Keys of Awakening
The Princess and the Steward

ANALTH ( S H A P I N G )

The Tenth Power of the Arcanum

Analth is an Active power.

Seekers eventually learn that all things are created by them. This knowledge unlocks the ability to do so consciously. Analth, unlike Marba, does affect physical reality, not only one’s mind or perception. Therefore, it is a creative power of great magnitude.

Application: Analth is the power to create something out of thin air or to alter the shape of something that already exists.

A practitioner of Analth is known as a Shaper.

From The Arcanum of Wisdom – Introduction for the Initiate

Malco snorted in disgust as their column came to a halt.

“Well, the Virupa chose a really good time to leave us, did they not?”

“Should we turn back?” Elan asked, her voice filled with apprehension.

Argolan shrugged.

“They have already seen us. If they are going to attack, running is not going to help now. We are on foot, we cannot outrun them.”

Up ahead, a single chariot with just two passengers left the camp, heading towards them.

“That is a good sign,” the Shieldarm said, with relief in her voice. “They want to talk.”

She turned to the rest of them.

“Wait here,” she instructed, and then nodded at Grifor. The two of them rode out to meet the approaching chariot.

Illiom and the rest watched as the two parties came to a halt, a short distance from each other. They observed in silence, unable to hear the discussion that was taking place.

Illiom bit down on her lip; so much depended upon this exchange. Desperate for some progress, she almost held her breath until Argolan turned her horse and galloped back, with Grifor, towards them. Likewise, the chariot turned about and sped back towards the encampment.

“It looks like we have found allies rather than foes,” Sereth observed. “I was beginning to wonder if there was anyone left in Evárudas who would not try to kill us on sight.”

“The Legion ahead is loyal to Princess Sestel,” Argolan announced as soon as she reined in amongst them. “They have had their fair share of trouble with members turned rogue; nevertheless, they have invited us through and will provide an escort the rest of the way to the capital.”

There were a few cheers at this, but Scald shook his head.

“What if it is a trap?” he objected. “What guarantee do we have that once we are in their midst they will not turn around and kill us all?”

Argolan levelled her gaze at him.

“The only guarantee that matters,” she countered. “I asked the warrior to bare the space between her breasts for me.”

Scald nodded, satisfied.

“Well and good, then …”

The Shieldarm allowed herself a thin smile.

“But not before she asked the same of us. Cevaram has just undergone a Cleanse of its own and has only just become free of the taint. Even now the Legion is gradually scouring the rest of Evárudas …”

After that, they wasted no time and headed straight towards the encampment.

The warrior women of the Legion glanced at the new arrivals with cautious curiosity.

The sole surviving carriage driver could not get away from them quickly enough. As soon as it became clear that they were done with him, he demanded his promised reward. Argolan complied and gave him thirty florins, six times the agreed amount, but not before she extracted from him a promise that he would pass on equal proportions of the money to the families of his fallen companions.

The driver quickly emptied the carriage of all their gear, and in no time at all it was no more than a dust-trailing speck, careening along the road leading back to the harbour.

“The poor bastard is probably cursing the day he met us,” Malco said as they watched him go.

The Chosen’s gear was loaded into waiting chariots. Illiom climbed onto one of the vehicles and then they too were off, heading at last towards the Evárudani capital.

Within another hour, and just as Iod was once again preparing to lower himself into the west, they arrived within sight of Cevaram.

The capital of the island Queendom crowded the edge of a great precipice, a sheer wall of rock that dropped straight down to vanish into a haze of mist.

Two things met Illiom’s gaze as they crested the final rise in their approach. One was the delicate array of towers, golden facades, and elegant buildings that made up the Evárudani capital. These sprawled right up to the cliff’s edge and, to Illiom’s surprise, continued down the cliff face for a distance.

The other was the great river that flowed through the city before thundering over the edge of the precipice. The bulk of the waters of the Rimfall River fell in three great cascades, to vanish in a nimbus of spray that effectively hid the water’s fate from their eyes. There were also dozens of minor waterways that shaped a maze of rivulets through the capital’s intricate structures, adorning the crown jewel of Evárudas with aqua and emerald hues.

The only approach to the city was along an impossibly tall and slender stone bridge that spanned the chasm ahead. It was an astonishing feat of engineering: the widely spaced arches curved down to meet pillars that materialised like apparitions out of the misty depths.

As the road curved towards the bridge, Illiom looked upon the unfolding landscape with awe.

Even from this distance, the roar of the cascading water was relentless, like a ceaseless peal of thunder. The breeze that caressed Illiom’s cheek carried the damp scent of the river and the clean, fresh wisp of things waterborne and moist.

She glanced at Tarmel beside her and the wonder she saw shining in his eyes was a mirror of her own.

The road continued along and the distance separating them from the ravenous abyss that swallowed up the river gradually narrowed. When the chariot’s wheels left the road’s pavers in favour of the smooth stone of the bridge, Illiom drew back in quiet alarm. Even though she was accustomed to heights, the very moment the vehicle began the crossing her knees went weak and her fingers clenched the chariot’s rail.

