Keys of Awakening
No Return

It was cold and incredibly dark but the rain had finally stopped.

Garrison Road was as busy as Illiom had ever seen it. They passed by columns of Blades and Bows focused upon their individual tasks.

Free at last from the hordes of refugees, the party picked up speed, accompanied by a gusty westerly that sped them on their way.

Illiom had anticipated coming back to Kuon for so long, but now something felt wrong. She frowned as she became aware of a rising feeling of foreboding.

Illiom.

She looked around, startled for a moment, not knowing who might have called her name.

Have you forgotten me already?

Her owl!

Who? Who! I am so glad you are here ... when did you arrive?

I left the Magic Lands at the same time you did. You took a long time.

There was no recrimination in his sending.

I wish I could see you … she thought. We are about to enter the palace.

I know, came his response. I am watching you ...

Illiom’s mind was filled with her owl’s perspective. He was looking down at the chariots approaching the palace’s northern gates.

Illiom looked up at the battlements over the gate, to where she knew Who must be, but saw only shadows there.

Oh, Who ... I have so missed seeing the world through your eyes …

No response came, but in her mind’s eye she saw the owl ruffle his feathers as he always did when she made a remark that was too human for his liking.

She smiled.

And so it was with mixed feelings that Illiom entered the northern gate of the Queen’s Palace.

The Legion and their chariots attracted a good deal of attention, and a spontaneous cheer arose from the Ward soldiers posted inside the northern entrance. Illiom saw the tiredness of the journey fall away from the faces of the Evárudani women as they were acknowledged and welcomed as allies.

Argolan waited until her chariot came to a complete halt before stepping carefully from the vehicle and making her way towards the stable-master’s quarters. From her slight limp, Illiom deduced that the Shieldarm’s leg was mending at last.

Argolan almost collided with the stable-master as he opened the door and stepped outside.

“What is all this racket? What is going on here?” he demanded gruffly, as his gaze took in the Evárudani soldiers and their chariots.

The man must have been eating, for he had breadcrumbs in his beard, and food stained his upper lip.

“More work for you,” Argolan informed him, not mincing words. Succinctly, she conveyed the need to accommodate the Legion warriors, their mounts, and chariots.

While she was so engaged, the Chosen and their Riders dismounted and gathered in a group at the base of a staircase.

Argolan introduced the man to the Wedge-leader Hannak and then left the Evárudani escort in his care. She then turned away from the overawed stable-master and faced the Evárudani warrior.

“This is where we must part ways. Welcome to Kuon, Hannak. It has been a privilege to ride with you and to fight at your side.”

She extended her right arm and Hannak gripped it promptly.

“Farewell Argolan, but I suspect our paths may meet again – on the battlefield against a common foe, if nowhere else!”

The Shieldarm joined the others as they headed deeper into the palace.

Illiom peered into the faces of the Riders they passed in the hope of seeing Tarmel, longing for his presence beside her. There was no sign of her Rider, and what she saw around her did little to reassure her.

The palace was a transformed place.

The stately magnificence of the corridors and halls, the elegant poise of its inhabitants, these were gone. They had been replaced with all the signs of makeshift adaptation and chaotic activity. Those who rushed past bore both frantic purpose and anxiety in their mien. Teams of servants carried bedrolls and stacks of blankets or crates of food and loaded chests. Blades and Bows alike were posted everywhere; standing guard over every junction, eyeing passers-by with alert caution, or patrolling the long hallways in grim triads.

The atmosphere reeked of tension and fear, but alongside these, Illiom also felt a sense of urgency and a determination to meet any eventuality fully prepared.

Argolan stopped a Rider who was hurrying in the opposite direction.

“We need food and rest,” she said, getting straight to the point. “Where can we replace them?“

“The Great Hall has become a camping ground, Shieldarm,” the man answered. “The kitchens are still operating but they are overtaxed. Another kitchen is being set up in one of the old storerooms, but will not be operational until the morning. Most people have not had wind of it yet, so if I were you, I would make my way there. For bedding you had best replace some bedrolls and claim any space that is not in use.”

“Food can wait,” Sereth proclaimed around a cavernous yawn as the Rider moved away. “What I need is sleep.”

His statement instigated a volley of agreement.

Under Argolan’s instruction, the Riders commandeered some bedrolls from a group of disgruntled servants and then quickly secured a minor hallway that seemed blessed with minimal traffic. Here they bedded down for the night.

Illiom’s last thoughts were of Tarmel, but even those could not keep her awake for long.

“Illiom …”

She awoke to her Rider’s gaze, his touch upon her arm.

“Come, time to get up. Food is being served and you really do not want to miss out on that!”

Illiom lifted herself onto her elbows and looked around; she yawned and rubbed sleep from her eyes.

Both Sereth and Undina were also just stirring, while their Riders waited for them. The other bedrolls were already empty.

