Her heart beat faster now. She had thought that she was the impulsive one and not Emel. Why was he doing this? she asked herself, and to take the orb without asking… It didn’t make sense. Why now? Why would he do this when she needed him the most?

One corner of High King’s Square was reserved for caravans. It was to this place that Myrial hastened. As they approached Adrina could see the carts and the liners going about their work.

A large caravan train was assembling. The job of the carts, apprentice coachmen, was to prepare the coaches for passengers and care for the horses. The liners took care of the supply wagons, packing the goods that would be carted off to faraway markets, checking tents and other supplies needed on the open road, caring for the work horses, mules, and other pack animals. Every action of the carts and liners was watched by those who had endured their apprenticeship and become journeymen in their own right.

Adrina knew enough about caravan trains to understand what she saw. But such a large caravan train wasn’t without its masters, so where were they? With a file forming and the train nearly ready to leave the city the caravanmaster and his coachmasters should have been mounted and watching. Their brightly-colored robes and matching turbans would be hard to miss, so it seemed that the masters weren’t about.

She grabbed Myrial by the wrist. The girl stopped, turned. “Where is it bound for?”

“The Territories,” Myrial said, her voice a half whisper. “We must hurry.”

Myrial started walking. Adrina followed. They passed beyond the lines of wagons. Adrina saw an eye-catching tent near the far wall of the square. The tent, like the robes of the masters, was brightly colored and stood out from the others around it. “The carvanmaster’s?” Adrina asked.

Myrial indicated agreement, and continued. The only problem was that the area between them and the tent was filled with hired blades and guardsmen who busily practiced their trade despite the lateness of the day. Adrina heard clashes of steel on steel as blades and guardsmen paired off in mock combat. But that didn’t bother her; it was the scraping of blades on whet stones that gave her goose bumps.

Clearly the caravan’s protectors knew something that the rest of the caravan’s crew didn’t. Otherwise they’d be packing gear, preparing for the journey.

Myrial didn’t slow her stride or veer off course. She made a straight line for the entrance to the master’s tent—like she’d done this before, and somehow Adrina didn’t doubt that the girl had. She knew Myrial wasn’t as quiet and meek as she pretended. She was a real fighter. Her life had toughened her and little frightened her, truly.

* * *

Cold, tired, and barefoot, Vilmos collapsed into a stall of the tiny stable. For a time it would be a refuge from the harsh streets of Beyet Daren. He had only been a step behind the warrior but had found only an empty corridor when he had raced into the hall. A fading voice in his mind had told him to find Xith and he had tried, but he didn’t know where to go or how to begin.

Exhausted, sleep quickly found him. Surreal images played in his dreams. He heard voices, saw masked faces. But the masks could not disguise what was underneath. He knew them.

The shirt and pants he had stolen did little to keep him warm during the cool night. At first he wriggled deep into the hay-like bedding on the floor of the stall to keep warm. As morning approached an acidic rain came, the rainwater pouring into the stable, bringing with it the stank smell of the city.

He awoke shivering, his eyes wild and unfocused. It took several long breaths before the vivid night dreams faded beyond the edges of his conscious thoughts. A noise followed by harsh voices startled him. He ran as fast as he could from the stable, slipping in the thick brown-red mud of the yard, nearly landing on his backside.

He escaped through an alleyway, and wandered aimlessly through empty streets with a vision in the corner of his eye that he could not shake. It was the image of a warrior. The image brought memories yet the memories were not his own. They were another’s.

Thoughts of the warrior and the lady swept him from conscious concerns. The lady’s beauty created a spot of light in his mind that overcame the darkness and chased his inner demons away.

His bare feet covered in dried mud, his hair matted and wild, Vilmos aroused to the world around him. He stood in the middle of a thruway. Under-Earth denizens were all around him, single-mindedly going about their business.

As if through another’s eyes he saw the dark elves. Their gray skin, dark hair, and pointed ears were unmistakable to the one that walked in the shadow of his mind. He saw the goblin servants of the elves. With thick green skin, large muscular bodies, and upturned canines, he suddenly understood why they were such fierce fighters.

Mixed in with the crowd were human slaves. Vilmos was surprised to see how many slaves the dark elves kept. The slaves, covered in dirt and reeking of disease, walked more like animals than men. Most were shackled and chained as they walked through the streets. A few like Vilmos, however, walked freely. These free humans were the ones Vilmos watched and followed.