The Water Gardens surrounding Cevaram were renowned throughout Theregon for their intricate and magnificent beauty. Illiom, too, had heard of them, but as is often the case, the descriptions did not come close to the wondrous vision that now unfolded before her.

Water ruled here: it flowed everywhere, channelled into canals and slides, passing over or beneath streets and passageways and even thundering through purposeful openings within many of the buildings.

A great rainbow spanned over the entire city, and contained within its arch was a smaller one; and both looked like an integral and decorative part of the city itself.

Having crossed the bridge, the road now led to a much smaller one and then, beyond it, through a gateway set within Cevaram’s imposing walls. They rode through the heavily guarded gateway and found themselves travelling towards the heart of the capital.

As the chariots drove through the streets, women and men stopped to watch them pass, some faces lit with curiosity, others shadowed with fear and suspicion. Looking back at her own party, she saw how they must appear to these people. Not a triumphant detail escorting a contingent of noble visitors; they looked more like a dishevelled band of captured rogues, covered in dust and dirt and blood.

The road led them deeper into Cevaram through arched passageways and tunnels, and Illiom lost count of the number of bridges that spanned the fast-flowing waters.

Up ahead, a new splendour rose to greet them: a palace with gilded walls, set like a golden crown in the city’s centre. Its towers and battlements caught and reflected the sunlight and bathed the heart of Cevaram with a dazzling radiance.

As they entered the courtyard, a group of soldiers emerged from the palace at a run and proceeded, with practiced precision, to line both sides of the yard. All of them were, of course, women.

The chariots came to a complete stop before a flight of wide marble stairs that curved upwards to end before tall double doors set into the golden palace wall. A group of women strode through the doors and descended the stairs to greet them.

There were eleven women in all. Most wore uniforms that identified them immediately as Legion, even though their livery was gold rather than the silver that had so far marked the warriors of Evárudas.

Their helms and burnished armour caught the light and shone as if these women were imbued with mystical powers. Each warrior woman bore a crossbow, casually cradled in the crook of her arm. The weapons, cocked and ready, pointed upwards, and their bearers seemed as alert as cats for any signs of threat.

But the magnificent, uniformed women were merely an escort for the three they flanked. These three were remarkable for entirely different reasons, foremost among them being the presence they exuded. Two, a young girl and a matron of generous proportions, were attired in exquisite garments. The third and eldest wore a plain cape of dark indigo, one not unlike Scald’s.

After her first glance at the women, however, Illiom only had eyes for the young girl.

Her skin was so dark as to appear almost black in comparison to her companions’ pallor. Not the deep tan that Illiom had noted amongst the crew of the Diamantine: her skin was the velvet black of ebony-wood and of moonless nights.

As the group began to descend and draw closer, Illiom noted that the girl’s eyes shone like suns: the black of her pupils was surrounded by irises of golden light, while the ‘white’ was not quite white at all, but the colour of pale amber. In her own way, the girl was as extraordinary and exotic as Azulya in her natural form.

“I greet you, children of Albradan,” the girl graciously welcomed them in flawless Albradani. “You are friends and allies of the Evárudani people and of our Queendom. I bid you welcome to Cevaram and am delighted that you have arrived safely, despite the many travails that you have suffered on the way to us.”

It was not easy to judge the girl’s age but Illiom thought her to be all of fifteen years.

“I am Sestel, daughter of the late Queen Eltimas, granddaughter of Queen Ananteran, and soon to be crowned Princess of Evárudas,” she announced, as she stepped onto the courtyard’s stone pavers.

“Allow me, however, to introduce you to the true ruler of our lands. This is Steward Iltiaran, my late mother’s sister, and also daughter to Queen Ananteran. She is the one who steers the Queendom’s rudder, whilst she waits for me to grow into the maturity and wisdom that is required from a regent of our lands.”

Smiling, Sestel turned in the matron’s direction, presenting her with a flourish.

“Thank you, my liege,” Iltiaran responded, acknowledging the introduction with a perfunctory bow in the girl’s direction. “And also, I wish to add my own welcome to the Princess’, though it saddens me that these dire times have cast such a shadow upon what would otherwise be an occasion for great celebration.”

The party of women and their escort stopped just a few paces from the bedraggled members of Illiom’s group.

“The Lord King of Iol, Draca Provan, dispatched a swift, informing us of your imminent arrival and forewarning us about these dire affairs. Our watch on the southern tip of Tersalan marked your ship as it sailed into our waters on the morning of the last day of Fallowmoon, four days ago. Alas, they were not the only ones who noted your arrival! We immediately sent a contingent to fetch you from Holack Harbour, but were too late. It eludes me how the enemy might have received word of your arrival even before we did, but somehow they did, for their actions against you were brutally swift.”