Illiom noticed that the splint was gone from Undina’s arm, and Sereth showed none of the bruising that had been evident the day before: clear signs that the power that healed them was still at work. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering at the extent of this power.

What if one of us is mortally wounded? Or killed? What then?

There were no answers, so she dismissed the thought with a shudder.

“Where are the rest?” she asked.

“Probably already eating,” her Rider replied. “Are you not hungry?”

“Famished,” was all that Illiom could bring herself to say before she surrendered to another big yawn.

“Argolan has sent Mist to replace the Wardmaster. Likely we will meet with him soon enough. Best to go and eat now, before that call comes through.”

“Have I been asleep for long?”

“No longer than most, it is just that you seem to be harder to rouse than the others.” He grinned to show that he was jesting. “It is almost the ninth hour …”

“Afternoon already?!” she asked, shocked.

She stood up hurriedly.

“Is it that surprising? It was nearly dawn when you bedded,” Tarmel said in a reasonable tone. “And besides, yesterday was extraordinarily long and taxing …”

They followed the Riders down towards where the others already sat eating. Illiom and her companions joined a queue of people waiting for food. They were each handed a bowl into which two generous scoops of an unidentified stew were ladled, along with a sizeable chunk of fresh bread. Illiom took the food gratefully, but saw it also as further evidence of how things had changed in the palace.

She sat with her companions.

She noticed that Argolan’s right arm was freshly bandaged and supported by a makeshift sling, forcing the Shieldarm to eat with her left hand. Further along the table sat Pell, his neck and arm still swollen and inflamed where they had come into contact with the creature’s blood. The giant Rider seemed oblivious to his wounds, keeping his focus stoically fixed upon his food.

“Where is Grifor?” Illiom asked when she failed to see Malco’s Rider anywhere.

“She is in the infirmary,” Argolan answered. “The wound in her side needed cleaning. She will be immobilised for a day or two.”

Halfway through the meal, a score of Riders marched into the makeshift dining hall. Illiom spotted the Wardmaster easily, singling out his shaven head amidst the younger warriors around him. Mist walked at his side.

The Wardmaster and his escort made directly for their table. Argolan and the other Riders were just rising out of deference when Menphan pre-empted them.

“To Hel with formalities, remain as you are and continue eating. I myself had nothing to eat, all of yesterday, so I will join you ...”

He turned to the ones accompanying him.

“Get some food into you and bring some over for me as well,” he instructed, and eased himself down between Elan and Undina. Mist seated himself on the other side of the priestess, who graced him with a warm smile.

Menphan looked up and down the table.

“What happened to the blue one?”

“Here, Wardmaster,” Azulya’s voice was unmistakable.

He stared at Azulya for a long moment, taking in her disguise. At length he gave a small shake of his head and sighed.

“Oh well, I suppose this is in keeping with the general confusion … but never mind. Your disguise serves you well: your kind is not popular in Kuon at this particular time. Not the best time to be testing our peoples’ equanimity.”

His eyes resumed their search.

“Where is …” he struggled briefly, groping for a name,“… the albino Rider?”

“Wind,” Scald offered, his eyes hardening as he spoke his Rider’s name. “She was killed when the Kroeni attacked us on the high seas between Iol and Evárudas …”

Scald stopped short and swallowed hard, his mouth a grimace.

“She died so that I could live.”

Menphan Tarn nodded as he accepted a large bowl from one of his warriors.

“Then she died well,” he said simply, calmly. “Later I will replace you a replacement.”

He turned his attention towards Argolan, but Scald spoke again.

“No, I do not want another Rider. Even if you do replace one, I will not have one.”

Menphan studied Scald intently and in the end turned away without comment.

“Tarmel has filled me in as far as he could,” he said, addressing Argolan. “But now I want to hear it all from you. Tell me everything that has happened.”

Argolan told him all there was to tell, Menphan Tarn’s frown continuing to deepen as she spoke. He asked no questions, but listened to the Shieldarm’s account of what had befallen their party since departing from Calestor.

“So,” he said when she was finished, “Evárudas too has had its fair share of turmoil … and now they are without a leader?”

Argolan shook her head.

“I believe Memester intends to fill that role, as Draca Provan does in Iol … at least for the present.”

“Well, that is good to hear. But maybe the Evárudani contingent that accompanied you here should not have come. Varadon’s Keep is no place for chariots or for the Legion. If they remain, they will become trapped along with the rest of us. We anticipate a long siege once Ollord’s army reaches us.”

“With respect my Lord, I have watched the Legion closely for the last two days and they are competent and efficient. Their chariots can provide swift movement for Blades and Bows to anywhere upon the Keep. If something happens at the ruins …” Argolan faltered for a moment. “Has anything stirred in Akta?”

Menphan shook his head.

“Not a whisper so far. But thanks to your warning, the ruins are now surrounded by hundreds of Surdalan’s warriors. Whatever comes out of those ruins will eat only steel.”

He paused for a pensive moment.

