western side of the island of Hârn seemed a dark place. Prompted by her questions, Caghill told his stories, and as he did Bonlia felt a chill come over her--the chill of the grave.

It was comforting to see the familiar bulk of the manor house. The gardens were well kept, but the house itself was in disrepair. Clan Taladin was related to the Melderyni royal family and her great-grandfather had been one of the richest men in the country. Her grandfather had a talent for investments in dubious ventures, and the fortune had been squandered. Now, the east wing of the building was abandoned. The slate roof dripped water into pots, making it hard to sleep on a rainy night, and the stalls in the massive stable, once full of some of the finest mounts on Hârn, were now mostly empty.

  Bonlia knew that the only solution was for her to marry into money. She was already twenty and should have been married some years ago. In women of her class, marriages were alliances between the great clans. That was the way of things, but Bonlia couldn't bring herself to meekly enter into a marriage of property.

As the stable boy led her horse away she noted the patches on his threadbare livery. Everything was worn out and needed replacing. With a heavy feeling in her chest she went into the manor house. It was her duty to marry well. She would have to overcome her dislike of all the foppish young men from the kingdom's great clans and take one as a husband. Normally her mother would have arranged it and she would have met her husband for the first time at the official engagement ceremony. But her mother was dead. Bonlia's beauty trumped her lack of money, and her father had been approached with offers to take her hand in marriage many times. However, each time he had talked to Bonlia and she had firmly rejected each and every suitor. These suitors' auras made her uncomfortable and the thought of living like that for the rest of her life terrified her. Bonlia's father couldn't bear to see her unhappy and acceded to all her wishes. Still, Bonlia, knew that soon she would have to do her duty for the clan and marry advantageously.

Bonlia's maid, Mormsue, fussed over Alaine, as if she were one of the stray kittens Bonlia often brought home. Together she and Bonlia bathed Alaine and dressed her in a clean nightdress. Mormsue washed her hair and carefully combed it out. They put Alaine to bed in a small unused room next to Bonlia's bedroom. Bonlia didn't tell Mormsue, but she wanted to be close in case Alaine said something in the night about the time and place they had found themselves in earlier. Bonlia kept trying to convince herself it had been some kind of dream, an illusion, but she couldn't forget the sounds and the smells. Some part of her believed it was real and no matter how hard she tried to dismiss it, she couldn't shake that belief.

She went to see her father in his private chambers. As usual, his table was covered with papers. He spent most of his time juggling payments and holding off foreclosure on the family lands.

Her father's aura was a warm light around him, like firelight. It brightened and dimmed with his mood. Tonight it seemed brighter than normal.

"I hear you have brought home a woman you met on the road."

Bonlia told her father about the two men who tried to take Alaine with them. She downplayed the fight, knowing that such knowledge would worry her father.

He was worried anyway, as she knew he would be. "You could have been killed," he said, long furrows creasing his brow. His aura flashed wildly for a moment.

"I'm all right Father, really," Bonlia said clasping his hand.

"I shouldn't let you wander abroad like that. If your mother were still here she would look after you better."

Bonlia knew that her father could very quickly descend into grief over the loss of her mother, who had died of a wasting disease many years ago. He still wore black mourning clothes and lit a candle for his beloved wife every day. He constantly worried that he was not raising Bonlia properly. To distract him, she told him about the Durangash tattoo.

"Morgathians," he mused, shaking his head in incredulity, "here in Melderyn?" He stood up and paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "I'll have the sheriff hunt them with a large patrol. His men know those woods like their own houses. We'll smoke those rats out of their holes." He returned to his papers. Bonlia kissed him good night and left him muttering over the long columns of numbers that detailed the family debt.

That night, Bonlia dreamt of the horrific events she had seen in Coranan. The sound of swords hacking into flesh and bone was terrible and she awoke in a cold sweat. She spent the rest of the night unable to sleep, trying to think of anything other than those awful sights and sounds.

The next morning Alaine was still unconscious but seemed to be breathing more regularly. There was nothing Bonlia could do for her. A distant cousin was getting married, and Bonlia was meant to ride over and stay a few days for the feast. She stood over Alaine wondering if she could leave. Mormsue waved away her concerns. "Go to the wedding, Poppett, I'll look after her," she said. Mormsue always called Bonlia 'Poppett', a name she had used ever since Bonlia was a little girl.

Bonlia quickly dressed for the ride and saw that the servants had her gowns packed. Her cousin lived a good day's ride away and Bonlia wanted to arrive before nightfall. She spent the entire journey in silence. Normally she delighted in the thought of a wedding, with dancing and laughing conversation, but now it was strangely unappealing. She looked inside herself. She had changed, but she wasn't sure how.