Steward Iltiaran turned to one of the gilded Legion women and, with a gesture, invited her to speak.

“Our detail was too late to reach you in time, but along the way we came across several tell-tale signs of your passage and of pursuit. The bodies of slain Legion rogues, and the wrecks of chariots that peppered the road leaving Holack, gave us some clues as to what had happened. Finally we met and clashed with a group of rogues near the road that leads into the north of Tersalan; we found signs that you had escaped by seeking refuge in the Qwa’kol forest, and there we were forced to desist, for we cannot venture into their lands.”

Argolan, leaning on Pell for support, took half a step forward and gave the women an awkward bow.

She introduced herself succinctly before adding to the account.

“Then you may not know that we were also attacked by Kroeni ships in the high seas, to the east of the Sunstone Cliffs. The enemy seemed to know where we were, even then.”

“Then I thank the Gods that you have reached us safely,” the Princess responded. “I will listen to your tale in detail, but first allow me to extend the hospitality of our Queendom …”

“If time permitted,” Iltiaran cut in, “we would make your stay a long and comfortable one, but time has become a precious commodity in these troubled days. Therefore, the sooner we can meet and speak, the better for all.”

As she spoke, an immaculately dressed man joined them. Iltiaran gestured towards him.

“I deliver you now into the capable hands of our seneschal, Master Fescalan. He will attend to you, see you to your rooms, and ensure that you have a chance to refresh before we dine together in two hours’ time.

Those two hours were ones of pleasurable restoration.

When the party assembled again they barely recognised one another, such was the transformation wrought by Fescalan’s small army of attendants. Like the others, Illiom emerged from the palace bathhouse smelling of flower petals, and dressed in clean, fresh robes. But the contrast was even more evident internally for she felt vitally restored, as though new life now flowed through her veins.

As they made their way to the hall where they would dine with Evárudas’ elite, Illiom was enthralled by the palace’s unusual architecture: the hallways were narrow, if one compared them to Kuon’s, and yet the ceilings were disproportionately high. This gave a sense of spaciousness, and although no more than an illusion, it was one that worked admirably well.

The hall they were delivered into, however, was broad as well as high. Its walls and pillars were of pure white stone that caught and reflected the light of lanterns and candles, amplifying and suffusing it.

Even here, the sound of the Rimfall could be heard, no more than a deep and distant drone, accompanied by the subtle murmurings of water cascading closer at hand.

Water tumbled from the mouths of unlikely creatures of stone, to fall down marble tiers and into stone bowls, before vanishing down hidden drains.

They were ushered towards a great stone table which incorporated an elevated channel where water flowed, pouring into small, individual basins.

The last to join them were Azulya, Argolan, Sereth, and Pell, the latter supporting the Shieldarm who did her utmost to walk unaided and yet, from time to time, had to lean on the Rider for support.

As soon as they were seated, servants materialised around the hall bearing trays of food, and the welcome feast began.

It soon became evident that the Evárudani had no use for cutlery or for individual plates. The food, for the most part fish and other produce of the sea, was served in large bowls which were positioned within easy reach of the guests. Each person could claim whatever morsel they desired and then, having ingested it, could wash their fingers in the constantly flowing waters, before selecting another.

Wine was served in finely wrought translucent vessels that were promptly refilled by servants who remained invisible until the moment their services were required.

Aside from the fish, Illiom did not recognise much of the food on display. Some of it looked quite unsettling and more suited, she thought, to children’s tales than to a dining table. Whatever she dared to try, however, tasted delicious and - being beyond famished - she soon set her squeamishness aside and tried most of what was on offer, regardless of its appearance.

After the guests were sated the Princess, who sat at a table parallel to theirs, stood and formally welcomed them all to Evárudas with a toast.

“Friends and allies,” the Princess intoned. “Although the tide that brings you here is an ill one, I welcome you all to Cevaram; especially you, Chosen Azulya.”

Illiom felt the weight of the silence that followed the Princess’ revelation that she was aware of the deception regarding the Kroeni’s appearance.

Azulya, her Iolan appearance restored and unwavering since regaining the Arukala from the carriage’s wreck, straightened under the girl’s gaze.

“Draca Provan saw fit to inform me of your disguise,” Sestel continued. “I entirely understand your decision to mask your appearance, and I take no offence from it. Subterfuge is not distasteful if it saves lives. I only wish I could reassure you that no harm would come to you even if you bore your own true face, but alas, I could not do so in good faith. So I can only commend you for a resourcefulness that dispenses with the need for unnecessary vigilance.”

The Princess stood and raised her bowl of wine in Azulya’s direction.

“Disguised or not, you are as welcome among us as all the other Chosen in your party.”

All present responded to Sestel’s gesture with a sip of their wine. Azulya came to her feet.

“Thank you, Princess, for the generosity of your heart and hearth. I can assure you that I am fully aware of the shortcomings of the kingdom where I was born, and that I abhor Ollord and his minions. I abhor, too, the legacy of the ruling fathers of Kroen, for they have held my people under the yoke of a misguided rule for far too long.”