“As regards the Legion, you have a point. Their chariots are faster than anything we have, and most of Garrison Road can be accessed that way. I will take this into consideration.”

“My Lord, I strongly suggest warning our soldiers to beware of being touched by the creatures’ blood,” warned Pell. “It burns the skin like fire and in large enough doses it maims and can even kill …”

It took but a short while to fill the Wardmaster in on what they knew about the creatures that Pell had dubbed the Kresh. When they were done, Menphan immediately dispatched one of his Riders to Akta with the news.

“Any news of Vardail?” Elan asked the Wardmaster when he turned his attention back to them.

“No, nothing yet, although Kassargan is saying that the Prince is not far from here. The problem is that he and his friend are travelling off-road in order to avoid unwanted attention, and that is slowing them down …”

“Kassargan?” Illiom and Azulya spoke the name, almost in the same breath.

“We left her in Calestor!” Illiom exclaimed.

“Well, she is here now,” Menphan replied evenly. “The descrier arrived four days ago with a group of Iolans and several scores of horses. That is how I knew you were coming: she advised me that you were on your way.”

He glanced pointedly at Azulya.

“That is why I made that comment about your guise creating confusion: the two of you both here, in Kuon …”

Azulya laughed.

“How is Queen?” Undina asked. “Is wound over heart healing?”

At the mention of the Queen, Menphan’s jaw tightened. Then, after a moment, he shook his head and looked down at his hands.

“Queen Eranel passed away on the last day of the Fallowmoon …”

Illiom’s heart jumped.

“No!”

Elan’s cry rang out in the space around them, bringing a sudden stony silence to the noisy hall. The priestess had risen to her feet, a hand covering her mouth. The others stopped eating and stared at the Wardmaster.

Menphan nodded and his eyes filled with loss.

“There was nothing that anyone could do for her … she faded rapidly after your departure.”

He looked at each of them as he continued.

“She spoke of you to the very last. Her final words were for the Chosen: she pleaded with me to aid you in any way that I could, and so I shall.”

It was as though Menphan’s news of the Queen’s death was the last straw. Upon hearing this, Illiom felt suddenly and completely robbed of both energy and will. She put her spoon down and buried her face in her hands. Tarmel’s hand came to rest on her back, but even his touch could not ease her anguish.

“What of Ollord’s army?” Malco asked. “We need to take care that we do not become trapped up here. If that were to happen …”

The Blade shook his head meaningfully.

“And yet we cannot leave before we secure the final Key,” Elan countered. “We cannot leave without it!”

“Chosen Elan is right,” Menphan said firmly. “You need to obtain the last Key from Prince Vardail first …”

“Is Kassargan confident that Vardail has it with him?” Malco asked.

“She is certain of it,” the Wardmaster confirmed.

“Then we must wait and take our chances …” Sereth said.

“No, listen!” Malco interjected again. “I fully understand that we have to secure the last Key! My only concern is that we might become trapped, and then what? Even if we have all the Keys we would still not be able to continue with our quest …”

Illiom studied Malco as he spoke.

She knew that the Blade was right, that he was exposing a quandary that had no easy solution. They had to secure the Key and they had to be able to leave Varadon’s Keep in order to seek Sudra’s Orb; both of these were indispensable to the fulfilment of the Prophecy. But how would they achieve both? It was a matter of delicate timing.

“What if we ride out to meet the Prince before he reaches Kuon?” she asked suddenly. “We could scry his exact whereabouts with Kassargan’s help and then intercept him, take the Key from him, and continue on our way without running any risk of becoming trapped up here …”

“Very well, I will organise a meet between you and the descrier. She wanted to see you in any case. I do believe that she is planning on coming with you …”

This announcement created a stir of approval. Illiom felt a wave of grateful relief, but the Wardmaster was not yet done.

“… and I am told that you slept in a hallway last night, so I have arranged another space for your use. It is not much, but it is all I can offer under present circumstances. Take it and make use of it for as long as you stay in Kuon.”

He turned to his Riders.

“Loflar, you are to show them to their quarters. Asgar, seek out the descrier and arrange for her to meet with the Chosen.”

He turned back towards them but in that moment another Rider entered the dining hall at a run, making directly for Menphan Tarn.

“Wardmaster …” he intoned breathlessly.

“What is it?”

“A Rider, just arrived from the Mendrond region …”

Menphan stood up.

“I have given you all the time I can spare; now I must return to my other duties.”

His warriors came to their feet as Menphan turned to follow the messenger out of the hall. He checked his movement though, and turned back.

“One more thing,” he said, in an almost casual tone. “Do not waste energy in worrying about becoming trapped up here: I promise you that is not going to happen.”

He nodded to reinforce what he had just said and then the Wardmaster of Varadon’s Keep turned and walked out of the kitchen with his escort.

“What did he mean by that?” Sereth asked, eliciting only shrugs and blank looks in response.