Unlike Bonlia's father, her cousin's branch of the family was wealthy beyond belief. Their house was huge and the carpeted hallways, large paintings, and opulent rooms flaunted the family's wealth. Bonlia's bedroom had elaborate drapes and rich appointments. As she sunk into the creamy softness of the sheets, she wondered how Alaine was faring. Bonlia's sleep was invaded by dark dreams of black-cloaked warriors with whips herding women and children. She woke up with her palms bleeding from where she had clenched her nails into them. She spent the rest of the night sitting up and watching Yael's silvery disc cross the nighttime sky.

The wedding ceremony was lavish, every tradition observed in meticulous detail. Bonlia wore a simple white dress that by tradition the bride supplied. It was a delicate lace that must have cost a year's income from a small farm. After the wedding ceremony, Bonlia went to her room and donned her green gown. She pirouetted in front of the polished metal mirror, eyeing herself critically. Normally she would have fretted that the dress was the previous year's style, but now that didn't seem to matter--what did was that she looked like a flower, beautiful but useless. She felt the need for something more, but no amount of staring in the mirror gave her any answer. Finally she gave up and went down to the great hall.

The hall was alive with music and gaiety, but somehow it didn't touch Bonlia. The red and green banners that swooped over the huge room didn't give her the usual thrill of anticipation. The frantic rhythms of the music bored her, and the tables filled with delicate sweetmeats arranged in dazzling spirals and dusted with fine granulated honey seemed excessive, almost obscene, in their affluence.

Bonlia stood against a wall and studied the servants. Why did they catch her eye now? They hurried about in their duties, replenishing food on the table, filling up wine goblets, and cleaning up messes as the raucous crowd of her cousin's friends danced, drank, and chased each other in joyous abandon. Their faces were flushed as they laughed over the clumsy spilling of wine and food. For the first time, she watched the servants as people. She saw the way they kept their heads bowed, the way they flitted around, invisible to the guests. They no doubt had families, relatives. She realized that she had never asked Caghill about his family.

The musicians broke into a melody that Bonlia knew well. She had danced many times to the intoxicating rhythms that whirled out of the flying fingers of the lyremaster. Across the room, Gunfuy, the first born of a baron, impossibly handsome with soft brown eyes and delicate, almost feminine hands, smiled at her with a cupid smile that dazzled all around him. He moved toward her in time to the music. She knew he was interested in her. His family had approached her father, starting the delicate negotiations. How could she tell him that, as handsome as he was, his aura was the sound of slate grating on slate? The thought of living with that painful sound, day and night, was inconceivable. Yet, Gunfuy's family had large estates, and her father's debts would be a trivial matter for them.

"What ails you Bonlia? Why are you clinging to the wall like a climbing rose? That's not you. Come on, we are all going to dance that new dance that Hedgard learned in Lythia." He caught her hand and pulled her towards the dance floor.

Bonlia resisted. Normally she loved to dance, to lose herself in the rhythm of the music and discipline of the intricate foot work. Tonight, she was unable to bring herself to do it. Images of those terrified people being slaughtered played in her mind. What was happening to her?

"I'm sorry," she said gently pulling her hand free. "I'm not feeling well."

Gunfuy mimed a look of abject misery and Bonlia suppressed a wince at the sharp screech of slate-on-slate that only she could hear. His interest in her was still strong. She tried to remember her duty to her father and her clan, but she couldn't bring herself to give him encouragement. It wasn't just his aura. She was noble and duty came first. She felt she could bring herself to suffer that for her father. It was more than that. Since her encounter with Alaine and the scene in that blood-soaked city, the world had taken on a darker and more serious tone. How could one dance in such a world?

In a cajoling voice designed to get her interest, Gunfuy said, "We're all going out after the ball, down to the lake. It's frozen. The servants already have it lit with torches. We're going to play on the ice. It will be fun."

Bonlia smiled but shook her head. "I'm going to bed early so I can make an early start tomorrow for home."

Gunfuy's face drooped like a child who is told he cannot have a toy. The rest of her cousin's friends crowded around him. "What's wrong Bonlia?" asked Cerrilyn, who Bonlia had known since they were both small. The others joined in, puzzled at her behavior.

How could she explain it? The pretty faces, furrowed in question, stared at her waiting for an explanation. They were so young, she realized. She could see what all of their parents thought: puppies wriggling with enthusiasm, wanting nothing more than to chase a ball across the grass or roll around with each other in mock fighting. Bonlia gave them all a dazzling smile that she didn't really feel. "Don't worry about me," she said, "I have business at home. Go and have fun." As she watched them run away like a flock of brightly-colored birds, she realized she had sounded like her father.