She paused and looked at the faces of everyone present before continuing.

“I make no apology, however, for my fellow kinsfolk, nor for the land of Kroen, which is beautiful and plentiful and does not deserve the ill repute that our Kings have brought down upon her. So, I raise my glass to the day when sanity and love will prevail over greed and fear, and the people of Kroen shall be free of those who now oppress them.”

Everyone raised their bowls of wine a second time, in response to Azulya’s words.

“Bravely spoken, Chosen Azulya,” Princess Sestel remarked. “Your words remove all traces of doubt from my mind and reveal the golden hues of the spirit that lives within you. You are welcome in my lands for as long as I live.”

The Princess resumed her seat and everyone else emulated her. She then turned her attention to the party as a whole.

“Now is the time to inform you of what news is ours to share. You have only just sailed in from Iol so I doubt very much that you have caught whiff of the latest winds from the mainland.”

She stopped and, as if on cue, Sereth rose from his chair.

“Your Highness, we know that Evárudas is at war with Kroen. We have heard of the disturbing incident regarding the Kroeni envoy and the cowardly attack upon your ship in Daralvisor Harbour – it was we who delivered this news to the captain of your ship in Flax Harbour. We have also heard of Evárudas’ most effective retaliation. All this we already know.”

Princess Sestel nodded.

“Did you also know that after a short delay to give stragglers one final chance to return home, your regent, Queen Eranel of Albradan, has also declared war upon Kroen?”

She paused and waited for their reactions.

“This you have not heard, I see. Furthermore, as a way of thanking and returning support to Albradan, we are preparing to send a force to Kuon to help with the defence of your realm. There is no longer any doubt that Kroen has been preparing for this war for some time, and if the rumours that reach us bear even a glimmer of truth within them, then it would seem that Kroen has been amassing a vast army to unleash against not just your kingdom, but the whole Common Weal.”

At this news, a murmur spread through Chosen and Riders alike.

Steward Iltiaran saw fit to address them.

“Better for everyone involved if Evárudas helps meet this attack on Albradani soil, rather than on our own. Forgive me if this sounds callous, but it is merely pragmatic. For, you see, we are completely confident in our capability of repelling any invasion from the sea, but not so sure that we would be quite as successful if it came down to a land war. If Kroen overpowers Albradan, it can easily gain access to our islands, firstly by attacking our lands in the Atlan peninsula. From there it is but a short leap to the isle of Heem and then on to Tersalan itself ... so it is clearly to our advantage to extend all the help that we can now ... sooner, rather than later.”

Argolan nodded.

“How large is the force that you are sending?”

“Eight thousand in total. One thousand chariots, two thousand mounted and five thousand on foot.”

Pell let out a low whistle.

“That is a mighty force!”

The Princess smiled at the Rider.

“It is all we can spare; the rest of our Legion will be deployed around the islands. With it we shall garrison the old fortifications in Atlan, but if Albradan is completely overrun we will withdraw from the peninsula altogether and focus all of our efforts on defending Heem. Our fleet is already patrolling the waters around Evárudas to guard against any treacherous infiltration.”

The Steward picked up when the Princess paused.

“Shieldarm, what kind of defence do you think Albradan is capable of deploying?”

“Near on forty thousand,” Argolan replied without even pausing to think. “That is the sum total of all of the Wards – though it does not include the town militias – but probably best not to rely overly upon those for they are not nearly as well trained.”

Steward Iltiaran nodded thoughtfully, though her brow creased into a frown.

“You seem … troubled by this?” Argolan noted.

The Steward nodded.

“Well, yes. The army that Kroen is raising is in the vicinity of three hundred thousand.”

“Three … hundred!” Mist started, horrified. “But that is not possible! Are they sending all their children and old people to war as well?”

“May I ask how you came by this number?” Argolan enquired.

“As your own Chosen Azulya exemplifies, not all Kroeni are supportive of Ollord or the ruling house of Lonen. We have received a few messenger swallows from Lodeh and, if half of what the messages report is true, then we have reason to be gravely concerned.”

“What do they report?” Azulya asked softly, her face suffused with dread.

Iltiaran looked at her soberly before replying.

“That the dead walk the streets. That thugs, murderers, and rapists have been placed in command of the army. That beasts, the likes of which no one has seen before, have been reported across the land and even in the skies. That the whole of Kroen is shrouded in a deep, unnatural darkness that will not lift, and I do not mean this figuratively ... an ill storm has been hovering over that land for some time now and is apparently spreading, each day claiming more land. That those who are shrouded within its cloud give way to their baser instincts or collapse into despair, some even descending into madness … this is all we have heard, and it is all that we know.”

Azulya, as pale as Illiom had ever seen her, shook her head slowly.

“That cloud,” Illiom remarked, remembering. “When we left Kuon for Calestor, we saw a darkness creeping over the lands in the far north. That must have been the beginnings of it …”

Scald chose that moment to rise to his feet.