The Chosen finished their meal and followed Loflar to the room that was allocated to them. It was small and completely empty but, as Menphan had said, it was a definite improvement on sleeping in a hallway. Even so, once they had retrieved their bedrolls and arranged them side by side along the length of the walls, the only empty space left was a narrow walkway that ran across the centre of the room, allowing access to the door.

Illiom dropped her bow, quiver, and pack onto her roll and sat down.

“Illiom?” Tarmel enquired.

He did not need to say more. She looked up at him, knowing full well what he was referring to.

She shook her head slowly.

“Queen Eranel is dead ...”

“I know … I have feared this news …”

“If someone as brave, noble, and true as she, could succumb to this evil … what chance do we have?”

Tarmel’s gaze dropped to his hands.

“Illiom, I …” he started. He studied his hands for a moment longer and then looked into her eyes.

“Do not wander down that pathway,” he counselled. “It will not help you. All it will do is unravel who you really are and undermine your mettle. You are … greater than your fear, Illiom. I have wanted to say so since I first met you. Do not forget this: you are Chosen.”

She looked up at him sharply then, and saw conviction in her Rider’s eyes, a faith in her that defied understanding. What in Âtras did he see in her?

Nevertheless, his words reached deep and touched her soul. She sighed, smiled, and stood up.

“Your kindness is such a gift, Tarmel,” she said, raising a hand to stroke his cheek; then, thinking better of it, she let her hand drop and looked away.

“Chosen I might be, but right now I smell like an open sewer,” she quipped.

“We all smell,” he said with a grin, “and some far worse than you. None of us has bathed since Cevaram …”

Scald looked up at this comment.

“No? And what about all the downpours that have drenched us since we left the isles …?”

“Your idea of bathing and mine are leagues apart,” Elan mused. “Surely we can at least secure a pail of water from somewhere … preferably before we meet Kassargan.”

Sereth chuckled softly.

“Especially if there is any truth in what they say about the blind: that their other senses are enhanced by their loss. I pity her already …”

By the time the Rider, who Menphan had sent to look for Kassargan, returned to fetch them, they had all managed to bathe – if somewhat hastily – around several pails of hot water that Pell and Angar had bullied servants into fetching for them.

They wasted no time and followed the Rider to meet with the descrier. Everywhere they went, Illiom continued to see signs of change. Many of the larger hallways were obstacle courses, crowded with makeshift cots and bedrolls pushed up against the walls to allow a modicum of free passage.

Illiom, who had not given any thought to the effect of having so many converge upon Varadon’s Keep, now balked as the evidence became all too apparent. She had looked forward to returning to Kuon’s safety, but now realised that this was no longer the place she had visited a moon ago. More so than a refuge, it felt like a place bracing itself for impending catastrophe.

Asgar delivered them into a broad hall and wove a path through the many strangers gathered there.

Illiom spotted the descrier from a distance, her height making her prominent, even in this crowd. The sight of her made Illiom’s heart sing. Her delicate features framed the ruins of her eyes with a poignancy that Illiom had almost forgotten.

“Kassargan!” she shouted, unable to contain her joy at the sight of the Iolan.

The descrier had been speaking with someone, but she tilted her head at the sound of her name and smiled.

She turned to meet Illiom and embraced her.

“Illiom,” she whispered, “it is so good that you are here.”

The descrier’s smile felt like a radiant gift. As they separated, Undina moved quietly past Illiom and stepped into the descrier’s arms. As she nestled against her, Kassargan stroked her hair and cradled her diminutive form.

“Ah, and my twin sister is also here,” she remarked as Azulya stepped towards her.

“I could think of no other I would rather look like,” replied the Kroeni with a smile, and then became silent as the women embraced.

Kassargan greeted the rest warmly and then half-turned towards the man she had been talking to when they arrived.

“Do you remember Keilon Var?

Illiom frowned.

There was something familiar about him … and then the young man smiled and she remembered him: it was the youth who had performed at the Varagan Draal, the one who had ‘borrowed’ her Key.

He bowed courteously towards Illiom and her companions.

“I remember you,” he said, looking directly at her. “You are the light bearer …”

What a beautiful description, she thought, pleased by his words.

“If I am such a one, then all of us are light bearers,” she replied, with a smile and a nod towards the rest of the Chosen.

“Ah yes, but the first one always leaves the deepest impression …”

Taken aback by his comment, Illiom was not sure how to respond. Before she could think of anything, Kassargan spoke.

“Keilon is here under Provan’s recommendation. The Draca has suggested that you consider taking him with you when you venture west.”

No one objected to the conjurer joining their quest and the matter was quickly settled.

Elan touched the descrier’s arm.

“And you, Kassargan? Will you join us?”

The descrier’s smile was like a beacon in the darkest night.

“I would not miss it for anything in the world!” she exclaimed. “I would have come with you on the last leg of your journey, had my Draca not asked that I stay behind …”

“Why did he do so?”

Kassargan shrugged uncertainly.

“I am not sure why, but I trust that he had good reason to.”