Again that night her sleep was disturbed by terrible dreams, dreams of men pressing red-hot iron on the flesh of young women. The laughter of the torturers and the screams of their victims jolted her from her sleep. She was trembling with anger and horror and spent another night sitting up, not wanting to sleep.

Bonlia wanted to leave at first light but her cousin came and begged Bonlia to take breakfast with her. During the meal and for some time after, she tried to convince Bonlia that it was time she took a husband. She extolled Gunfuy's qualities so enthusiastically that Bonlia was sure that Gunfuy had sent her on this mission. Not wishing to be impolite to her hostess, Bonlia couldn't take her leave until the sun was high in the sky. Yael was back in the sky when she got back to the manor.

The horses were led to the stables by a sleepy stableboy, and her servants scuttled for their beds. Before she retired, Bonlia checked on Alaine. The poor woman was still unconscious and gave no sign of stirring. Mormsue was sitting in a chair beside the bed, her head dropping to her chest every few moments. Bonlia sent Mormsue to her bed. "My room is next door," she told Mormsue, "I'll hear if she awakens. If there is need, I'll summon you."

Bonlia sat up in her room, still dressed for riding, not wanting to face sleep and the dreams. She kept replaying in her mind the scenes by the road and in Coranan. She was sure that she had somehow been transported to that city that lay far to the west, five or more years into the future. Was it a true vision? Could it be prevented?

Men, women, and children, about twenty of them, were huddled in a small circle, clinging to each other, wailing. Behind them was a large city. A tower guarded a wide bridge.

Jeering, black-cloaked men stood around the poor wretches in a circle, hacking at them with swords. Bonlia tried to run towards the awful scene so she could order it stopped, but she couldn't move. All she could do was watch the blood and listen to the screams--and that chopping sound of swords on bodies. She screamed for the men to stop but no one paid any attention to her.

  The man who was leading the massacre snapped out orders sharply, pointing out victims. His back was to her, she couldn't see his face. But she could feel his aura, an aura so strong it threatened to overwhelm and drive reason from her mind. It was the growl of an animal accompanied by the stench of blood. The animal growl vibrated her body so vigorously she thought she would shake apart. The stink of blood was so strong it filled her nostrils, making her struggle for breath as if she were drowning in a vat of blood.

Suddenly Bonlia was awake. She had fallen asleep in the chair. She sat, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding. She became aware of the dark room around her. It was the early hours of the morning. What had awakened her? She quickly pulled on a pair of boots and went to check on Alaine.

Alaine's bed was empty. Bonlia looked around the small room. There was no sign of her. No doubt she had been overcome by one of her visions and had wandered off. Why hadn't she left a guard on Alaine? Bonlia decided it was too late now to fret about that.

She went to the window, pulled back the heavy tapestry and noticed a movement in the courtyard. Alaine was down there. Bonlia thought about raising the guard, but the noise and confusion would terrify the poor woman.

The guard at the front door was sleeping, and the door was ajar, testifying as to how Alaine had managed to get out of the manor. Her father was far too indulgent with his staff. Bonlia decided to mention it to him in the morning. She slipped through the partly open door.

Another figure was standing on the flagstones of the courtyard. It was Caghill.

"I heard a noise, My Lady. It would seem your guest is abroad at this hour."

Bonlia caught a brief movement of a dark shape. "There she is," she said, hurrying across the courtyard.

They ran to the edge of the woods. There was no one in sight. Bonlia peered into the dark shadows of the trees. "She's in here somewhere," Bonlia said. "She'll probably keep to the paths. You head towards the old mill. I'll take the path to the orchard."

Without a word Caghill turned and ran down the path leading to the mill. Bonlia hurried down the other path.

It was dark but Bonlia had played on these paths all of her life. She sensed the trees around her, and her feet avoided the treacherous roots without her having to think about it.

She heard a noise ahead. It was Alaine. Bonlia slowed, moving carefully. She didn't want to startle the poor woman by appearing suddenly. Alaine was distressed enough as it was.

Bonlia's eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. The path opened up and she could make out the black shapes of the apple trees.

Out of the corner of her eye Bonlia caught a movement to her right.

It was Alaine standing under a tree.

Bonlia approached her slowly, not making any sudden moves. Alaine was swaying on her feet. She turned and saw Bonlia. Her eyes were wide with terror and her mouth was twisted in fear.

"He is near," Alaine said in a fearful whisper. "I can feel his presence."

"Who?" Bonlia whispered back.

Alaine's whole body was shaking in terror. "The disfigured beast," she said.