“I have heard enough,” he said softly, dangerously. “With respect, where is Draca Memester? How can we replace her? We must get the Key from her and be gone. There is no time to waste …”

“Scald!” Elan said, placing a restraining hand upon his arm. “We cannot move faster than we have been …”

Scald looked icily at the priestess’ hand.

He shook his head.

“No, everything we do is as good as nothing against this abomination that is festering and spreading in Kroen. How many more must suffer before we recognise that we are moving too slowly?” As Scald spoke, his voice acquired a quaver. “How many more must die with every moment that we tarry?”

His hands, Illiom saw, were trembling even as they gripped the edge of the stone table. The veins in his neck and face, especially those beneath his old scars, swelled red with rage. His eyes sparked with unspeakable fury. It was as though everything that the scarred Chosen had been repressing for years was now clamouring for release.

Suddenly, Scald was shouting, tears of frustrated rage upon his cheeks.

“We cannot wait any longer. We must not delay further! We have lost so much time as it is. It is now nearly two moons since we were summoned and what have we accomplished? Nothing! And what is happening around us? People are dying, that is what … do you hear me? Dying!”

“We all hear you, Chosen Scald,” the woman in the indigo cowl said quietly. She had until this moment remained silent, observing the proceedings, taking it all in.

Scald snapped his head in her direction, but as his eyes met hers, the fury that had been mounting inside him quieted, and with a deep sigh of release, the fire in his eyes was quenched.

“I am Memester,” the woman announced as she rose to her feet. “Scald, your eagerness to address the peril that stalks us is noted. Yet you must know that everything is as it must be. Nothing that you or I, or for that matter anyone else in the whole of Âtras, can do, will quicken the events that must unfold in their own timely fashion …”

“Why not?” Scald asked softly, dangerously, the fire in his eyes instantly rekindled. “What can be done, then? Of what use are we, the Chosen, if there is nothing we can do?”

“Oh, have no fear Scald, your time will come; but that time is not yet here. No one in the whole of Âtras can force the Illignment to happen before it is time.”

Memester raised a hand, her palm facing the stricken Chosen. Illiom did not see anything, but she felt something akin to a wave of soothing warmth brush against her cheek.

“Be at peace, Scald. Your Rider’s immolation was her gift to you; already it is stirring something into wakefulness within you ... something that has been slumbering in you for even longer than you may be able to recall. Her death has not been in vain.”

Memester looked at Scald and it was as if the two of them were entirely alone in the hall.

“Know this to be true and be at peace,” the Draca of Evárudas concluded.

Scald nodded meekly in response. A few moments later, he slumped back down into his chair.

Memester scanned the rest of the table.

“This is also true for the rest of you ... do not force your hand against the timeliness of events. To want resolution is understandable; to be completely present to what is unfolding both within and without, no matter how dire or challenging, that is commendable …”

After a brief pause, she continued.

“… but to try and force the hand of fate, that is a flaw of the will. It does nothing but exacerbate suffering. It is arrogance itself, for whilst a rare few may be able to glimpse the truth behind the appearances of this world, it is never within our capacity to fully comprehend it. So it is that when the time is right to act, we act; yet when the time demands that we wait, then wait we must.”

She looked around the table before continuing.

“There is no one present in this room that should not be here. So this is what you have come for, and I give it to you now, before these witnesses, so that others too may replace hope from this glimpse into powers that lie beyond our wildest reckoning.”

The Draca held out the sixth Key and everyone in the room looked at it but no one moved to take it.

Finally, it was Sereth who stood up and reached across the table. Draca Memester nodded at him as she placed the Key into his waiting hand.

A carnelian glow instantly filled the Chosen’s hand, illumining his face with its fire. Sereth studied his Key and then looked back at Memester, a silent question burning in his blue-green eyes.

“It is the Key of Passion, Chosen Sereth. Wield it bravely.”

Illiom recalled that this was the second Key mentioned in the Seventy Third Fragment, the one immediately following her own.

Sereth looked down at it, twirling it with his fingers; but his gaze seemed to be focused on something much deeper and much further away.

They now held six of the seven Keys needed; just one more and they would be free to embark upon the search for the Goddess’ Orb, the instrument that would lead them to the lair of the Wizards of old, to the ancient Adepts.

Sereth looked at Elan.

“Yours will be next,” he proclaimed. “The final Key, Draca Sconder’s Key …”

The priestess just looked at him and nodded.

“The Key of Will,” Illiom offered, remembering.

Underneath her garments, her hand had moved to clasp her own Key, as if she meant to squeeze some faith out of it. She could almost feel the ruby light blazing in her hand.

“The Key to open the door of Fear …” the priestess’ voice choked briefly at the prospect, “… and admit its holder into the hall of Power …” She completed the memorised line softly.

A silence followed her words, one filled with hope, longing, and deep exhaustion.