“I can tell you why …” a familiar voice piped in.

Illiom turned, trying to identify who had spoken.

Kassargan closed her eyes and sighed.

“No one is interested in your opinion, Dreel,” she said, tiredly.

“Dreel!” exclaimed Scald, as the dwarf pushed his way between the conjurer and the descrier. “What in all the Seven Hels are you doing here in Kuon?”

“Nice to see you too, Chosen,” the Dwarf muttered, his expression disdainful. “Did you really think that I would pass up an opportunity to travel west, where no one has ever travelled before?”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“In any case, the reason the Draca didn’t send his descrier along with the rest of you was that he didn’t want to lose her …”

“Dreel, shut up … you truly do not know what you are talking about …”

“I don’t? Tch, tch! Now, now, Kassargan, where are your manners? Even I know what would’ve happened if you’d gone with them ...”

“How could you possibly know that, Dreel? You do not have the sight …”

The dwarf yawned widely, half-covering his mouth with the back of his hand, nodding.

“Yes, yes! But I do have other means. You wouldn’t have survived the journey. There was an incident that had your name written all over it – so, good thing you weren’t there … you owe the old man your life!”

Kassargan frowned at the dwarf, shook her head, and turned back towards them.

“You must know that I did not bring Dreel with me …”

“No,” said Dreel, looking studiously at his thumbnail. “She wouldn’t have me, would she? Said that only those appointed by the Draca were allowed to go. I tried to tell her that I was obligated to fulfil a contract and that I had a consignment to honour still, but did she believe me?” He shook his head regretfully before biting down on a corner of his fingernail. “So I did what I do best, I became enterprising …”

“Stow away, is what he did,” Kassargan interrupted. “He hid inside a packhorse’s saddlebag. We were near Sur when we discovered him sneaking food in the night like a ...” Kassargan sighed again. “Anyway, he has been plaguing me with his incessant chatter ever since! Luckily he will be going back to Calestor with the horse handlers.”

Dreel’s mouth dropped open and he gave Kassargan a look of hurt outrage.

“What! After all the trouble I took to come here, you’d send me back to Calestor?”

“Dreel, you were never invited in the first place. Now, if you do not mind, we have more important things to discuss …”

Dreel’s eyebrows shot up in indignation, but as Kassargan turned away his mischievous grin was back.

He noticed Illiom looking at him, and winked.

“Now, what was I about to …?” began Kassargan. “Ah, yes, you were asking about the Prince. I scried him out again this morning. He is already within sight of the Keep and should reach here by the morrow.”

“Is he riding, then?” Argolan asked.

The descrier shook her head.

“No, they had to abandon their horses to cross the border unseen,” Kassargan lowered her voice. “Ollord’s troops are camped all along it, waiting for the signal to attack.”

“Who is with the Prince?” Elan asked.

“Just his friend, Drevilor.”

Scald frowned.

“Drevilor … would that be the Kroeni lad who was in Draca Sconder’s tower with the Prince?”

When the descrier confirmed this, he continued. “But what about his appearance? If a Kroeni is seen entering Albradan …”

Kassargan shook her head.

“That is not going to be a problem; he is in disguise …”

“Using Arukala, of course,” Dreel butted in. “Which, by the way, I’ve brought with me just in case you’re interested in having some more …”

“Hold your tongue, Dreel; this is not the time to peddle your wares.”

The dwarf shrugged and returned his attention to his nails.

“We must send Riders with horses to pick them up and speed them home …” Argolan started, but Kassargan shook her head.

“It is already done,” she said.

“Well, that is the first welcome piece of news I have heard in a long while.” Malco sighed with relief and turned to the priestess. “With any luck you will soon be holding your Key.”

Elan nodded, her green eyes wide with anticipation.

“The seventh and final Key,” she said softly.

The afternoon rolled slowly by.

The Chosen, replaceing themselves without any immediate purpose, dispersed.

Illiom wanted to pay Metmus a visit, but when they reached the old Lord’s quarters, an attendant informed them that he was indisposed. When pressed, the man admitted that the Lord’s malaise had coincided with the Queen’s death.

“Do us a favour,” Illiom pressed. “Tell him that Illiom and Tarmel are here and see if that changes his disposition.”

The man disappeared but was back almost immediately.

He opened the door and stood almost resentfully to one side. Illiom and Tarmel stepped into the Lord’s roofless atrium.

Metmus was lying upon a divan; he looked up as Illiom entered, and smiled sadly.

“Ah, Chosen,” he said, pulling himself up onto his elbows. “You are a sight for sore eyes and a balm for a wounded heart … do come in, sit yourselves down.”

Illiom complied, choosing a heavy chair near the Lord’s broad desk. Tarmel remained standing until the Lord ordered him to sit.

“I am so sorry about Queen Eranel,” she started.