Suddenly Alaine's body went rigid and she bent back in an arch. Her hands gripped Bonlia's arms like eagle talons.

The world shrunk to a point, and together they were falling down a dark hole.

They were in a circular room. Sunlight poured through a slit window. Bonlia could see they were high above a vast walled city that stretched away into the distance. In the middle of the city was a large building with red domes.

They were back in Coranan. This time in a tall tower. Bonlia remembered seeing the tower in the distance when they were here the previous time. The keep of Caer Coranan, Caghill had told her.

A man was hunched over a table, his back to them. He was tall, and wearing a brown robe with a high peaked hood. His aura hit Bonlia with an incredible intensity. It was the growl of the beast and the stench of blood, just as in her dream. It filled her ears and hurt them.

The man turned in surprise. The deep rumbling growl, so full of menace and evil, grew even louder. The front of his robe had a large black circular patch on it with a thin red line from the bottom to the middle. His face was in the shadows of his hood, a thin cruel face with a sharp goatee. Bonlia saw with horror that his right eye was a white ball hanging partially out of the socket, and the entire right side of his face looked as if it had been melted then reformed as twisted flesh.

His good eye fixed on her and widened in surprise. "You?" he said. "You died in the fire."

He moved towards her, his face a contorted mask of rage. Behind him, Bonlia could see a bowl of water. Something in the water was glowing with a greenish light. She felt the power of it wash over her.

The man noticed where she was looking and stopped. The left half of his mouth twisted upward in an evil smile, displaying rotted, blackened teeth. "Yes, I have The Fragment. With it, I rule the empire."

The door opened behind Bonlia and three black-cloaked guards spilled in, swords drawn. Bonlia tried to pull away from Alaine to free her dagger hand, but Alaine clutched her. "Don't leave me. Keep holding me. I will be lost."

Bonlia pulled Alaine to her, putting herself between Alaine and the guards. The men fanned around them, their swords hovering inches away from her face and chest.

"Should we kill them, Lord?" asked the guard in front of Bonlia.

"Strangle that one" the man said pointing to Alaine, "and take the other one to the cells. I want her to die very painfully."

The guard grabbed Bonlia.

Alaine screamed and clutched Bonlia's arm tighter. The guards yanked them apart.

Suddenly Bonlia and Alaine were back in the orchard. Alaine was writhing, her arms out to her side as if she were being held. She gurgled, her face drained of blood and turning blue. Her head slumped to the side. She spun into a tree as if flung aside, and collapsed to the ground.

Bonlia ran to Alaine and seized her wrist. There was no pulse. She was dead. Bonlia felt a wave of despair. Surely she could have saved this poor woman!.

Then, incredibly, Alaine's body vanished and Bonlia was left holding not a wrist but air. Bonlia twisted left and right thinking that somehow Alaine had moved behind her, but Bonlia was alone in woods.

These were strange happenings indeed. Bonlia mumbled a quick prayer to her God, Save K'nor, the Sage of the Gods.

Still bewildered by the sudden and incredible events, she became aware of a flickering light around her. Bonlia turned to see the horizon light up with a bright shimmering glow.

The manor was on fire. Her father--Mormsue!

Bonlia raced down the dark trail, her heart pounding with dread. She emerged from the trees and saw bright yellow fire consuming the old dried beams. Along the length of the manor house, smoke and flame were billowing out of the windows. With a tremendous crash, the slate roof collapsed into the roaring fire, causing a massive burst of flame to billow upwards.

Two men were riding away, spurring and lashing their horses. Even though she caught only a brief glimpse of their backs, Bonlia recognized them as the two men who had been chasing Alaine.

In a panic, Bonlia ran towards the manor, her heart pounding with dread, but the heat was so intense she could not get close. Just then Caghill ran out of the woods. He too saw the men and started to run after them, but it was no use. They were galloping now, and with a flurry of pounding hooves, they disappeared around the bend.

Bonlia ran to the front of the manor. Her father was on the ground, face down, his arms flung out. His hands were blackened from the fire. Bonlia rolled him over and saw a huge bloodstain on his nightshirt. A sharp rent showed that he had been stabbed. Bonlia looked around wildly for help. Instead she saw Mormsue, also laying on the ground. Her throat had been slashed.

Her father moaned--he was still alive. Bonlia cradled his head, her tears mixing with his blood. "Father," she cried.

Her father's eyes fluttered open. "Daughter ... the flames ... they were waiting for us outside ... why?"

Bonlia clasped her father's frail body close. Her tears fell on his face. "Father, forgive me. It was my fault. It was the men who were after Alaine."

But her father couldn't hear. His head slumped to the side. He was dead.