Argolan spoke into that stillness after a while.

“Steward Iltiaran, when is your force leaving for Albradan?”

“It is already in motion,” the Steward answered. “The next contingent will leave in the morning, and then one will follow each day until the final one will depart in just four days from now.”

“Then we will seize this opportunity and make use of the best escort that we are ever likely to get,” Argolan said.

The Steward nodded.

“You are welcome to join whichever contingent you desire.”

“Before we can decide that, we need to work out what our next move will be,” Sereth said, without lifting his eyes from the Key, glowing in his hand.

“I thought that to be obvious - we need that final Key - and the sooner we get it, the better,” Malco stated with finality. “It would be insanity to venture into Kroen at this stage … however, Kassargan was confident that Vardail was making his way slowly back to Kuon. Surely he will bear Sconder’s Key with him …”

“You are right,” Memester said. “Going to Kroen now will only endanger you all. You must trust that the Prince bears the last Key with him. If he is making for Kuon, then surely that must be your next destination.”

Scald nodded vehemently.

“What of this Kroeni army? Is it mobilising yet?”

“It is amassing along the banks of the Upper Mendrond,” Iltiaran said. “Troops are reported to be building up between Taverom and Serpur. When they are ready they will likely flood across Middle Plains, perhaps with the intent of isolating Kuon from the rest of Albradan. It is possible that they might also launch a simultaneous attack against our lands, but we will not know for certain until they make a move.”

There was a brief lull as each followed separate trains of thought. Illiom began to feel overwhelmed as she came to terms with what they were discussing. They all talked as though war had become inevitable; it now seemed as if the wheels that had been set in motion long ago had finally gathered sufficient momentum to spin of their own accord, plunging them all into events so vast and sweeping that none knew exactly how to respond or what to do.

Scald‘s voice cut through the brooding mood.

“Then there is no time to waste; we must go back to Kuon as soon as we can. We must leave in the morning.”

A few groans of protest followed this suggestion.

“How about you go, and the rest of us will catch up later,” Malco suggested testily.

Scald looked at the Blade evenly.

“Listen, I am not trying to be difficult …” he said quietly, “... but as inviting as the prospect of staying here may appear, there is a real chance that the Kroeni army could isolate Varadon’s Keep. Then, even if the Prince does return with the Key, it would be impossible to obtain it from him. Also, remember that we must still make our way to Altra before proceeding in our search for the Orb of Sudra. And getting to Altra through a war-torn Albradan is more than I can personally stomach.”

He is right, Illiom realised wearily.

Even though she would have welcomed nothing more than to linger in Cevaram for a time, that option suddenly seemed a most perilous indulgence with the prospect of war sweeping across the land.

Argolan, who had been silent for a time, looked at Scald and then at Malco in turn.

“It is possible that you are both right,” she said. “There is always danger in any extreme decision. To leave immediately will leave us exhausted, and yet to tarry here could mean failure in securing the last Key, with disastrous consequences. I suggest that we take just one day of rest and delay our departure from here until the day after the morrow. Food and a good bed will go a long way towards mending the exhaustion that many of us are feeling.”

“What about you, Argolan?” Azulya asked. “I have noticed that your limp has worsened …”

The Shieldarm shook her head.

“Do not concern yourself about my leg. I may not be able to walk very far, but I can ride as well as any of you. I will tend to my leg when I return to Kuon.”

The Steward of Evárudas signalled her agreement with a curt nod.

“You are welcome to stay under our roof for as long as you wish, and I will send our healers to tend to your leg immediately after this meal. Under normal circumstances I would insist that you remain here until you are all recovered, but I agree that to overextend your stay at this juncture would be unwise and could indeed prove catastrophic if you … if you do not reach Kuon … before … before …”

Iltiaran’s words faltered and faded as if the Steward had become suddenly short of breath. She leaned forward, her head slowly lowering towards the table’s marble surface.

“Aunt ...?” a frightened Sestel asked, all protocol forgotten. The Princess rose from her chair, reached towards Iltiaran with a tentative hand. “Iltiaran, are you not feeling well?”

The Steward righted herself by degrees, smiled at her charge and shook her head.

“It is all right, my child, just a moment of …”

But her words faded again.

“Fetch Sarnesh,” Sestel instructed the guards posted nearby. “Be quick!”

Two guards leapt at her command.

Yet, soon enough, Iltiaran began to recover. She straightened up, shook her head and tried to smile, but it was not a convincing display.

“I am sorry, Sestel. I do not know what is coming over me …”

Her breathing was still laboured, as though she could not take in sufficient air.

“No, Aunt, Sarnesh is on his way up … he will help to restore you, as he has done before.”

The Steward nodded weakly.

“I need to lay myself down,” she concluded.

Two women came and helped the Steward to her feet.

“My apologies,” she said, addressing the rest of them. “I am truly feeling terribly unwell …”

Her eyes were half-closed and her hand rubbed her brow as though it pained her.