“As am I, as am I,” Metmus muttered. “It is a tragic thing for one as old as me to outlive one as strong and vital as Eranel.” He shook his head and his expression revealed the depth of his regret. “To be honest, this has been the worst year of my life, and one that I have no intention of recovering from.”

“My Lord Metmus …” Illiom started to protest, but Metmus waved her into silence.

“No, dear Illiom, I have no desire to witness the unravelling of all that I have laboured for so long to achieve. There are younger and much stronger spirits to take up that task, people such as yourself. I know that this is a heavy burden to lay upon anyone, but it seems to me that you have been marked for this task for longer than I can even imagine. It is my prayer that only good will come of it, both for you and for the realm.”

Metmus shook himself and looked at Illiom.

“Pah! Let us not linger on what is to come, tell me instead of your journey to Iol. What did you do? I am given to understand that they held a Varagan Draal; did you attend it?”

When she told him that indeed they had, he closed his eyes in reminiscence and released a sigh of yearning.

“I was a strapping young emissary of twenty three summers when I had the privilege of attending the Iolan Draal, back in nine thirty three. Before that day, my eyes had been as good as shut. That was the beginning of my awakening to things beyond what is obvious and clearly visible. I kept the discovery to myself, of course, for I had ambitions of my own, you see. I wanted to become a Lord and I knew that I never would if I talked openly about this other world that I had discovered. That was when I began to live two lives, one outer and one inner. You are a bright lass, Illiom; I know I do not have to tell you which was the richer of the two.”

Metmus asked Illiom to describe, in as much detail as she could, all that she had witnessed in the Pentangle; and so she did, until the whole tale was spent and the Lord sighed, content at last.

“An Ice Dragon, no less? What a preposterously ambitious man!” he said when she had finished. “Ah, Illiom, you have given me a greater gift than you may know, and I thank you for it. But you should go now and let this old fool sleep and dream his dreams of times past. Thank you for visiting me, I am sure you barely had the time to do so … and the fact remains that you did not have to do so. I am sorry that I have nothing to give you in return …”

“There is no need for that, my Lord,” Illiom reassured him, and Metmus laid himself back down.

They were just about to exit when he called them back.

“Wait, before you leave you should go out onto my balcony and take a look at what awaits you. Forgive me … but one should never face the darkness blindly. Myself, I do not go outside anymore, and the birds …” he gave a light shrug of his shoulders, “well, they no longer come. They knew something was coming and are long gone ...”

He waved them away with a weak gesture and they left him to his rest.

When they emerged onto the balcony, the view to the south was much as it had always been, but the darkness that filled the northeast was nothing short of abysmal. Illiom looked at the dark storm cloud and it seemed to her that it was reaching hungrily for the Keep and was now little more than a few leagues away. In no time it would be upon them, and then?

She shuddered.

She was certain now that this was the same storm that had been visible in the distance, even before they left for Iol. Illiom had suspected from the start that this was no ordinary storm; now she knew it beyond doubt.

Illiom had no more questions concerning its source, for the dark mass sapped hope from her spirit in the same way that a leech sucks blood from its host.

She allowed herself just one more moment and then turned away; having noted the magnitude of the gathering storm, she completely understood Metmus’ resolve to use his balcony no longer.

The call came in the deep of the night: a voice, loud and breathless, penetrating past the wall of sleep.

“You are summoned to the Great Hall. Right away. Wardmaster’s orders!”

Illiom had just enough time to open her eyes and blink in the direction of the voice, when the messenger turned around and sped off.

A few grunts followed.

“Why do things always seem to happen at such a ridiculous hour?” she heard Scald complain.

“Maybe is good news …” Undina suggested, sounding tentative.

“Seriously?” Malco asked, looking at Undina incredulously. “Wake us up in the middle of the night with good news?”

“Only one way to replace out,” Azulya said. She rose from where she had been sitting, leaning against the wall, and Illiom wondered if the Kroeni had slept at all.

They composed themselves hurriedly and were soon traipsing through hallways crowded with sleeping bodies.

But no one was sleeping in the Great Hall.

An army of servants bustled around an array of tables that crowded one end of the hall. Here, the industry of the kitchens had overflowed and spilled out, filling that end of the great space with the smell of cooking. Clustering close to one fireplace, four-handled vats were being filled with steaming soup and carted away, each followed by a train of servants carrying stacks of bowls and trays loaded high with freshly baked loaves.

As soon as they entered, they were intercepted by two Riders and ushered to the opposite end of the hall, to where the silver throne still sat upon the dais. Immediately before it, a throng of warriors crowded around.

“Move for the Chosen!” one of their escort demanded.

Then, as the group parted, Illiom had her first glimpse of Queen Eranel’s son. Of course, the Prince was still in his Kroeni guise, his prolonged use of the Arukala moss still clearly affecting his features. The lad beside him looked Albradani, but Illiom knew that he must be Drevilor. He was spooning food into his mouth as if he had not eaten in days.

“… some say that they are neither living nor dead, that they are spirit creatures,” Vardail was saying. “I personally cannot say for certain because I have not had the misfortune of passing close to any of them.”

The Prince’s form wavered momentarily and his true features were revealed: clear and penetrating dark-brown eyes and short auburn hair. Then his skin reacquired the blue pigment, characteristic of the Kroeni race.

Even as he continued to address the warriors, the Prince watched the Chosen approach; he gestured that they sit down and join him at the table.

“I have heard others tell a different story ... that these are the people personally slain by the sorcerer and subsequently brought back to life to serve his purposes. This I replace a little more believable for, even from a distance, the stench of rotting flesh that they emanate is truly intolerable.”

Taking a chair, Illiom looked at the other folk sitting at the table with the Prince. She saw several familiar faces: she remembered Wardlord Kallein from the Triune gathering. Menphan Tarn sat beside him. There were others too, Wardmasters of the Golden Ward, though she no longer remembered their names. All were so focused upon their liege that they paid little heed as the Chosen joined them.

“As you can imagine, they are not terribly popular,” took up Vardail’s friend, breaking a large chunk of bread free from a loaf. He dunked it in his bowl. “Everyone avoids them, not just the soldiers either; even the criminals who now lead the puppet-king’s army prefer to give them a wide berth. They do not make scintillating conversation for they do not speak at all; and even if they could speak, no one in their right mind would want to stand downwind of their rank breath!”

A ripple of laughter moved around the table, but it was weighty and short-lived.

Vardail was nodding.

“Drevilor’s words are true! They do not take orders from anyone; not from Ollord’s commanders nor, it would seem, from the King himself. They are not trusted - even by those who will be fighting alongside them - and why should they be? They are ill-spawn, and clearly serve no one but the sorcerer himself, for they are his. They could turn against their own at the sorcerer’s whim, and the soldiers know this.”

“The warriors call them Necra,” his companion added.

“But that is not all,” Vardail continued. “We have spied, amongst the horde’s ranks, creatures that are part human and part beast. The ones we saw with our own eyes looked like hairless bears, huge and lumbering. Slow, until they need to run, and then they drop down on all fours and can be as quick as mountain lions.”

“Hmm,” Drevilor agreed. “We have heard rumours of others, creatures that resemble wolves, but we have not seen them with our own eyes …”

”That would be your Kresh,” Malco said, looking at Pell.

“Kresh?” asked the Prince, turning towards them. “Good choice of a name.”

“They were more than wolf-like, my Lord,” Sereth said. “They were larger than any wolf that I have ever seen and their faces were almost human ...” he shuddered for a moment, “... disturbingly human. We had the misfortune of seeing them when they attacked us near Tevlas.”

“My Lord Prince,” Menphan Tarn hastened to interrupt, “allow me to introduce the Chosen. These are the ones whom we have spoken of, and the Riders with them are their protection detail.”

The Prince put down his spoon and unceremoniously wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Ah, the famous Chosen,” he said. “More mystery surrounds you than anyone has a right to claim, and yet the Queen looked upon you as the only likely source of salvation in this entire mess …”

He stopped and frowned at Azulya.

“And are you, by any chance, related to the Iolan descrier?”

She smiled in response.

“No, my Lord. My name is Azulya and, like your friend, Drevilor, I am Kroeni. And, like him, I am also disguised … Arukala prevents you from seeing my true face …”

Vardail’s eyes lit up with understanding.

“I see, but why did you choose the descrier’s appearance? It makes things rather confusing …”

Azulya smiled.

“We had parted ways, my Lord. I had not anticipated seeing her again so soon … and besides, I had to choose a disguise in a hurry.

Vardail peered at her closely.

“And are these Kassargan’s true eyes? As they were before she lost her sight gazing into my shield?”

Azulya confirmed this and the Prince nodded pensively.

“What a shame … another thing that I would wish undone, if only I had the power …” he murmured.

With a suddenness that Illiom found heart-wrenching, the confident young Prince was gone, replaced by a boy whom fate had decreed should embrace maturity and responsibility long before his time was due. His downcast eyes became momentarily lost in matters much closer to his heart than the fate of the realm.

“My Lord Prince, I want to say how truly sad I am at your mother’s passing. I know that even the most heart-felt condolences will not bring her back, but I wish there was something I could do to alleviate your loss.

The Prince looked up slowly. It took several long moments before he was able to speak.

“And I thank you, Chosen Azulya. I am grateful for your words and for the sentiment behind them. Had I known that my … that the Queen was going to die while I was away, I would not have gone to Kroen in the first place. My intent was to replace the cause of her illness and to remove it.” Vardail looked at Azulya, his eyes filled with loss. “Instead, I have accomplished nothing. Nothing at all. Except that I have forever robbed myself of the chance to say farewell …”

“My Lord,” Elan said. “I am so sorry, but necessity forces us to impose on you in your time of grief and we would not be doing so, except that we have an urgent need …”

“But you have it wrong, Priestess Elan. I have had a little more time than you may think to come to terms with my mother’s passing. The matter of her death seems to be common knowledge in Kroen, even though there has been no formal announcement of it here, in our own realm.”