“… Sestel, do make … all the necessary arrangements and … you will leave with the contingent departing the day after next …” she managed to address Argolan before the task of breathing took all her attention. “Please, excuse me …”

They stood up as the Regent was led away. The Princess herself accompanied Iltiaran to the hall’s entrance, but here the Steward waved her back.

“No, you stay, sweet heart … tend to your guests. This is nothing … it will pass.”

And then she was gone. The tall, elegant doors closed behind her and the dark-skinned Princess returned to attend to her visitors.

“Iltiaran has had a few such episodes in the last half-moon or so,” Sestel confided when they had all resumed their seats. “I believe that all the events that have plagued us of late have taken their toll upon her …”

Illiom saw how the girl put on a brave face for their benefit, but she could not entirely mask the concern that she felt. Princess or not, she was little more than a child, and one who had already lost her mother. Illiom thought her concern entirely understandable.

At the Princess’ prompting, a clear-eyed Legion commander by the name of Fluxeine filled them in with the details of their imminent journey back to Kuon. They would need to gather in the palace courtyard before dawn on the morning of departure. From there they would be transported, first by chariot and then by ship, to Atlan and from there on to the mainland.

Listening to her, Illiom gleaned one thing: that they should make the most of their day of rest.

When Fluxeine had finished, Draca Memester drew their attention upon herself by standing. She rested her hands on the table in front of her and looked at her fingers reflectively for a few moments.

“I am sure that the other Draca have already cautioned you about the dangers of giving voice to matters of power. This remains the case, though the time is fast approaching when it will no longer be so. Until now you have been cautious, and this has served you well in that you have succeeded in not attracting too much undue attention upon yourselves.”

She looked up to meet their eyes.

Illiom and Azulya exchanged a quick glance.

“That strategy will not serve you for long after you receive your final Key. I speak here of the reserve that you maintain with each other, and of the secrets that you harbour and protect. If you do not start to share them - if you do not replace a way to unite - then your secrets may well start to turn against you.”

She held their eyes, marking the degree to which they received and understood her words.

“There will be only one concern left to hold you back. Be sure to be in a place that can withstand the destruction that will ensue when your unfolding begins. For the forces that oppose you and want to undermine your quest will have no regard for where you are and for those around you. If they cannot destroy you, they will bring destruction to anything nearby. This will be their trap: to use your compassion to lure you out into the open before you are ready, to trick you into a confrontation on their terms and not on yours. So be very aware of your timing in disclosing what secrets you hold, and be aware of the dire consequences to those who are near you when you do so.”

The Draca looked up with such seriousness that Illiom felt a chill travel down her spine.

“When you receive your last Key it will not come accompanied by a Draca’s counsel, for Sconder is no more. So I speak for him now; prepare for a profound change in the way that you relate to one another.”

The Draca raised one hand, her fingers spread apart.

“From this, you must become like this,” she said, making her hand a fist. “But your timing will be everything! Chosen Azulya is the one who holds the Key of Unity. If you cannot replace a way to unite of your own accord, look to her for guidance until such time as you can do so in your own right.”

She looked at each of them in silence for a few moments.

“Now go and rest. The morrow will be upon you before you realise it.”

As if the Draca’s words had been prophetic, the next day came far too swiftly for Illiom. She had slept in her own room, a luxury that she had not enjoyed since arriving at Queen Eranel’s Palace.

The room had a small balcony overlooking the void into which the waters of the Rimfall vanished. It was unsettling being so close to those depths and yet she sat there for a time, mesmerised, watching the endless plunge of long sheets of water that fell and vanished into the vapour below. Even when Tarmel came to inform her that breakfast was being served, she found it hard to pull herself away from the spectacular lure of those depths.

Thankful that they had at least one day of reprieve from travel, she followed her Rider and, together, they made their way back to the dining hall. When they entered, Illiom was surprised and pleased to see that Iltiaran had rejoined them. The Steward had clearly recovered from her malady and was talking and jesting with her guests, all the while displaying a healthy appetite.

Illiom found a free seat opposite Azulya.

“How are you?” she asked the Kroeni.

Kassargan’s eyes looked back at her.

“Better. I enjoyed sleeping in a bed. I do not think that anything will ever rival spending the night in that muddy hole …”

“Not to mention the torrential rain,” Elan reminded her from further along the table. “I wonder if I will ever be able to look back upon that night and laugh.”

Azulya nodded and smiled.

“The only thing that makes me laugh now is that I am no longer there!”

Illiom shook her head.

“Not many things are worse than a long sleepless night in the rain and the cold ...”

“How did you fare, Undina?” Tarmel asked. “I would have thought that you would be in your element.”

The Pelonui gave a little smile.

“Water good, mud not so good,” she replied. “Being eaten by Virupa also not so good!”

Laughter rippled along their table.

Illiom helped herself to a bowl of green broth that Scald insisted was unsurpassable.

“Apparently it is made with algae from the lake below the city,” he informed her, as Illiom sipped the liquid tentatively.

“That would explain its colour then,” Tarmel threw in, looking dubiously at his own bowl.

But Illiom found that Scald had been right; although insubstantial, the broth delivered a surprisingly layered taste that culminated in a warm glow within one’s throat and belly.

Scald was already reaching for a second bowl.

Next to him sat Elan then Mist, leaning against each other, heads close together, whispering occasionally as they too broke fast. Scald glanced at them with a frown but restrained himself from making comment.

Illiom was pleased to see the pair’s unashamed displays of affection. She was about to make a playful comment when a scintillating bout of laughter coming from behind her caused Illiom to turn in curiosity. Princess Sestel was just entering the hall, accompanied by her ladies in waiting, laughing in abandon over some jest.

Like everyone else in the room, Illiom stood and bowed, watching the girl as she made her way towards a table alongside theirs. As soon as Sestel was seated, everyone resumed their own seats.

“Where is Argolan?” Illiom asked, looking around her.

“The healers wanted to tend to her today,” Sereth answered and then shrugged lightly. “Probably a good thing given that we will be off again in the morning. Regardless of the brave face she puts on, I noticed that she is barely able to hold her own weight.”

“I have question,” Undina said, leaning in, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Why Princess look so … different?”

Scald cleared his throat.

“So black, you mean? Well, it is not a very widely known fact that a long time ago, a few hundred years after the inception of the Common Weal – if my memory serves – a furious storm left a strange ship wrecked on the craggy eastern shore of Hartamus, the northernmost isle of Evárudas. The survivors were all men, and they all had the same dark skin and golden eyes that you see in the Princess. They did not speak Evárudani of course, but after some debate the Queendom granted them permission to stay. Once they learned the local language, they spoke of a land far to the east, beyond what we call the Endless Sea.”

“They salvaged what they could from their ship, and for a time they made a number of attempts to rebuild it in the hope of making the journey back to their homeland. But, as none of them were shipbuilders, they were unsuccessful. In the end, they resigned themselves to living the rest of their lives here, in the island Queendom. Some married local women and these bore their children.”

“Because of their small initial number, their features were eventually assimilated into the population. Still, to this day, from time to time, some are born with golden eyes and dark skin, or with some other interesting and often striking variation.”

“She is very beautiful,” mused Elan, and her comment was followed by a murmur of general agreement.

Malco looked at Scald intently.

“How do you know all this?”

Scald gazed at the Blade and shrugged.

“I have been to Evárudas a few times; under very different circumstances … my art is appreciated in the Queendom, perhaps more than elsewhere, so ...”

“More evidence of worlds beyond Theregon,” Sereth interrupted from further along the table.

“First Draca Menalor speaks of lands far to the west,” Sereth continued after a bite of food, “and now this … how very interesting. It seems that Âtras is a far larger and busier place than I was ever led to believe … but one thing still puzzles me. If, as it seems, there are other lands advanced enough to build sea-faring ships, how is it that in the known history of the land only one such shipwreck has ended up on our shores?”

“Well, for all we know there may have been more,” Scald said. “But maybe something prevented them from landing and making contact. They might also have been shipwrecked, but with no survivors, or …”

“… or the Virupa ate them,” Malco quipped with a slight grin and a casual shrug.

Azulya gave a gasp that seemed incongruous with the jest.

The Kroeni, a hand on her chest, was pushing herself away from the table. Her Iolan features were contorted, as if she was in pain. She leaned forward and simultaneously yanked the chain, which held her stone, out from within her vest. As she did so, Illiom saw a tendril of smoke emanating from the green stone that hung there.

Azulya stared at it, horrified. She jerked her head up and looked at Illiom with dismay, but her stare quickly moved beyond her, to the table where the Steward sat.

Illiom turned to follow her friend’s gaze but before she could complete the turn, Azulya cried out.

“No!”

Iltiaran was on her feet, reaching across the space that separated her from Sestel’s seat. It seemed odd to see the Steward moving so quickly. It was as though she was lunging to protect her charge from some danger that Illiom could not see.

Illiom, too, began to rise from her chair, looking around the room for signs of a threat.

The guards along the wall, behind the royal table, also looked frantically around the hall. Some drew their weapons, others spun in different directions attempting to identify the cause of the commotion and any source of potential threat.

The Princess too looked disconcerted and frightened. She rose from her chair in confusion and turned towards Iltiaran.

Only at the last possible instant did Illiom see a thin, tapering blade flash in the Steward’s hand.

A moment later the blade found its way into the Princess’ belly once, twice, in rapid chilling thrusts.

Sestel’s eyes widened in disbelief and then in horror; her mouth opened for a moment as if she meant to say something, but instead of words, vivid red blood flowered from the corners of her mouth.

With terrifying swiftness, her eyes glazed, her head fell back, and the Princess of Evárudas collapsed onto the cold marble floor.