The Prince snorted in contempt.

“Even that says quite a lot, would you not say?”

“My Prince,” Sereth said. “On the matter of what you may or may not have accomplished in Kroen, please do not be too quick to judge your actions useless, for your journey has achieved far more than you think.”

Vardail fixed his attention upon Sereth.

“Had you not gone to Kroen, we would not have discovered the depth of the corruption and evil that festers there. All of our choices, meaning the choices of the Chosen, would have been different as a result … who knows, we might have gone to Kroen ourselves and perished there. Now there is no more cause for us to go, because you have borne Draca Sconder’s Key back with you. That would be the only thing that may have lured us there in the first place …!”

Vardail and Drevilor exchanged a stunned glance. When the Prince turned back to Sereth, confusion had replaced grief.

“How could you possibly know we are carrying that?”

Sereth was taken aback by the question. It was Scald who answered the Prince.

“We saw you and your friend Drevilor, when Kassargan scried your whereabouts. You were inside Draca Sconder’s tower ... you had just found his body.”

The Prince looked at the Chosen in complete astonishment, until a smile began to lighten his features.

“Did you hear that, Drevilor?” he said, turning towards his companion. “And there we thought we were completely alone … but we never truly are, are we? We would do well to remember that …”

Elan cleared her throat.

“My Lord, please forgive me, but would it be possible for us to have the Key … ah, soon?”

The smile on the Prince’s face deepened and his eyes shone.

“Straight to the point, Daughter? Of course you can have it; it is yours by right. As a matter of fact, there are two things that I must give you. I will send someone to fetch them right away ...”

He ordered a Rider to do so.

“There, it is done. It shall be yours shortly.”

He looked around the table before coming slowly to his feet.

“Allow me to complete what I was doing before you joined us, then I will be able to give you my undivided attention, for a short while at least.”

The Prince was taller than Illiom had expected. She saw the Queen’s passion and the same honesty glowing in his eyes. The heir to the throne of Albradan exuded a presence that had nothing to do with the bravado she had expected to replace in one so young.

“So, my friends, here we all are, on the brink of war …”

He waited until he had everyone’s undivided attention.

“Before I move on to other equally important matters, this is what I really wish to impress upon all of you, and what I want you, in turn, to impress upon those you will be leading into battle. We must be prepared to meet the unexpected upon the battlefield. This will be no ordinary war, and we must not be taken by surprise by the abominations we will have to fight. If we do, we will be unmanned, and we simply cannot allow that to happen. Being forewarned is essential to any possibility of success.”

He paused to allow the impact of his words to sink in.

“It is not only monstrosities that we will be facing; there is something far worse than that. I speak of all the warriors who have been tainted in both Sigurd and Surdalan’s Wards. The taint has spread through them like wildfire. It is rumoured that there are pockets of warriors who have escaped by fleeing into the woods and into the Mendrond swamps. Even so, the vast majority have been turned. Ollord will be meeting … no, is meeting with no resistance as his horde spills across the Mendrond border.”

Vardail looked older than his years as he spoke of these things; the weight of responsibility for his realm was already hastening his maturity.

“As you know, the population of Kuon has now more than doubled and, as the number of refugees continues to grow, our limited resources will become strained. If we are to survive and endure, we must begin to ration everything from this moment onwards. I ask those of you who serve with the quartermaster to distribute food and supplies evenly, disregarding all favours and privilege. The nobles will not receive more than the common folk; is this understood?”

He waited for a sign that it was so.

“There will be grumbling, but there will be far worse to contend with if our stores become depleted. Luckily, they are healthy, far better in fact than they have been for many years. Yet we cannot afford to grow complacent, for there is only so much that we can expect from the plots of arable land up here on Varadon’s Keep, and winter is no more than two moons away …”

Something caught his eye and he raised a hand.

“Oh, great, back so soon!”

Illiom turned to follow his gaze and saw the Rider the Prince had dispatched earlier, returning. But the Rider’s face was lined with concern, and a frown quickly replaced Vardail’s relaxed countenance.

“What is the matter?”

The Rider walked right up to him.

“My Lord Prince,” he said. “They were not where you said they would be.”

Vardail looked at him in astonishment, the blood draining slowly from his face.

“What?!?”

That single word seemed to bring the entire hall to a standstill. All eyes turned with apprehension towards Vardail.

“They were not where you said they would be,” the Rider repeated, stoical, impervious. “They are gone, my Lord.”

“Gone? From my rooms?”

The Prince’s expression was a battlefield of fiery outrage and cold fury, revealing him as someone that Illiom had no wish ever to antagonise.

He glared icily around the room and Illiom felt a chill of fear travel down her spine. She looked at Elan.

The Daughter’s deathly pale face mirrored her own inner state.